The Beautiful Kind

The other day, a woman I work for offered to give me her old King-sized mattress (her and her husband bought a new fancy-shmancy memory foam one)

I called my mom to ask to borrow the truck so I could haul it home. First, she agreed, but then an hour later (as I was getting ready to go get the mattress) she called:

She explained that she loved me, but she didn’t support my lifestyle choice and therefore, would not let me borrow the truck to pick up the mattress.

Granted, it is a mattress. She probably (and rightfully) had images in her head of the three of us fucking on it.

I asked her to explain exactly what about my lifestyle choice she had a problem with. Her response:

“It’s just not right”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I just don’t like it, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s just not right.”

I encouraged her to actively come up with a real reason instead of talking in circles. She told me that she understands being straight, and she understands being a lesbian, but she can’t understand being with a man and a woman. So, again I asked:

“Why?”

She told me that she was afraid they might want to add another person, or that I might get diseases (??) and that poor, poor Beautiful’s daughter was going to grow up thinking triads are normal.

I tried to explain to her that it’s just like being in a regular relationship – except with two people. I told her that just like she loves her kids all just as much if she had one or three, we can love each other just as openly – love does not have to be a commodity.

I don’t really need her approval to do what I do, I just wish I could show her that sometimes when life does not fit perfectly inside a pre-molded box, it’s a good thing. Also, let it be known that she could be much, much less civil about her disapproval. she disagrees with me in just about the nicest way a mother can disagree.

-Belle

My parent’s stove (circa 1966) finally bit the dust, so they had to replace it with a modern version. Trouble is, the new stove doesn’t match up to the footprint of the big n’ clunky original.

My mom’s solution? Plaster the exposed wall with pages from National Geographic.

She stood by as I gleefully snapped pics and asked with an air of resignation, “You aren’t going to put this on the internet, are you?”

I fucking hate this statue in my parent’s bathroom.

“Would you like a Dr. Chewy?”

- my mom, offering me a marshmallow peep

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So. Why do you think they have this dummy head sitting around their house?

“Give me head til I’m dead!”

- my mom, when she came over and saw my guy’s drum collection

I was talking to my mom the other day and she told me she noticed I had seemed withdrawn lately. Thinking nothing of it, I said, “Well I’ve just been a little overwhelmed.”

Finally she mustered up the courage to broach what was on her mind. “I just want to make sure you’re not in an abusive relationship.”

HAHAHAHHAHA

I assured her, “Oh no Mom, he only hits me when I ask him to.”

She thought I was joking. Eh, better not show her this pic.

But wait, there’s more. They came over last weekend and he greeted them wearing a wifebeater shirt. Seriously, it’s a laugh a minute around here.

The other day I found out that my dad went on a lesbian photo shoot with my ex-husband. This strikes even ME as weird.

So of course I hit my dad up for details and pics. He told me it’s some model/photographer network and that all the male photographers pitch in to pay the models. There were about ten guys at the photo shoot and two beautiful models, all hanging out and drinking wine in a downtown loft.

The next photo shoot is later this month at the motorcycle museum, and will feature eight models. Seriously, I don’t understand the sexy woman/motorcycle combination. Vibration? Danger? I love thinking of men posing with cars and machinery the way women do. Like this.

“He keeps seeing Santa Claus through his icicles.”

- my mom, talking about my dad, who she thinks is her dad, cuz she always goes nuts around the holidays.

Once she threw the Christmas tree out the window.

One year she threw an exercise machine on the tree.

One time she stepped on a pine needle and was still ripping her foot apart in March trying to extract it.

Thanks to my sis for pointing this out:

Just like how when you hear in the news about a parent who set their child on the stove top burner it makes you want to kiss your own child and hug them extra hard, every time I go over to my parents house and see their filthy toilet, it compels me to rush home and lovingly scrub my own toilet with bleach.

PS: Holy crap, check out the toilet cake here.

Last week I had to watch my mom for the day so my dad could run errands. She was having a psychotic episode and Dad didn’t know what to do with her. She kept wetting her pants and “wanting to go home” and letting the dogs out the front door.

So I was sitting at her house with my laptop, writing and fending off pesky mongrels.

“Whose house is this?” Mom asked me.

“Yours,” I said for the fourth time that day.

She looked at me, eyes glazed, smiling and incredulous. “No it’s not!”

“Yes it is.”

“These aren’t my things!”

“Unfortunately, they are. Jesus you have a lot of crap. You should get rid of some of it.”

“This house is similar to where I live, but not quite,” she decided.

“Uh huh.”

She labored to stand. She was wearing a shirt, a sweater, and a sock on one foot. “I’m going to get some pants,” she informed me, and shuffled back to her bedroom.

She came back out with a pair of socks, and sat down to put them on.

“Im still cold. I think I’ll put on some pants.” So she went back to her bedroom again, and came back with another pair of socks. She put this pair on, so now she was wearing 2 ½ pair of socks, and still no pants.

She attempted to stand again, and to my horror, toppled over with a tired shriek.

Crap.

I put down my laptop and tried to help her up, but she was big and round and I couldn’t even begin to get a grasp on her. “I want to get up,” she kept moaning.

I circled her for a few times and finally we gave up. I went back to her bedroom to get her a blanket. I hated to think of putting their blanket on the floor, as the floor was filthy, but saw that the ratty blanket on their bed was so matted with fur and grime that it looked like a homeless man had gotten in a fight with a werewolf on it. I shrugged and distastefully peeled it off the bed and brought it to her.

