balding angrily

Finally! An opportunity to exploit the youth in my life. My sister-in-law recently granted her daughter (my niece) the ability to text. They have controls over her texting schedule and content, but my niece took full advantage of her new abilities over the weekend. I sat next her a little bit and looked over her shoulder.

It’s old hat to bemoan the illiteracy of youth; so, I won’t go there. I’m fascinated and a little excited at the prospect that they are creating a language. After reading some letters by Thomas Jefferson, I have to acknowledge that we have changed English over the past 250 years. I see texting shorthand as just a continuation of that. In other words, it is my burden to learn what “k y r u so drty” means; it’s not their burden to conform to my outdated concepts of grammar, spelling, and punctuation.

Anyway, she texted me this morning.

Spunky Youth: Am i ur fav
Me: Favorite what? Human? Female? Child under 14? Dark-haired wanderer? And under what criteria are you wanting to be judged? Textual? Hyper-textual? Contextual? Spiritual?
Spunky Youth: Huh
Me: You’re the one who asked if you were my favorite. I’m just trying to ascertain the parameters before I render my verdict.
Spunky Youth: Oh i mean ur favorite person sence im so lovly
Me: You are very lovely; I’ll give you that. However. Connecting your inherent loveliness to some judgment of your overall quality as a human? That’s an incredibly troublesome jump in logic.
Spunky Youth: Huh please dont use big words with me
Me: No big words? Hm. Can’t do that. But I do have to go to work. Ask your mom or dad or teacher what I said.
Spunky Youth: K byese bye
Me: Good day, young lady. Make sure it is a glorious day full of vim and verve.
Spunky Youth: um back 2 u

It was a nice way to start the week.

I never disclaimed any of my other stories because I think by reading a blog, you automatically accept that stuff is fictionalized for effect. This story is close enough to what I remember, however, that I feel like it would be manipulative if I didn’t say that I condensed the reality down to some key concepts. You should also know that you’re only getting my side of the story. My parents might see it differently, even though I endeavored to represent the truth, and paint them in a fair light. In the first part of the story, with two parents, it’s hard for me to remember who said what. I wish I had a recording of this time.

Me: I’ve been dating guys for the last 6 months. And I’m going to continue to date guys.

Lots of silence. Some leaning back in chairs. A couple of red faces.

Blonde Mom: What about that girl you went to see in Texarkana? You said you really liked her. It seemed like you did.
Me: I did really like her. I liked her a whole lot. She’s one of the few girls that I could say I wanted to continue dating, but…
Me: How can I say this? I like dating guys more. Even though I really liked her, and could even see one day marrying her, erm…
Dad: You’re bisexual?
Me: If you put two equally good-looking people in front of me, one male and one female, I would choose the male. I don’t think I understand bisexuals. I’m not sure I believe in it.*
Blonde Mom: So, that guy you were such good friends with last year? I mean, were you…?
Me: No. We weren’t like that. I kind of wished we had, but no. I mean I’ve liked a lot of guys that way. I think [my roommate in college] is very attractive.
Blonde Mom: So, you and he…?
Me: No. He’s definitely straight. I just really like him. We’re great friends. I find him very physically attractive…but no.
Blonde Mom: How could you say you could see yourself marrying a girl…but you’re sitting there telling us this? It sounds like you’re just using people for your own gratification.

Lots of silence.

Dad: I really can’t get over this weirdness you’re showing…for such an important part of your life. How could you be so…ambivalent?
Me: I’m trying to give you my perspective. I’m trying to be honest. I’m not like other guys I know that knew when they were 5. I’m trying to give you where I’m coming from.
Dad: Don’t give me that honesty bullshit. You’re doing this to make yourself feel better.
Me: Have you been happy with our relationship in the last months? I can tell you don’t buy the stories I’m telling you. And I feel weird lying.
Dad: Don’t give me this honesty thing with what you’re doing here. This is self-serving. You’re not doing us any favors.

The conversation ended on terms neither disastrous nor up. I went home. I called the next day, but Blonde Mom told me Dad would call back. I got a letter from Blonde Mom telling me how much I had hurt my dad through my selfishness, but she also affirmed their love for me. I waited. I called again, and Blonde Mom told me to wait. I waited. I imagined a lot during this time not getting a call from Dad. In that time, I got constipated and didn’t sleep, fearing I wasn’t strong enough to live without them. In this in-between time I called a suicide-prevention hotline. I cried a lot. I don’t know if I was capable of suicide or if I called because I needed to talk to someone.

