The other day I was telling my mother a story about a friend of mine that required her to know what the porn star, Ron Jeremy, looked like.
“Mom. Google Ron Jeremy and go to images.” I told her. “But don’t click on any of the links. Okay?” “Okay.” She said, totally amused. “Mom, I’m not kidding. If you click on a link, you’re gonna see things you can’t un-see.” “Okay.” “And you’re going to end up on porno lists.” Laughing, she replied, “Well, I wouldn’t want that to happen.” And we had a right giggle. “Just think about it mom, because of me and the stories my wacky friends have shared, you know what a Prince Albert looks like. “ I’m pretty sure few folks have had this conversation with their parents. But my mom is different, unusual even. Mom is totally unflappable. And, like me, she is entertained by the wackiness that the world seems to provide. The choices that some folks make baffle us both and amuse us just the same. And, while we may never get the answers, we like to know why these choices are made. When a nine-year-old boy told one of the boys in the dressing room during the run of a show to go “tea bag” himself and I found myself in a meeting with the boy’s parents explaining what tea bagging was, my mom was the perfect person to call and tell the story too. And, when I had to explain to her what tea bagging was, she wasn’t shocked or horrified, like the newly enlightened parents had been, she was entertained. She actually got out her dictionary to see if tea bagging was listed. It was not. When my friend shared that he had a Prince Albert piercing, I couldn’t wait to talk to Mom about it. We sat at the computer, scrolling thorough pictures and speculating on pain scales during and after the piercing. We studied, with furrowed brows, the location of said piercings and wondered if, like my friend said, it really made a difference in the pleasure during sex. We didn’t come to any conclusions, but an educational hour was spent discussing penises and piercings. With my mom. And now we both know lots about Prince Albert’s. And we’re both thankful that neither of us has any practical experience with them. Despite what the research said. When my gay friend told me that there were mid-day orgies happening in lofty Palo Alto homes and he’d attended one and then made a follow-up a sex date with a father of two at one of those orgies, I shared that with my mom. When that sex date was cancelled because the dude’s kids were out of school and the father had to take care of them because the wife was at work (!!!), Mom and I discussed the possible occurrences of mid-day sex dates in our neighborhood. And what the scheduling of that father’s calendar might look like to other people. Was he penciling in names of guys he was meeting or putting in obscure codes like ‘pick up dry-cleaning at 1pm’? We discussed the logistics of planning a mid-day orgy in suburbia and what type of cleaning products one might have to have on hand because, ew! And, of course, we questioned the heath of that father’s relationship with his wife and the state of their marriage if he’s sneaking away for orgies and sex dates while she’s at work. See, you never stop learning. Especially when your daughter knows people who don’t follow the well-traveled roads but instead get penis piercings to please their wives and have mid-day orgies with stay-at-home dads. Or when you have to figure out why tea bagging could be a sexual thing and not just an easier way to make tea. Or when your daughter has stories that necessitate you knowing what Ron Jeremy looks like. I’m just doing my part to deter dementia and keep Mom’s brain active and engaged. You’re welcome, Mom!
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Yesterday, I made the mistake of reading someone’s Facebook post bashing the President and saying he was anti-Christian, anti-Jewish and a Muslim. I then made the mistake of responding. I crafted a careful response that denied that he was anti-Christian, anti-Jewish and a Muslim. And then I said that he wasn’t perfect, that none of us were, but why couldn’t they focus on what was good about what he’s done instead of spreading untruths. Then I got off Facebook and tried to do something else while my stomach stewed and churned and my mood plummeted into a depression. And then I got back on Facebook and deleted my post. Because and I cannot change a mind on a social media space that most people use for venting to like minds and sharing pictures of food and themselves having fun in food establishments. And unlike a few friends of mine, I don’t have the constitution or intelligence or know how to fight unproductive battles. I am a very small drop in this ocean of humanity. I’d rather use my efforts for good instead of bashing myself against a wall and bleeding to death. I’d like to think I don’t have the same walls but I know I do. I can only hope that there are a few doors and windows in them, that I am open to meeting new ideas... but not today. I am dyslexic.
Numbers and letters and words like to rearrange themselves as they enter my brain, put down their logic and have a mini key party. Swapping partners and creating strange couples that don’t make sense. Most of the time, I can keep the players somewhat organized. I can wrangle some sort of sense out of them before the words leave my mouth. That is to say, I have imperfect success with letters and words. I can see where they are going and force them to follow the path. The numbers, however, are wily stubborn asses. They often refuse to stay coherent and logical. The like to dance around in circles and create swirly patterns that don’t compute. I am dyslexic. But most people are unaware. I keep it secreted, disguised as careful speech and a calculated need for accuracy. Until a migraine joins the chaos, affecting the fingers as well as the thoughts. Until its fractured lights and throbbing heart beats an uneven tattooed pulse in my eye. It is then the key party becomes drunken mess, an acid trip, a lost weekend. Numbers and letters hook up, making combinations no one understands. And the aftermath of hung-over phrases stumbling about, and fingers unable to find the exact letter on the keyboard, the correct key in the bowl. It would be entertaining were it not for the waves of thoughts dancing just out of reach And the frustrating pace of one step forward, eight steps back. I am dyslexic. But today, I am nothing but broken furniture, used condoms and red solo cups on the lawn. Because today, I am migraine. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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