My parents have been out for their First! Ever! visit to the big city San Francisco.

It’s taken some time, but I am glad to say that I am now fully recovered from the bout of hara-kiri brought on by a tumultuous theatre performance at the Magic. Imagine that you had purchased tickets to an exciting new stage production, at the behest of your father, who was eager for some real ‘avant-garde’ theater, something he couldn’t get in Charleston (where two week arts festival aside, it’s pretty much Neil Diamond or The Bard set to country western). Imagine that your seats are centerstage! Not bad for a show that’s been held over by popular demand. The Chronicle said it was “fiercely imaginative,” although within five minutes, imagine yourself wondering if perhaps you shouldn’t have read the entire review, not just the first paragraph.

Because, now imagine that you are suddenly, and unpleasantly, watching live gay porn…with your parents. Or maybe just “live porn,” because after a certain point, it’s just porn + parents and who cares whose rod or tackle it is.

Holly asked me later what exactly they were doing on stage, and I don’t honestly remember. “After the group disrobing, rubbing and er…tongue, I sort of went to my happy place and prayed that Simons wouldn’t divorce me.”

Simons was seated next to my mother. I saw him leaning as far away from her as possible, wishing for death/an axe with which to render my head separate from my body/instantaneous blindness with selective amnesia.

I didn’t even try peeking over at Daddy.

Afterwards, Mom said, “Bless their hearts, they must have been awfully chilly up there on stage with no clothes on.”

Jesus.

After that, the visit had no place to go but up, and in the spirit of the orgy, we turned it into a 10-day wine-binge and butter free-for-all. We hit the Farmers Market in the Ferry Building, where Daddy became best friends with the Hog Island Oyster Company man (Santa with Shellfish) and we all got to sample oysters for free.

They got to see the Doublemint Twins, who sat right next to us at Nob Hill Café.

Then they tasted the famous carbonara, which is so delish, but still not as good as Momma’s.

We drank gallons of bubbly at Iron Horse Vineyards, my favorite place in all of Sonoma. And best of all, because Simons and I had missed our last shipment, we got to haul away a case of wine, rubbing out hands and gnashing our terrible teeth at all the lamb and cheese we’re going to need to go with it all. The purring…

We marveled at the redwoods in Muir Woods,

and got windblown all over hell and back in Golden Gate Park. Somehow, the museums were always closed, but we were about the only people in the Japanese Tea Garden…probably because we were the only fools stupid enough to go outside in the rain and fog and cold.

Mom and Daddy are well traveled, educated people, but I swear it was like Country Come To Town, dragging them out of gardens and flowerbeds all over San Francisco, like they’d never seen plants before. Every five seconds, I’d be hissing, “I don’t care what kind of tree that is. Get out of there! That’s someone’s HOME! Come here! Out! Out! Out!” After spending the better portion of their trip, herding them out of the city’s landscaping, it was a great idea to hand them over to someone who knew about plants.

The Botanical Gardens were a great success. Although even the docent eventually told them to stop asking so many questions. This is a Monkey’s Hand ‘blossom.’ Isn’t it just…sinister? Like something from Conan Doyle?

We ate at Suppenkuche and saw the opera.

Some hideous woman who was supposed to have been in standing room only, pretended like she had my parents’ seats, so they missed the opening of Lucia de Lammermoor until the usher came and pistol whipped the seat stealer and her old granny and made them move. HAHA! Take THAT, seat nabber!

Daddy put his book in the window of City Lights, next to Ferlinghetti and Kerouac and Ginsberg. He turned all pink with happiness.

We ate at Slanted Door and Chez Panisse and Zazie and Chinatown hole-in-the-walls and Beard Papa’s. Simons and I did a lot of sitting around, groaning and admiring our food babies, and we decided to go on a total detox. It’s pretty much air and water for us, which is okay, since the idea of chewing and swallowing gives me the gags.

In fact, I was so over food and drink, I offered to drive when we went on a tour of the Sacramento wine country with my sister’s aunt- and uncle-in-law, Margaret and Rich. Apparently, this was no great loss, as Daddy said it tasted like “bottled bad breath,” and Mom said it ponged of cat toes and moldy socks. Interesting. It must be an acquired taste.

Zipping home after the weekend away, we had just enough time to hurl the parental duo out of the car and onto their plane, so it wasn’t until I was driving home that I realized they were really gone. Back to their own little brown dog, shrimp and grits, sultry heat and my old home that smells of cigar smoke and Old Bay seasoning. It gave me a little pang of happiness to know that a little bit of my new life went home with them — before I drove away, I slipped a little bag of Blue Bottle espresso beans into Mom’s luggage.