My dad called me after a week of our first talk.

Dad: I just don’t understand. You’re going to continue to date guys. You’re calling yourself gay…
Me: But I never said I’m gay, and I gave a wishy-washy thing that wasn’t really a coming out…
Dad: I’m not convinced you are. I think you’re making a huge mistake. I see you heading for a life of hardship. You will more than likely die of AIDS. You realize that, don’t you?
Me: I don’t have statistics, but it’s not like that. And I’m very careful.
Me: I shouldn’t have given you that thing of ambivalence like you said.
Dad: I understand being attracted to men. I’ve been attracted to men myself…I’ve kind of liked another guy’s skin…that doesn’t make me gay.
Me: The fact is…and I never told you this in all the other times I talked to you about this gay thing…and I wasn’t going to bring it up in front of [Blonde Mom], but I’ve been masturbating to Playgirls since I knew how to masturbate.

There was silence after that, and he never said, “I get it now.” Writing this now, I don’t think it was necessary.

Me: Part of that ambivalent thing…was a kind of denial. Do you think it’s easy for me to look at my dad and have him picture me as a cocksucker? I mean, Dad, I admire you. I don’t want you to see me that way…something that I know you consider gross. It’s really hard for me to say that I’m gay.
Dad: This is a really shitty thing, Alex.
Me: The stories I’ve heard…it takes years…I just couldn’t see us tip-toeing around each other any more, me always lying to you about what I was doing on the weekends…you kind of going, ‘M-hm’ and giving me that kind of unbelieving face.
Dad: Deception never works in a relationship; You know, people just don’t have good relationships when there’s deception there. It comes out wrong.
Dad: I don’t want to see you…there are people out there…if they don’t want you dead, they’re not going to…You’re going to be hated. It’s going to be hard on you.
Me: Things have changed, I think. I don’t feel what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen it. I’ve heard about it, but I haven’t experienced it myself.
Me: I’m sorry you have to adjust. I’ve had about nine months to adjust to this. You just started.
Dad: I just want what’s best for you. And I don’t think…I think you can change your mind. I don’t think this is a done deal.
Me: I think it is. I mean, I hate to be absolutist, but I’m pretty sure this is a done-deal.

I didn’t change my mind, and they adjusted. It was tough for years. It’s only after I introduced them to Jerry that I think they breathed a whale-sized sigh of relief.

*Now, I believe in the Kinsey scale, but at the time I was ignorant. There remains a contingent of gay males that cheat on their wives with men and justify cheating with “But I’m bisexual.” However, I’ve met enough honest-to-goodness bisexuals and understand the stigma they endure from both gays and straights to know I was wrong.

I don’t remember doing this, but apparently in a moment of bad judgment I showed my nieces Pickle Surprise. All Easter Sunday they kept saying, “Plop the ham thusly please” in an affected accent. It’s not that there is anything overtly wrong with Pickle Surprise; it’s just incongruous to hear the coke-fueled words of a green-sequined phallic symbol come out of a middle-school-aged, giggly girl. It’s also strange to watch Jerry imitate a tranny by putting his fingers up to his eyes, Batdance-like, and say, “Hammmmmmm” while seated around the table set for a dinner to celebrate the risen Christ.

The Thing

1. Stand in front of a mirror or other reflective surface. If you have a really shitty computer monitor, that might do.
2. Put your hands together as if in prayer in front of your chest.
3. Cross your thumbs.
4. Bend your fingers at the first knuckles slightly, the ones closest to where your fingers separate from your hands, keeping your finger tips pressed together.
5. Open up the side of your hands closest to the mirror or shitty computer monitor, keeping your thumbs crossed and your index fingers close together.
6. Extend your pinkies out away from each other.
7. Look at your hands in the mirror, and remember that image.

And now, the story…

Red-haired Mom, White Beard, Jerry, Jen-An, Owen, and I went to have drinks after dinner. We started talking about Bodyworlds.

