Is he or isn’t he? I’ve heard the argument made for both sides from love struck soccer moms to lust struck Chelsea queens. For argument’s sake, let’s just say that he pitches, or perhaps catches, for the home team, my team.

You see, it wasn’t my original intention to fall for an American version of a Japanese salaryman and move half-way around the world to a country whose menus include squid balls and grasses of wine. No. My original intention was to meet, date, live with and eventually “marry” Anderson Cooper, or as I would have called him, Randy Andy.

And I’ll have you know that I’m not some Juanita come lately about the whole Anderson Cooper thing either. I remember him on Channel One when I first started teaching. I saw him doing the late night news on ABC when I couldn’t get back to sleep. I watched The Mole for God’s sake. You could even say that like a devoted spouse, I have been there with Andy every step of the way.

I planned to take his career to the next level, from the is-he-or-isn’t-he CNN anchor to the out and proud Anderson Cooper (take that FOX!). His mug would be on every magazine in the country. A second Vanity Fair Cover. Sure, I’d have to fend off his millions of admirers, but would know that I had no real worries, as I would have my Randy Andy wrapped around my little finger.

Unfortunately, his mom would fight me every step of the way. Saying things like, “Anderson, Darling, do you want to be taken as a serious news person or do you want to be just another fading celebrity homosexual who comes out of the closet for one last desperate attempt at a come-back?” “Desperate?” “Fading?” “Come-back?” I don’t know which word I found more offensive. And this coming from a woman who stamped her name on the asses of rich, emaciated women in the early 80s.

She would even get in the way of my redecorating of OUR apartment. Because let’s face it, old money means grandma taste with a champagne budget. I prefer Barcelona chairs to chintzy shit any day. Her apartment was an homage to the god of chintzy shit. That Andy let his mom decorate his apartment when he was a bachelor is beyond me.

Of course, Mother and I would place our differences aside and work as a team when that money-grubbing, two-faced Paula Zhan tried to move in on Andy’s territory. I had no idea old money could be so ruthless. That smear campaign to fix Paula’s little red wagon worked like a charm. She went from society cello player to endangered hawk killer in one fell swoop.

So now that Mother and I are getting along, Andy is quite happy. His ratings are soaring, Rupert Murdoch is dead (finally) and his kids are squabbling over who gets to be king, and that Paula is in the middle of a nasty and very public divorce. As he and I sit on our balcony, soaking up the views of Central Park at dusk, he places his hand on mine, turns to me, smiles and I see his eyes mist over with joy and a deep contentedness.

“I know, Andy” I say. “I know.”

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