My brother Shane is here, eating a dry cracker and wandering barefoot around the kitchen.
"Drunk book club?"
The house tends to fall apart when my mother isn't around. Not only does the house become filthy and its inhabitants malnourished, but she is unquestionably the social gravitational pull of the household. She dictates the conversation, and she draws us toward whatever room she is in. Mostly, this is because she's the only person that is likely to give a solitary shit about what's going on in our lives, and that comes from being a mother. But also, because she's one of the few people whose absolute brutal honesty becomes an invaluable resource, and that is because she's kind of a cow. The glorious kind of cow though, the kind one associates with movie stars of the late forties and country singers of the early seventies.
|Tammy Wynette says Mind yo' Bidness|
My mother has an inexhaustable opinion on basically everything and everyone. Every now and then I try to get her to start her own blog, to which she heavily implies that blogs are for losers.
Apart from the weight gain of celebrities, my mother's favourite topic of conversation is my apparently hideous taste in men. She has a fairly traditional view of masculinity, and my choices do not subscribe to this. Our debates center around the word "Why?"
Why, for example, can't I go out with someone who plays a sport?
I don't know, Mum.
But why Car, why can't you go out with someone who can fix dishwashers, and build bird-houses, and cut trees? And studies medicine? Or business? Why?
I really don't know, Mum.
Every now and then, my mum will come home deliriously excited because she's met what she terms "a lovely boy for you". This is generally some high-achieving, flaxen haired, broad-shouldered, six-foot-sixing dude that she caught washing windows at the tennis club. I generally remind her that this "lovely boy" for me is, in fact, a "lovely boy" for her when she was my age. "No, but.." she protests "he likes all the things that you like."
On the rare occasions that I investigate these dudes that are allegedly perfect for me, I discover that his liking of all the things that I like consists of them owning a nylon-stringed guitar that he pulls out at parties, a Red Hot Chilli Peppers greatest hits CD, and a Kings of Leon t-shirt. So basically, my mothers version of my perfect boyfriend is Taylor Hanson of the Hanson Brothers.
|This is actually what happened when I googled Taylor Hanson of the Hanson Brothers|
The other day I started thinking Why. Why couldn't I go out with Taylor Hanson of the Hanson Brothers, or someone remarkably similar? Because I would hate them. But why would I hate them? Because they would go against my very principles of living.
I couldn't go out with a six-foot-sixing birdhouse building broad sports..man because we'd have nothing to talk about. It's not that they're bad people, it's just that I don't have anything in common with people who can find things to do outside. Which is why, more often then not, I find myself with what my mother terms "ferrety looking types" who she believes hasn't eaten a good meal in three years. When I was younger, she used to deal with this by feeding every boy I brought home until they were left lolling on the couch. Now, I don't make the mistake of bringing boys home. I keep my paramours at a distance, and she wonders whether she can ever have a ferret for a son-in-law.