I fashioned a little floor cot for her and she promptly passed out.

I sat back down with my laptop, typing away, with my mother snoozing at my feet.

Periodically she would rouse briefly to “wish I could get up,” and each time she did I would ask her to scootch over to the couch.

Finally we shimmied her over enough so she could use it to right herself.

Phew. I went back to work and after a moment noticed her grunting with frustration.

“What’s the matter now?” I asked.

“I can’t get my shoe on!” she cried. She had her foot wedged in her purse.

She gave up and sat back and sighed.

A moment later, one of the dogs walked into the room.

“See that dog?” my mom asked me.

“Yes,” I said warily.

“You can see right through him,” she whispered in a confidential tone, smirking.

I corrected her. “That’s a girl dog, Mom.”

The other day my baby sister, who still lives with my parents, needed a clean pair of socks, so she helped herself to a pair from my mom’s sock drawer. She put them on and walked down the hall, and was puzzled to feel something crinkling in them. She stopped to check and found $700 in cash in one of the socks.

I am dreading the day when my mom dies, but am also very intrigued to go on a treasure hunt in her bedroom, much less the rest of the house. It’s interesting to consider how much value can be found in the mounds of crap everywhere. It would be terribly foolish to just toss out the piles of laundry and stacks of precariously balanced books, file folders, and garbage glutting the path from her bed to the bathroom.

For instance, she collects “black” quarters. This is a jar of tarnished quarters. She also has a bunch of bicentennial quarters scotch taped together. In a recipe box, she keeps a wad of $2 bills. Her bra drawer has a pile of half dollars. She stashes cash in things like books and pill bottles and then forgets about them, like a giant squirrel.

My siblings and I will have our work cut out for us, that’s for sure. And if you’re thinking of tracking down my parent’s house and cleaning up yourself, get your shots first and be mindful of the menacing Puerto Rican Shepherd guard dog. In other words, if you’re going to spend exploring my parent’s house, you need to prepare as if you’re about to travel to Africa.

My dad moped around quite a bit last Sunday. The reason?

He thought it was Father’s Day and everyone had foresaken him. I can’t say I blame him - I mean he had five kids, that should be plenty of insurance that you’ll get a gallon jar of peanuts or a six-pack of beer or a phone call from some offspring (no tie, no way).

Anyway, now I know what to get him this Sunday - a calendar.

My mom said to me,

“Everyone says I’m fat and should exercise, but I don’t want to go to one of those hideous gym things, so I thought I’d go to Bellfontaine Cemetery and walk around there, it’s much nicer.

But I drove up north and got lost, so I got out of the car and asked a couple of

black guys with crack in their eyes

for directions.”

“What? How did you know they were on crack?”

“Oh, it was very obvious, they had their malt liquor and everything. Anyway, they were very nice.”

“So did you ever get to the cemetery for your workout?”

“No, I gave up and ate fried chicken instead.”

Won’t my parent’s basement be fun to clean out when they die?

You know how some couples will bicker all the time, or employ passive aggressive or manipulative techniques in order to get back at each other?

Well, one time my mom threw up on my dad. On purpose.

Now THAT’S hardcore. I had a boyfriend who would pick fights all the time - for some reason the thought of us being like an old married couple appealed to him. And there wasn’t even any make up sex afterwards! Anyway, in retrospect, I think I should have puked on him. The things you learn from Mom!

My new niece was born today! A month early. I guess just like with Amazon, you can request rush delivery.

My brother is fair like me, and his wife is dark complected (Cuban Spanish) and the baby was born as blonde as Hulk Hogan. On the phone my bro told me in a mock hushed tone, “We’re not sure who the mother is.”

And the call ended with me telling him, “Congratulations, motherfucker!”

I love my dad the way some people love Jesus. He’s so fucking good, so honest, loves people and animals, and best of all, loves me for who I am.

Have you noticed that just as people think their own kids are so cute, they think their parents were so handsome or beautiful when they were younger? I’m the same way - I look at this pic of my parents taken in 1966, and see my dad as an Elvis rockabilly type. My mom looks like a blonde Shelly Duvall.

I call him “Daddy-O.” He proves his love for me by offering me a cocktail within 10 seconds of walking in the front door of his house without fail, even if it’s 10am. He makes the best margaritas.

When I was a little girl, he was the one who took care of me whenever I was sick. He’d put a spell on me every night to ensure good dreams.

He has over 100 antique radios littering his house, stacked in clumps throughout. He has a thing for convertibles, new age music, electronic gadgets and Mexican food.

He’s one of the Helpers of the world. He says something nice to every person he meets, and can get along with anyone.

One time he found an envelope stuffed with cash in a hotel bathroom, and he turned it right in to the front desk without a second thought. That made a huge impression on me.

When a guest leaves his house, he always gets up and walks them to the front door. To me, that gesture is as sweet and old-fashioned as a man offering you his cloth hankerchief.

And speaking of hankies, when I’m feeling bad, all I have to do is give him a call and just hearing his voice can prompt me to cry and get it out of my system.

The other day I was driving with my mom and a school bus driver cut her off. Her reaction:

“Why you pig! I’m going to turn you in for fondling a little boy.”