“Yes, honey, I made that little girl cry”
Yesterday, the nominal in-laws sat down together for the first time. (Actually, the Moms — the true power brokers — had already met; the Dads, sadly, are useless appendages in such situations.) Everyone got along great, no one hogged the conversation, and I think we parted ways realizing that what could’ve been a big deal? Was pretty much routine.
(As has been noted in a recent Comment, I referred to this meal as “brunch” in a previous post, a social contract into which I would never willingly enter — or so I’ve claimed, over and over and over again. Well, I’ve decided to refrain — as best I can — from responding to individual Comments; it just seems I’ve got my soapbox, and should thus respect the guttersnipes’ domain. So, snipe away — only, bear in mind: it was 5-to-1 against me; I wasn’t going to win a battle of semantics. But we did eat at noon. And the Dads readily agreed that no man has ever, ever, proposed a brunch date to another man. And, if you have, your penis should be confiscated.)
Anywho, why post anything if it was such a pleasant experience? Shame, fury, and incredulity fuel this URL — so what then can be derived from a ham-and-American omelette and a side of bacon? Ah, well, anecdotes are currency in Yourdonville, and embarrassment the most common denomination. Most of the below gems were provided by my saintly mother . . . though I did cough-up one or two, myself:
• When I was in the fourth grade, I made a little girl cry. I recall this — and, obviously, I admit to it — but there’s some dispute as to whether she was crying because I said I’d rather kiss a rock? Or go to a dance with a rock. Whatever: it was a crappy thing to say — I was responding out of 9-year-old awkwardness (it had been suggested that I either wanted to kiss her, or ask her to a dance, and I wanted to do neither). But I was a kid, right? Cart blanche? Well, apparently, her mom stormed up to my mom and said I was a rotten little boy, and her dad threatened to hit me. Jesus, dude! I was nine.
• When I was in the eighth grade, a kid name Tyler — who went to a different school — was going to beat me up because I commented on his having red hair, which he was very sensitive about. Shesh. I can’t be held accountable for everything. Anyhow, some friends of mine stepped-in, and my gorgeous mug was spared any damage. (Not two years later, another redhead, Sean, who also went to another school, also threatened to kick my ass. I’d learned my lesson, by then — no comments had been made about his hair. Only, his girlfriend thought I was hot. Score.)
• In the ninth grade, I suggested that my headmister stop kissing my ass. (To be perfectly fair, he had been kissing my ass.) What I said was, “My parents are the ones donating money — you should be kissing their asses, not mine.” My mother claims never to have heard this story before; I can only take my dad’s subsequent silence to mean that (a) he had, (b) he remembered, and (c) he wasn’t saying jack, not even fifteen years later. Smart man.
• Finally, in the twelfth grade (my school was K-12; I survived a purge after eighth), I was randomly interviewed by the school paper regarding student drug use; tossing-out a number, I suggested that perhaps two-thirds of the senior class had experimented with drugs of some sort, at some time or another. Perfectly innocent. Only that, months later, when that same headmaster handed me my diploma? He gripped my hand and growled, “Two-thirds?” Sure, I said — two-thirds! (I had no idea what he was talking about.)
Yeah, well, my quotation had made quite an impression: the following year, after I’d graduated, he proposed a random drug-testing policy — to be dubbed the Yourdon Policy. From the distant tundras of Maine, I thought this was freaking hilarious; my younger brother, who was a sophomore at the time, did not. Anyway, the policy never came to be, because no parent hopes to “randomly” discover that his son or daughter is using. But still.
So, this was brunch — er, lunch — conversation, yet Lis’s parents still adore me. How can that be possible, you ask? Well, don’t you have any friends who’ve made little girls cry, who’ve been threatened with physical violence — on more than one occasion — who put their feet in their mouth and provoke draconian drug policies? At least one? Of course you do. And someday he’s going to make an excellent son-in-law, brother-in-law, etc. And why is that?
Because fucking brunch is fucking torturous unless someone makes with the ha-ha.
(Satisfied, my little guttersnipe?)
