Love United and Divided

I’m not the oldest drag queen in Denver, but I do have a few years of experience under my garter. That means I have some memories of the ’80s, at least the ones not drowned in wine coolers and Fuzzy Navels.

Back then, whenever you were introduced as a gay couple, people wanted to know who was “the man” and who was “the woman” in the relationship. It was a ridiculous question then and is still today.

That question has been replaced by another at most straight dinner parties that Mr. Waste and I attend: Now they want to know, “Who does the cooking?”

I do. It’s not that Mr. Waste cannot cook. He can whip up some mean mashed potatoes and a pork chop. It’s just that I bring my creative and artistic flair to the pantry. You’ve seen how colorful I can embellish my face. You should see how I paint a plate with food. And like the glitter in my beard, spices from my rack sparkle and tickle the palate.

No matter how late I get home, or how busy a day I have had, Mr. Waste and Puppy Waste One and Two are there sitting on the leather sofa waiting to get fed. Unfortunately, I can only give two of them dog bones and call it a day.

I honestly don’t mind. Cooking is another creative outlet for me. And it means one very important thing — I don’t have to do laundry, ever. Our tradeoff is I do all the cooking and Mr. Waste does all the laundry. It’s a win-win.

But it was not always that way. At the beginning we alternated the laundry chore. Once Mr. Waste witnessed how I folded jeans in half instead of into thirds, I was banned for life. It wasn’t just the jeans, it was also the socks. I never matched socks together. I just always bought socks that were all the same color and brand and threw them into one big drawer. Though it resembled a pile of refuse that seagulls love to squawk over, I could just reach in, pull out two socks and be on my merry way.

Now every morning, I pull open the sock drawer to a glorious sight — an army of socks tightly folded, paired like animals marching into Noah’s ark.

Through the years we have divided up other Waste-hold chores around the house. I mow the grass and water the plants. He cleans the kitchen and makes the bed. When something malfunctions, I strap on the tool belt. When things pile up on the kitchen counter because I haven’t had time to read them but swear I am going to, he sweeps up the magazines and mail and shoehorns them into the mess I call an office. It’s all part of the give and take, the yin and the yang of the journey of life we call love. Eighteen years and still going strong.

OK. Gotta go. Three mouths are hungry…again.