The Asian flower girl walked up and down the outside café, smiling brightly, showing her stack of long stemmed roses to the passing lunch crowd.

My mother continued to look at her menu, not seeing me motion to the flower girl who went towards me like a moth to a 90 watt bulb.

"Eric." Muttered my mother, her eyes rolling.

I paid the smiling girl, handing mom a beautiful yellow rose. "I know I shouldn't have yelled at you and I'm sorry. I'm glad you're here--- that you accepted my invitation."

She smiled, raising her water glass to toast.

"If the future is coming, and the past is gone, then the present is just that--- a present. Thank you." We TINKED water glasses. "And if you didn't apologize, I would've cut your balls off."

"Mom!" I couldn't help but laugh.

"That's the Italian in me coming out. I don't want you to be dead to me. And you would have." The waitress approached us, taking our order.

"I'll have the Cobb Salad," said my mom. "But instead of carrots I'd like to substitute more mushrooms but make sure they're stemless, make sure the beets are completely drained, I want only red pepper--- no green pepper--- and no cheese unless you have provolone. Do you have provolone?"

The waitress looked like a deer in headlights.

"Oh, I guess that's a no. Never mind. I'd like the Vinagrette on the side with two slices of lemon and can we have some more bread?"

The server nodded politely, trying her best to scribble down the abbreviated instructions to the kitchen. I simply handed her my menu and said, "Number 7." I could tell she was relieved. She walked away, a Los Angeles smile planted across her face.

"So Eric, I've decided everyone here in Los Angeles lives in their own movie. And you, young man, need to assume your lead role." She put on some new sunglasses. She was fitting into the Southern California lifestyle quite easily.

"Role? What do you mean mom?"

"It sounds like they're taking advantage of you at work. Play the hardball and confront them, Eric. What have you got to lose?"

The busboy dropped off another basket of bread, my mother diving into it like an Olympic aquatic.

"I talked to your father."

"About?"

"Your wedding."

Suddenly, the tone at the table shifted from fun frivolity to seriousness.

"Son, you've got to understand your father comes from another generation where these kinds of choices just weren't talked about--- let alone accepted or embraced. He loves you, you know that..."

"But..."

"I don't think he's going to come to your ceremony."

Suddenly I imagined their conversation, my father accusing my mother of fostering acceptance with a son who would shame him.

"At least he's honest."

"Oh yes, you know your father. He's honest. But I think it's better if you understand he wants nothing to do with it."

"So I shouldn't bring it up, I shouldn't discuss the idea of loving another human being and celebrating that, because it happens to be another man."

"Don't get upset. He sends his love, but you have to understand who he is."

"Believe me, mom, I understand perfectly who he is."

I felt angry. While the gay community continues to make great strides, it's true we still have miles to go when it comes to the perception of what exactly our love means.