Me: I was looking at the case…the one with all the man and lady parts all laid out. And there was this group of girls across from me. And I was really trying to get a really good look at the woman parts-

Jen-An: Well, yeah. You don’t have a whole lot of experience there.

Me: Exactly. So I’m kinda really getting down close to the glass…you know, really searching, and I could kinda feel these girls’ eyes on my forehead, and I kinda never got a good enough look because I felt like I had to move on.

Everyone:…

Me: Well, that’s really the whole point; I was embarrassed.

Jerry: I did the same thing with the man and woman skater…he was holding her up…and they were like rotating on a platform? So, I looked up, and there it was, right in my face…and then it rotated and rotated and rotated, and I was just standing there looking up waiting for it to come around again, so I could get a good look. And I was with the people on my team. And someone on my team probably saw me standing there waiting for the lady parts to come back around.

Red-Haired Mom: I don’t remember that one.

Jerry: You don’t remember? It was like ‘Muaaahhhhh!’ (and here Jerry did The Thing in the direction of Red-Haired Mom)

Red-Haired Mom: Hm. Jerry, I don’t know what to say.

Me: Jeez mom, you should see him around his family. He makes it a point…Every. Single. Time…we are gathered around the dinner table…he rips one…like really loud.

Red-Haired Mom: (laughing) Why?

Me: Just to gross out his nieces.

Jerry: (embarrassed) Other people aren’t supposed to know that.

Me: You just went, ‘Muaaaahhhh!’ (doing The Thing) at my mom, and now something’s off-limits?

Jerry: It’s really not that big a-deal. It’s really not THAT loud.

Me: You lift one cheek off the chair, babe. You make a show of it.

Jen-An: (to Jerry) For as long as we’ve known each other…and for as long as we will know each other, you can cross as many boundaries as you want…just don’t ever. Ever. Rip one in front of me. Our relationship will be over.

So I guess Jerry and my relationship is stronger than Jen-An and Jerry’s relationship. I win!

Jerry and I went out with Jen-An and Owen last night, and we had a wonderful time. I mentioned in passing our trip to Vancouver and some of the hijinks, and in Dallas we’re getting to that kind of weather we had last year in Vancouver. The days are beautiful, but they’re not so hot that you have to be indoors when the sun is out. Last night was the perfect meal because the sun went down late, we ate on a patio, our waitress was increibly charming, and we laughed a lot. We also went to a wine bar after dinner. Let me bullet my way through some key events.

• Jen-An in her final act of drunketude thought it would be really funny to slap me on the back of the neck and on the top of my bald head repeatedly. I think she did damage to my pituitary gland which caused me to have a massive muscle cramp/spasm in the middle of the night. This happens to me every so often; my calf muscle will, with a mind of it’s own, contract painfully while I scream, wake up Jerry, and sometimes cry. I looked it up, but there are a lot of things and words I don’t understand. So, I’ll assume that my big manly calf muscle likes to show off.
• We spilled about our moms, and fantasized of the days we will have to put them down. I’m hoping that the SPCA will do it for free if I put her in some stage make-up that makes it look like she’s got mange or rabies. Red-Haired Mom is coming on Monday, so we made plans for Jen-An and Owen to meet her. In our talking about family, Jen-An and I recognized in each other a kindred due to our families being drunkards. Jerry and I are already thinking about the amount of vodka we’ll have to buy to sate Red-Haired Mom and White Beard’s martini appetite.
• I zoned out at one point and had to come clean about it when I saw that they were looking at me for a response to whatever they were yakking about during my time in the stars. I said, “Guys…honestly, I’m sorry. I’ve been in a different place for the last two minutes, nodding and smiling on auto-pilot. What were you talking about?” This brought up the subject of my ADD tendencies.
• I had chicken wrapped in ham. Chicken. Wrapped. In. Ham, I tell ya. You could almost taste the decadent excess. It was yummy-delicious. Sorry, Crump. I loves the flesh of the innocent animal, the more innocent and cruelly treated during life the better. I kid. I can’t eat veal, even though I loves it. And the one time I had fois gras, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Then I found out about how they kill the duck to make fois gras. Never again. But, damn, it was good. How come cruelty has to taste so delicious?
• We got off on a camera-phone picture-taking bonanza somehow. Jen-An wanted to show off her pretty red phone, but then spent the next half hour trying to figure out how the camera worked. This was right before she turned into Neck-Fat-Slapping Berserker, so she was well on her way to Happy Dream Time where yellow flowers bathe tumescent purple octopii with joy and love. I would share our pictures, but they’re with Jen-An and Owen. Plus it was in this grotto-like booth without enough light. I remember one picture of Jerry looked like a red demon reaching out for a fresh soul.
• Jen-An was in full Screaming Baby Hands Mode. That’ll never change, but I noticed last night that Owen has his own gesture. It’s a kind of I’m-going-to-shoot-you-in-the-foot-with-both-of-my-partially-closed-hands. And he does it aggressively, with an attacking body posture. It would be very frightening if he didn’t have such a generous smile on his face while he did it.
• Jen-An and Owen love being celebrities on my blog. Every single time we see them, Jen-An says, “I can see him writing his blog right now.” This is, of course, code for, “You are going to write about me, right? I’m too delightful not to, right?”

