I'm no stranger to romance, but we aren't on a first name basis either. Which is why I'm excited about taking my new girlfriend to my family's Easter dinner. I don't think they've ever totally accepted my gayness since my sister still addresses my Christmas card to "Pervert" Gravel. Where are my manners? I'm Emma GraveI. I own a revival movie house in San Francisco. I try to play themed movies during the holidays. Christmas and Halloween are easy. As is Groundhog Day. But Easter is tough. Religious movies are not my forte. The only line I even know from an Easter movie is, "Jesus, I am your Father," delivered from on high by James Earl Jones. I was going out of town, so I delegated film selection to my two fellow movie buffs, Vanessa and Shannon. I'm sure, between them, they will find the only Easter slasher movie ever made.

My date and current lover is Katrina Waves, a super friendly, blond, leggy nurse who was very excited to meet my family. I've tried to warn her, telling her they are the inspiration for the infamous Manson family, although the Manson clan had better table manners. One problem I anticipate is the meal itself. Hogs devouring their last meal before entering the slaughterhouse are less noisy than my gluttonous fam. Also, since she's a nurse, she prizes nutrition. Hell, she even uses words like "antioxidants." Seriously, who is anti oxygen?

I was nervous about asking her home to meet them. Some timid girls are jumpy about going to the site of a chainsaw massacre and sequels, but she jumped at the opportunity (hurting my neck in the process since I was feasting between her legs at the time. Can you say "whiplash," boys and girls?) Her first question as she attached a neck brace to me: What kind of tofu will she serve? Oh yes, dear reader, there will be blood, like a Peckinpah movie. Being a trooper, she began planning her dessert, settling on lemon tart squares. I mumbled my approval into her pussy, which then echoed for five minutes. Never a good sign. I began to wonder if I could crawl inside her vagina for shelter like Luke Skywalker inside a tauntaun. Regardless, I decided to delete this topic from future pillow talk.

The night before, my love became even more anxious. Being helpful to a fault, I told her an orgasm is great for anxiety, as well as cholera, the vapors, swine flu, and restless leg syndrome. She misunderstood me, thinking I meant HER orgasm, not mine. Beautiful woman, but a little slow on orgasm distribution. We hadn't been together long when she informed me she wanted a monogamous relationship. I immediately accepted before then creeping away to look up "monogamous" in the old Webster. After learning the definition, I leafed back a few pages, looking up "loopholes." Still,  happy and in love, I ignored the facts and invited her to shop for our Easter attire.

At the mall, I bought a simple, vee neck, floral, skater's dress from Macy's, very tasteful for me and for her a short, lacy, green kimono from Victoria's Secret, which she steadfastly refused to wear to dinner. If she wouldn't wear a kimono I began to worry she was racist, because there could be no other explanation. She woke me early Easter Sunday with sounds from the kitchen, preparing four dozen lemon tarts. By now, I was feeling anxious too so I opted for another sure-fire remedy. I smoked a Blue Dream fatty. Inspired, I marched naked into the kitchen, pulled her panties off in one classic motion, despite her protests, sat her on the counter and began the tongue lashing of a lifetime, the greatest cure for munchies since Double Stuff Oreos.

It was then I heard a man and woman clearing their throats in wondrous harmony behind us. My first thought was, "What are Johnny and June doing here?"

"Mom... Dad... this is Emma," she informed in a quivering voice. On shaky legs, I turned and walked to the future in-laws, shaking hands with the blushing Dad, but for some reason, Mom refused my welcoming kiss. Still trying to appear cool, I pretended to wipe the table with Katrina's panties, but only managed to leave a noticeable wet trail. But the familiar scent was better than any overpriced Yankee Candle, I can assure you.

Regaining my composure, I strolled jauntily to my lover, "Hey, baby, those smell great. But, speaking of lemon, have you seen the Lemon pledge? I need it to clean that enormous dildo you took in the ass, last night..." then recovering flawlessly, I quickly looked at her folks and said,  "I am sooooo sorry... I meant in the behind!"

