Lucky

Yesterday, Owen came home and got in my lap where I was sitting reading in the big red chair. We had a chat about the evil standardized test that he’d completed that day in school, he told me about the dog-walking extravaganza he’d just gone on with 2 friends from school, their dogs, and our dog. I asked him about his friend, Jason, who he’s been hanging out with a lot. Owen has told us that he’s not allowed to go into Jason’s house after school and that they can only play outside. We found this rather odd, so I asked him if he’d gone into Jason’s house that afternoon. He said he had, and they’d eaten snack: a banana dipped in chocolate, which explained the state of his chin. He said, “It’s fine, Mom, Jason just asks his sister not to tell, and we’re just in there for a little bit to eat snack.”

“Oh, are you not supposed to go in there because there aren’t any parents around?” I inquired, and he allowed as to how that was probably so. We talked about having Jason come over here instead of violating parental decree, and he thought that would be all right.

“What’s his sister like?” I asked. Jason is a bit of a piece of work, and I wondered.

“She’s all right. She’s kind of nice. Only she thinks ‘gay’ is an insult.”

“Really? Did you tell her you have close personal family who’s gay?”

“I was going to, Mom, but Jason did before me. He said, ‘Owen’s mom is gay, and it’s perfectly all right.’ And anyway, if she thinks gay is an insult, she’s gay.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she thinks you’re gay if you like someone of your same gender, so she says me and Jason are gay because we like each other, but she has friends who are girls so by her definition, she must be gay.”

“Oh.”

“She always talks in a British accent, too.”

Right. Meanwhile, Seth is deep in the closet about having gay moms and has asked if my Beau and I could reschedule our wedding so that he could go to a friend’s Bar Mitzvah that’s, alas, on the same day.

Tonight is the annual fifth grade dance and social. Two years ago, I was driving Seth and four of his friends (many of whom are named Sam), to this dance. They were all slicked up and excited, suddenly ready to be in middle school and play boy/girl games. This evening, I was driving Owen and another boy on his soccer team to and from practice, there having been no interest evinced in the dance, and the two of them were talking about how awesome it would be to, say, hide behind a tree until your friend walked by, then jump out and scream, “Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!” and then, under cover of your friend’s great surprise at this action, to sneakily pull out your water gun and squirt them with the fart juice you’d previously filled said water gun with.

Two boys, two ways of being in the world. One lucky Mom.

Published in: on May 21, 2010 at 11:19 AM  Leave a Comment  

Va fongul

Just now when I was driving home from therapy where the two of us had decided that I’m an ebullient person spreading effulgence in the world (my therapist is as big a word nerd as I am, not to mention someone who puts a positive spin on things), I got a huge honk from the guy behind me. I sort of came to – I was definitely drifting – and saw that he was really right on my ass. I wondered if I’d drifted in front of him and I felt bad and shocked. Then he passed me and gave me the ol’ va fongul (which I don’t actually know how to spell). I waved, a kind of “Shit, I’m sorry!” wave, and then blew him a few kisses. He gave me the finger. I was behind him at the next light and I leaned out the window and apologized. He gave me the finger. I said, “I’m really sorry – did I drift?” He gave me the finger. I said I was sorry again. He gave me the finger. I said, “Really? That’s the way it is? Well, I’m still really sorry.” He gave me the finger, but he also glanced at me quickly in the side view mirror.

So then I felt like crying. And I also took a few deep breaths. And I also tried to let it just pass. And I also started giggling because I had the silly thought that I had actually admired the decisive and sexy way he’d given me va fongul and how his finger-giving was very masterful and handsome. He was a vigorous middle aged white man with a nice tan and a big ring on his left hand. His rude gestures were very beautiful. Then I felt like crying again, because it really hurt my feelings that he wouldn’t accept my apology, plus I was shook up from having spaced out so bad while driving. I turned left and he went straight. I wondered if maybe he was feeling a little remorseful or if he felt satisfied. I wondered if he felt justified for acting that way with me because he’d been so up close and personal with all my queer/alternative/green bumper stickers and those maybe aren’t his views. I wonder if we’ll ever see each other again. Maybe we could laugh about it, especially if I showed him that I wasn’t mad at him or anything. I could say, “Man, I’d really spaced out – you must have been really afraid you were going to ram me!” and he could say, “Yeah – you cut me off really bad and I was already mad because of something else.” That would be really good. But for now I’ll just try to keep letting go of being shocked and upset, remember his sexy arm, and carry the fuck on.

Published in: on May 18, 2010 at 3:29 AM  Leave a Comment