Happy St. Patty’s Day, friends. If I’m not as up on blogging next week, please forgive me as I’ll be entertaining Red-Haired Mom and White Beard. We’re planning on doing this. Jerry says you get to see testicles out of the scrotum, and they’re frozen in time flying apart from each other like a couple of clicker-clackers.

Red-Haired Mom and White Beard are coming to town in a couple of weeks, so I thought I’d honor her with this post. I suppose humiliate rather than honor is more correct.

We had an Oldsmobile station wagon when I was seven or eight, Harley Brother was twelve and Talky Sister was eleven. We loved the drive-in; she drove the Oldsmobile to the best spot in the expanse of asphalt, and faced the back end toward the screen. We set up a makeshift bed in the back, opened up the hatchback - no, it wasn’t a hatchback; station wagons had back doors that swung out then - and we lay on our stomachs facing the movie, chins propped up by fists and palms. I loved the drive-in because I loved laying in a bed outside. I never liked camping, but I loved the back of the station wagon.

The night I’m thinking of was like the others. Mom looked up what was playing at the drive-in and chose a movie, and Mom isn’t the most careful reader. This will become apparent shortly. We got into the station wagon, me in my footie pajamas, the back overstuffed with blankets and pillows, the sun not down but dipping, and headed out. We drove by the drive-in, and I looked at the glowing marquee with Cinderella in block letters. We found our spot, did our bed thing, and got our snacks. Mom always brought snacks in a cooler so we didn’t spend money at the snack stand: cokes, Frito’s, bologna sandwiches, plastic juice bottles - this was before juice boxes or Capri Sun - the previews played, the movie started, and it was Cinderella 2000 [link NSFW, but will give you an idea of the kind of movie we watched], a live action X- rated retelling of the Grimm’s faerie tale.

We, a woman who should know better and her three impressionable children, watched it through, and I believe it wasn’t hardcore - just softcore. I remember that the Godmother was a guy, more in the spirit of Uncle Arthur from Bewitched, queeny and clumsy. I remember the scene where he dinged Cinderella into her gown. He dinged; she was in a dominatrix get-up. He dinged; she was in a french maid uniform. He dinged; she was nude, boobs on display. Think of The Newlywed Game with the feathered hair, the wide collars, and the 70s version of naughty - “Where were you when you and your wife first made whoopee?” Now add some boobs and some softcore simulated action, and you have the idea.

Mom was embarrassed. I didn’t understand what was happening on the screen, but I’m sure Harley Brother and Talky Sister did. I wish I could say what was going through Mom’s head that we stayed for the whole movie and through the second feature, The Boob Tube. I can guess that she didn’t want our money to go to waste.

I told Jerry this story within the first six months of dating, and he cracked up. Then we met Red-Haired Mom at her place, which as I’ve said before is far away. On the first night of our stay, we all - Red Haired Mom, Talky Sister, Harley Brother, White Beard, Jerry, and I - drank some and circled around Mom’s living room exchanging memories. I retold this story, we laughed, and Mom went right into a story of Talky Sister losing her virginity. Jerry was quiet with a big smile, observing from a place of amused detachment as we got raunchier. I love that this is the first memory he has of Red-Haired Mom. She never grew out of her impropriety, I love her for it, and I can’t wait to see her again.

