I think we should form our opinions and prejudices of people on whether or not they like cilantro and take the attention off of sexual preferences. I don’t read the Bible, but I am suuuuuure there is a passage about that disgusting herb being the root of all evil. I simply teach my children to judge people based on whether or not they are assholes. And if one of my kids were to tell me they were gay, my response would probably be something along the lines of, “Cool, what do you want for dinner?”
Although, one time my friend Amanda and I did have a long conversation about that kid of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s that dresses like a boy. We were cracking up about thinking about how disappointed they were going to be one day when she sits them down at the kitchen table with a pensive look on her face and says “Mom, Dad, I know you have wanted me to be gay all these years to further enhance your ultra-liberal, acceptance of everyone, live together in harmony, save the whales, swanky image, but I cannot deny myself any longer. I am straight. I always have been and I always will be.” And Brad and Angelina will exchange weary glances and say, “We will always love you but please do not bring any of your heterosexual ‘friends’ home as we would not want to make anyone feel uncomfortable with your ‘choice’ of lifestyle.”
Alright time to get down to business, last weekend I was up in the mountains with my family when I glanced at my phone and saw my dad had called three times. Obviously he had read my most recent blog publication about how I got left at a gas station when I was eight when he was supposed to be watching me. I took a deep breath and called him back. “Hi Dad.” “Hi Sweetie! I just read your latest blog and I am laughing hysterically. You have really captured the art of exaggeration!” I leaned over and started picking at the polish on my toes “Um yeah dad, except I wasn’t making it up. That actually happened. Call Erika if you don’t believe me.” Silence. “Ooooooh yeah, I faintly remember getting in big trouble by your mom over that.” “Okay dad, well no hard feelings. Bye.”
And since we are now on the subject of my childhood, one time my uncle took my siblings and me to Mexico for a week when we were in high school, to give my mom a break. This was before parents could just drop their kids off at fire stations when they got sick of them. I couldn’t even imagine. My uncle “accidentally” made out with a transvestite, the maids stole my clothes and my sister and I inadvertently clam-baked our hotel room.
On day numero uno, my sister collected a bunch of seashells, put them in a drawer and forgot about them. By the third night I was questioning if she ever remembered to wash her vagina. She said she was wondering the same thing about me. My uncle walked in our room and waved his hand in front of his face and said “Laaaaaaaaaaadies, Goddamn.” I shot my sister a dirty look. She just mouthed the word “You!” and pointed at my vagina. By the last night of our trip I was sleeping with two pillowcases over my head and my sister was sleeping on the balcony because our room smelled so foul.
The next morning we were packing up what was left of our clothes when I opened a drawer in the nightstand and dry-heaved because the smell was so wretched. Inside were the shells my sister had collected one of which contained the stench culprit: a.fucking.rotting. snail. My sister and I alternated throwing up with laughing hysterically. We then shut the drawer and left it as a generous tip for housekeeping for the excellent services they rendered throughout our stay.
My sister is not the only one with a passion for collecting decomposing animals because when my mom was in fourth grade she found a dead bird in the gutter that she took home and put in a shoe box. She shoved the thing in her closet to bring to “Show and Tell” because my mom wanted to teach her classmates about the ominous perils of death. My very own mother singlehandedly spearheaded the goth rage of the 1950’s. In an era where mopping the floor everyday and ironing sheets were determining factors of feminine self worth, my distressed grandmother ripped their entire house apart trying to figure out where the offensive odor was coming from to spare herself from the condemnation of her husband and bitch friends. I would like to take a moment of silence to thank the bra burners who paved the way with their unrelenting support of Pfizer in the anti-anxiety medication movement for future housewives. Thank you sisters. Thank you.
The point is, even an overly active imagination could not make this shit up but the good news is I am entirely neutral towards my parents! When my mom tells the story about how she caught me dipping my teacups in the toilet and drinking from them, I laugh right along with everyone else. I suppose the only difference is I am always wondering who the fuck was watching me but it is neither here nor there. The time my brother and I brought a crack pipe home from the park to give to my mom because we thought it was an antique, it was simply an act of love. When my dad taught us how to skip rocks on the water and my brother accidentally skipped one into my skull, I eventually forgave him.
You see, we all just need to caaaaaaaaalm down. Living is pretty funny sometimes. No one ever has a baby and says “Ahhhhh she is precious! Let’s see how much we can fuck her up!” No. We are all doing the best we can. And the truth of the matter is: none of us are really that different. We all want to be loved. We all want to feel safe. We all want to be supported by the universe and those around us. I make lots of mistakes but I am constantly learning. And I never, ever forget to say thank you even if it was proceeded with a mother fucker. The value of this experience is unquantifiable and I delight in knowing that I have attracted all the things that I have asked to learn in this life. I lova you all so much!!!! XO