My Boys

A couple of weeks ago, Aaron (formerly of 1,000 words and more, lately of his phlog, world famous on flickr, owner of the most atrocious pair of purple camouflage pants I've ever seen and one of my best friends) moved from Florida (the country's wang) back to New York City.

Which is great. Except it has been just plain weird for me.

You see, he didn't move back into his old apartment. He moved in with Patrick.

Side note! After editing this post I realized that it sounds like the two of them moved in together because they are romantically involved. Which made me throw up a little. That reeks of incest to me. Aaron is just staying with Patrick until he can find his own place.

Having the two of them living together is...well...I can't find a word for it. It's just plain weird. It's like I'm involved in some kind of trippy fag hag love triangle. All the lines are blurred.

And it makes it way too easy for me to mother from afar.

I ask Patrick, "Is Aaron eating?"

And I ask Aaron, "Is Patrick eating?"

I ask Patrick, "How does Aaron look?"

And I ask Aaron, "How does Patrick look?"

Ugh. I don't know how they stand me because I can't stand myself.

The very first night I met those two Aaron exclaimed, "Wow. You really are a mother. Aren't you?" (Patrick probably doesn't remember that because he was rather inebriated.)

I don't know. I can't help it. But I will tell you this. If Aaron wasn't staying with Patrick, I'd probably be worried sick.

My husband says that I'm collecting "my boys" in New York City. I don't know how they all ended up there. But it sure would be easier to smother the hell out of them if I lived there too.