The Pool Story

They set up the buffet line on one end of the pool, and had patio tables spread out around the pool. My dorm was hosting a party for Parents Weekend for dormers, parents, and family. Dad, Mom, Younger Sister, and I got our food, and I led them to a table. (Older Sister will appear briefly in the next section. Be patient.) They asked me questions about dorm life, and I tried to give some kind of answer that wouldn’t give away that I was still drunk from the night before, or if not drunk, suffering from a hangover that made the barbeque taste like propane. Halfway to our table, Younger Sister asked where Mom went.

I answered that I just saw her “over there” pointing in a non-specific direction. To think about someone else’s location took brain away from dwelling on my current state, which was Wishing for Death with Parent Flavoring. Mom was looking up at us from the pool. We never heard a splash because there were so many echoes in the giant atrium. Her hair was plastered to her head, her mascara was running down her face, and her lipsticks, her potato salad, and her barbeque were floating around her like a mini-entourage, as if she was The Queen of The Underwater Land of Foodstuffs and Purse Contents. To hear her describe it after, she walked straight into the pool. She didn’t slip or misstep. She didn’t catch her heel on a cobblestone. No one pushed her. She just walked forward, her subconscious heeding the whispers of demons, telling her that the water would bear her aloft.

Last Saturday

We met Dad, Mom, Younger Sister, Older Sister, Cheeky Niece, and Too-Grown-Up Nephew for a classical concert of children that have no business being as good as they are. After, we went to Mi Cocina for an un-winder where we drank Mambo Taxis and ate fatty Mexican food. I think I’ve written about the joy of the Mambo Taxi and its ability to make the drinker horizontal…quickly and deliciously. Jerry probably has never seen my family as loose as we were. Usually we have little ones to tend to, but Older Sister, who wasn’t feeling well, took Cheeky Niece and Too-Grown-Up Nephew home.

Younger Sister, who loves tales of humiliation, brought up The Pool Story. We laughed…well, we did more than laugh…we belly-laughed; I hit the table with my open hand, Younger Sister cried with laughter, Dad got all toothy and red, and Jerry sat back and took it all in.

I said, “Before just now, I didn’t know we could laugh about that. I told Jerry this story a long time ago, but I told him never to bring it up.”

Mom said, “Well, really…what can you do? You have to laugh. I mean it was such a ridiculous situation. I just walked into the pool.”

Dad said to me, “That’s probably because immediately after it happened, I pulled you aside and told you, ‘This is serious. We won’t laugh at this.’”

Mom said something else, “Well Alex, you and I weren’t very close then. Remember? Now things are different.”

This is the part where I tell you Mom is, in cold technical terms, my stepmom and writing Mom instead of Stepmom was deliberate. At first I did it for convenience, but now I see it fits. Knowing that I can write this and share that kind of laughter with her…she deserves Mom. Earlier at the concert, she introduced Jerry and me to friends as “my son Alex and his partner Jerry.”

See. Sometimes, I can appreciate what I have now. I’m not ALWAYS all about what life was like when I was younger.

Coda

My biological mom exists, and I will always love her with all my heart, and she will be Mom also…which may make it hard for you, reader. How’s this? There’s Red-Haired Mom and Blonde Mom. Blonde Mom is married to Dad. Red-Haired Mom lives far away with White Beard. They live near Talky Sister and Harley Brother. There’s also Toothy Nephew and Baby Niece, but…you know, it took me this long to write about Dad and Blonde Mom…who knows if I’ll ever get to writing about all these other people?

Thanksgiving’s coming, and I have no butt hair or exposed cock stories to tell.

This is the first Thanksgiving that J and I will be spending away from family.  We have some friends that are doing the hosting thing this year.  We’re preparing ourselves for when our parents inevitably kick off.

I had this thought the other day.  J and I, most of the time, end our calls with mutual “I love you”s.  He does it because he’s a sap.  I do it because I think, “What if I get in a deadly car crash on the way home.  I want him to always remember that I loved him while he’s tricking with guys fifteen years his junior after I’m gone.”  Not really, but that is part of the reasoning…the car crash part, not the from-the-grave guilt part.  After four years of doing it, I realized that’s a pretty fucked up reason for saying “I love you.”