Neither she nor her parents were amused. We left her folks, as they argued over who would club my head like a baby seal. ( Easter... seaI. An Easter seal. I say, son, I made a funny!...oh, Foghorn Leghorn, you comedic genius!)  We then embarked  on our trek to my sister's, I had our Playlist of love songs loaded, starting with vintage Beach Boys, "God Only Knows." I still had terminal munchies and ate all forty-eight lemon squares during a five-block drive. Seeing the empty Tupperware bowl, she began to shriek. (Why are chefs so highly strung? We can grab some Chips Ahoy for replacements  and no one will know the difference...I'm a problem solver.)

We arrived in time to watch the kids hunt Easter eggs, but since Katrina is from New England, she pronounced it, "Nor'easter" eggs... is she adorable or what? She was in a great mood, perhaps aided by the remote control vibrating egg I helped insert in her pussy. (I called it my private Easter basket. I even lined it with that fake green grass, which I have been picking out of my teeth for two weeks now.) When I set the speed on eleven, she was dancing about the yard, like Freddy Mercury at Live Aid. Hiding the eggs was easy since my lazy ass brother-in-law hadn't mowed since the Obama election. The entire yard looked like the set of "Jumanji" or even worse, Robin William's arms. (Too soon?)

Katrina and I could wait no longer. We were holding hands and kissing deeply in the waist-high grass. As we began picking ticks off each other like grooming primates, my sister burst through the door, opening fire with her weapon of choice, a Thompson submachine gun. That's how Republicans announce "dinner is served!" As my nurse dressed my flesh wounds, we limped inside. Her eyes bulged when she saw the overabundance of food on the table: two hams, a fifty-gallon drum of mashed potatoes, deviled eggs, three casseroles, and enough rolls to force Poppin' Fresh to take a paternity test. Plus a gravy boat the size of the naval vessels (or wessels, if you're Chekov from Star Trek) used in "Dunkirk."

As we waited to be seated, my nephew came to me, glanced Katrina up and down and, "Wink, wink, nudge, nudge... You did alright for yourself, Auntie Em." Grinning insanely, he continued his stand up act, "Did you see the cake Mom picked out for you?" Then leading me to a large sheet cake. "See, it looks like a carpet... carpet muncher, get it?"

Subtlety has never been my big sis's best asset. We finally sat. I was still very worried about a faux pas from my loving nutritionist. Then it happened!

As I began pouring two gallons of gravy (as lumpy as one of the Three Stooges skulls) over five pounds of lumpier mashed potatoes, she could remain silent no longer. "Do you know what that crap is doing to your body?"

Her diatribe brought jeers and profanities from others across the table. Soon, clumps of spuds were being launched at us by spoon catapults. It was like "Game of Thrones, the Vegan Years." I had to get her out of there before chainsaws were deployed. She is mine to protect. This is the woman I want to spend the rest of my... Spring with. I must admit I have an intense fear of commitment, it's like a disease. But she's my girl today and I'll fight for her. I took her hand and we fled, hurdling rose bushes and drainage ditches as my family lit torches and began the classic angry mob pursuit, fresh from the original Frankenstein or even Bride Of. My car was in sight when I tripped and fell like every actress in every slasher movie. At that point, I was sure I would also either drop the keys or the car wouldn't start.

She could have saved herself, but my angel of mercy stopped and attended to my twisted ankle with such loving care and compassion that I forget about my commitment disease. And when our eyes met and she whispered, "I love you."

I knew... "I was cured alright." (Last line is my obscure reference for treasured bonus points... you can do it! And no, it isn't "Waterboy.")

Names were changed to protect the innocent. I can't stress this enough, the actual Katrina is nothing like she was portrayed here, thankfully. I am still cured, however. And very much in love and happy until she reads this. At that point, I can only hope I'm still open casket worthy.