The Over-Educated Nympho

Last weekend I went to visit my family for Easter. I was nervous as fuck because I planned on telling The MOM that I want to be a writer.

I fear the wrath of The MOM. You probably think I’m exaggerating The MOM, don’t you? Nuh uh. I speaketh the truth.

Chuck Norris fears the wrath of The MOM. He tried to roundhouse kick her and she stopped him with a sigh.

About six months ago I visited my parents in an attempt to tell them I don’t like my current career and am thinking about becoming a writer. The weekend trip did not go well. She had me crying before I even started. I went back home with my tail between my legs and my head in my hands.

A couple weeks later in a wonderful weekend of bonding over spareribs and beer, I got the ovaries to tell my father that I write and it’s beginning to show a lot of promise. At one time I very vaguely may have perhaps mentioned when he was on his third beer that I would like to have a career as a writer. I’m not sure how much that registered.

Since then, whenever we talk Dad asks me how the writing is going, to which I respond with something vague. My father does not need to know I write about blowjobs or make sales commission on sex toys. Nonetheless it means a lot to me that he asks. He has seen my face light up when I talk about my writing. He gets that, and that means a lot to me.

He has told The MOM about my writing, which she asks about with less concern than when she asks if I received my Triple A card. Which is why I’m hiding from behind my father and telling him to go forth with my message, hail The MOM. This is how a lot of information is passed along between my mother and I–through Dad. It’s not like we hate each other or get in screaming matches, it’s just that weird love/hate mother/daughter thing that I would really like to grow out of.

I drove up to my parents’ house on Good Friday. After eating a hearty meal worthy of its heartburn, we settled down to watch a couple episodes of The Office over bowls of Blue Bell ice cream, just like we always do when I visit. We laughed in unison at Dwight’s funny antics and shared our own stories of crazy coworkers. It was nice. It was a perfect little family moment, minus the smell of my father’s bare feet.

This is the time, I told myself. Do it! Your brothers aren’t here! It’s just you and Mom and Dad! It’s perfect! Tell them tell them tellthemtellthem.

I couldn’t do it. Several times I straighted up and looked at Mom, sighed, and then sank back down into the comfort of my armchair.

———————

The next day we celebrated Easter. On the drive to my grandmother’s house my parents were telling me what to say to my eighteen year-old cousin who is trying to decide which college to go to. “This decision is very important, make sure he understands that.” “Tell him it can determine the course of the rest of your life!” “You’re so lucky you got into the program you did, I was surprised you did because it’s so competitive.” Thanks, Mom. “Thank god you did, look at how well you’re doing at your job now! And you just got a raise!” It’s only 10:30am and I’ve already been blind-sided with the family Guilt Stick. Fuck. This does not bode well for my little speech.

After our official Easter meal, all my aunts and uncles stayed chatting at the table. For the first time I can remember, none of my two dozen cousins were there. BECAUSE THEY KNOW BETTER. This means I had no one else to talk to or hide with. The elders in my family (”elders” is defined as the generation that “knows what’s best for you”) are very career- and education-oriented. Aunts and uncles constantly compare their children’s grades, spouses, salaries, or any other semi-quanitifiable criterion to each other’s. None of my cousins feel this competition personally. We are simply pawns in the scoring of I Raised My Child Better Than You. Which, I must say, is a fantastically boring game when you’ve heard it over and over for years.

As usual, the conversation turned to which of my cousins were in college/grad school and had a promising career. Everyone gushed over one particular cousin (my main “competition,” in the eyes of our mothers) who is graduating from an Ivy League university this summer and she is just so smart and so talented and so driven and it’s such a blessing to have her in our family.

SHE WAS A TOTAL POTHEAD IN HIGH SCHOOL, BY THE WAY.

If I told my aunts and uncles that, they would probably gush, see? She’s so smart! She still made salutatorian while STONED.

–sigh–

Eventually The MOM started talking about my high school cousin who’s choosing which school to go to, one of which was where I attended undergrad. I straightened up. Finally, we get to brag about me. The Mom talked about the competition there and once again said something about how I was never as smart as my cousins or my brothers–what was your SAT score, honey? (which she knows damn well was among the lowest in my class, because she won’t let me forget it)– but I’m just so well-rounded that I got in anyway.

Say what? What the fuck was that? Did I just get a back-handed compliment? I tried to jump in to ask her to explain, but she kept cutting me off to talk about my high school cousin. Dad noticed my jaw tighten and offered a sympathetic look. You know how your mother is. She didn’t mean it like that.

Then why the fuck did she say it, I thought. Again, AGAIN. I’ve heard her say that crap so many times. I got up and left before anyone saw the tears in my eyes and they urged me to come back and talk about my issues. I don’t have issues, I HAVE RELATIVES.

Fortunately I had one of my dogs with me so I mumbled the excuse “I have to take her out to piss.” HA HA, I SAID “PISS” IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE! HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW, JESUS CANDLE!

As I walked around the backyard with my dog, I wondered if I would ever grow a spine around my mother. I know she’s not a bitch, I know she means well, I know she’s proud of me, sometimes, so why does it still get to me so much when she says crap like that? MY MOTHER IS A GOOD WOMAN SO WHY THE HELL DO I ALWAYS LEAVE TOWN WANTING TO CHOKE HER!? I love her, I respect her, I would love to have half the strength she does, and yet I wonder–why don’t I ever feel good enough for her?

Well now I can’t tell her I want to be a writer, not this weekend. Not after that shit about how lucky I am to have slipped in between the cracks to a good school. Not after my aunts and uncles bragged about their kids with fancy science degrees and PhDs in things I’ve never heard of. My mother probably thinks writers do nothing but drink booze, write poetry in a field of a flowers, and commit suicide. They certainly don’t have PhDs in Aeroneurophysiobionauticalology, and their parents definitely did not spend a fortune on education for them to write about attending a porn convention.

After we left my grandmother’s house (and I swallowed my first Xanax in months), we went to a party at my uncle’s house. This is the side of the family that drinks, laughs heartily, and doesn’t give a rat’s ass what you do with your life as long as you’re a decent human being. I’m glad we ended the night here. Brisket, booze, and no one giving their unsolicited opinion of what you should do with your life. Needless to say, I get along with them much better.

Driving back that night we stopped at a grocery store at Mom’s request. That left me and Dad alone in the car. Due to this and my tongue loose with tequila, I had the talk with my father. It also helped that I was in the back seat and didn’t have to look at him head-on.

“You know this whole writing thing I always talk about, Dad? Well, I’m kinda good at it. Kinda really good at it. I want to try to be a professional writer. I’ve been told that I’m good enough that I should write a novel, and it might have a chance of going somewhere. I’m good, Dad.”

“Wow, a novel? Really?? That’s great! What about?” His face lit up with a smile.

“Just… the last couple years of my life. Depression, school, dating, not dating, trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life, the stuff everyone goes through in their early twenties…” Like sex. Lots and lots of sex. With the occasional Xanax chaser or side of GIRL.

“Wow, that’s great!” He looked genuinely excited. So I kept talking.

“And… I have a blog. Like from that article in Wired you were reading? It’s getting big. I have about a thousand hits every day.”

“WOW.” His jaw dropped. “What is the address so I can check it out?”

SHIT! RETREAT RETREAT!!

“It’s, uh, too personal, Dad. That’d be weird. But I’m working on other stuff too.” Also too personal, but whatever.

“Oh, okay…”

“Don’t worry, I’m not quitting my day job or anything, but I just want you to know that’s what I’m working toward in the next five years.”

“Well, kid. As long as you can support yourself.” He smiled at me. I beamed.

“This next year is really promising, Dad.”

At that moment Mom returned to the car. I hid my face in a book.

———————

The next day was Easter. Whenever my brothers or I visit, our parents take us to a nice Sunday brunch to fill our bellies before making the long drive back to our respective cities.

Over coffee and Texas-sized omelettes, we chatted about the usual stuff. My parents asked me about my job and the annual review. From there I managed to segue into telling them about my friend’s business idea that he wants me to be involved in when they start in a couple years. I hadn’t mentioned this to either of them before.

“So, that’s one thing that may happen in the next couple years… and there’s the writing thing…” I looked at Mom. She put her fork down. Eep.

“I have an idea for a novel I want to write, Mom. I’m good. And I have a lot of other little writing projects in the works over the next couple months, and who knows where all that could lead in a few years…”

The MOM stared me down. I was now talking to my half-eaten omelette.

“Mom, I really like writing. And I’m good at it. In a couple years–after I finish the training program at work of course, because I know that’s important–I may like to do that. For work. And I can still do consulting work on the side so I’d still be in my current industry too…” My pleading eyes had no effect on my omelette.

The MOM looked at me, face blank.

Dad started running interference. “That’s a really smart way to go about it, sweetie. Making your own opportunities and being prepared for whatever comes your way. I always knew you’d be better off working for yourself.”

“Mom? I’m really good at writing.. I could do both…” Could I? Shit, I don’t even know.

I glanced over at her. She turned her head in the opposite direction to hide her pursed lips. Her silence said exactly all the things I was afraid of hearing.

I looked back down at my plate and resumed eating. I didn’t know what else to do.

———————

When we came back from brunch I started packing up to make the long drive back home. As usual Mom was sending me back with boxes of stuff–a lamp, a DVD, some clothes, a blender, some books, leftovers. Because of all the stuff Mom was bringing in to my room, Dad offered to drive my car around to the back so I wouldn’t have to walk as far to load everything.

I was busy sorting through all the random things Mom had left in my room (including an issue of Oprah’s O magazine with a post-it note marking “Warning: Moving In Together Could Be Hazardous to Your Relationship.” Yes, Mom) so I didn’t pay much attention to how long my father was gone. A few minutes later he came for boxes to start loading into my car.

It wasn’t until I was in the car making my way out of the neighborhood that I noticed my gas gauge. Normally I can make it door to door on exactly one tank of gas, leaving me driving up to my parents’ house with a bright “E” glowing from the dashboard.

There was no “E.” In fact, it looked like I had a quarter tank of gas. Impossible. I know I saw an “E” when I pulled up in front of their house on Friday.

Dad. I bet Dad put gas in my tank because he knew there was a good chance I would forget to stop for gas before I got on the highway. Awww, Dad.

I filled up at a gas station and then headed for the highway. As I accelerated up the entrance ramp tears filled the corners of my eyes. Good ol’ Dad. He’s always watching out for me, no matter where my journey may lead.