Don't Mince Words

Christmas is for kids. As we get older, it’s never as fun. The fun dissipates when you have to get in a car or get on a plane to go home for the holidays. I just got back from a Palm Springs holiday weekend with Mr. WednesdayBeforeLast and realized there’s no place like not being home.

After Dad died, my brother and I went home out of obligation, not desire. But, as veterans of past holiday holocausts, we made a pact we wouldn’t go in alone. In 1997, I worked until the last minute at my ad agency servicing a needy client on Christmas Eve. I went home, got the dog, packed my bag, and made the 120 mile drive up I-95 in very evil traffic. I was tired when I walked in my mom’s living room and was greeted by my brother and sister-in-law who warned me, “look out, she’s in rare form.”

Rare form wasn’t really rare at all. It was drunk predictability. My mother’s favorite topics of “discussion” when it came to me included, but were not limited to (a) weight loss; (b) failed relationships; or (c) career. I was tired, but I always had my sound bites ready, like a prepared 60-Minutes interviewee with a hot light and one camera.

She roared around the corner from the kitchen when she heard Kramer barking and gave me a hug with a spiked egg nog after bite. As I got ready to sit down, she mounted the stinger missile launcher on her shoulder and asked about my weight. Direct hit. My sister-in-law, who had a front row seat to the spectacle, was slack jawed and speechless. Mom followed up with her best one-two punch to date – she asked if I was a lesbian. I wasn’t expecting this since she knew I was seeing a man who enjoyed gun shows and cooking. She rounded the interview out with a simple, “so do you still have a job or are you laid off, again?”

I was ready to tackle her like an overweight, unemployed bull dyke would, but in the spirit of the holidays, I spared her life. “Mom, give it a rest. I have no tolerance for this bullshit and I’m too tired to drive back to Richmond. I’ll leave in the morning. Happy fucking holidays.” She went back into the kitchen and I told my brother he was on his own. I was never coming home for Christmas again.

Since that time, I’ve worked in soup kitchens, gone to friends’ houses, gotten drunk with a Hindu, and played Matchboxes with my nephews instead of going home for the holidays. Each year, I create my own bliss with people I enjoy. I remain sane.

When Mr. WednesdayBeforeLast called and suggested we get out of town for the holidays, I jumped at the opportunity. It was a three day, intensive interview/getting-to-know-you pseudo dating workshop that included pools, parks, and constellations. The good times exceeded our expectations. It was a great Christmas Present with no heavy artillery.

Los Angeles isn’t normal. My dates are usually abnormal. So when I finally found a normal guy, it’s only natural that the date take an unusual turn.

We clicked in email and on the phone, so phase three – the meeting – was booked. The chemistry was almost immediate as we sipped our green teas outside of Borders. Everything was great until management decided the homeless guy resting a few tables from us was a nuisance.

The cop walked up to the homeless guy and asked him to move on. He didn’t want to. The cop asked a few more times and voices got louder.

He asked me, “Do you want to move?”

“And miss the free show? Are you kidding? This is better than COPS!” I replied watching the cop tap the homeless guy with his baton.

We continued chatting and I gazed over at the officer trying to do his removal job. Back up was called and when the homeless guy reached into his pocket, it was all over. Mace was in the air and the homeless guy was horizontal. He left with the backup to enjoy his new seat in the rear of the police cruiser.

All was returning to normal when the corporal on duty walked up to us.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but did you witness this?” We nodded. “I’m going to have to get your contact information,” he asked.

“Oh man, this is our first date,” I said laughing.

The corporal returned a few minutes later and said he needed to interview us separately to document there was no police brutality. I walked over with the corporal and left my date to finish his tea and check his Blackberry.

“Is everything going OK on the date? If not, I can take you to the station and you can get away easy,” the corporal asked.

“No, no. It’s great. We’re having a nice time. I like him,” I said.

“Well, he should like you. You look and smell great,” the corporal added.

I laughed and continued to detail the transaction with the homeless guy. When we finished, we went back to the table, the corporal interviewed my date and finished by thanking us for helping out.

Despite all the action, this was the most normal first date I’ve had since arriving in LA. When he stared into my eyes and asked me for a second date, it felt even more normal. He didn’t have to consult his life coach. He didn’t have to wait for Mercury to get out of retrograde. He didn’t have to dust off a Ouija board.

He knew what he wanted and so did I – an opportunity to have more fun with someone of higher intelligence and extraordinary wit. He walked me to my car and kissed me goodbye. I drove away with a smile on my face.

That’s unusual.

When your kid says something hilarious and sexual, who are you going to call? Today my brother felt I was the best contact.

My nephew, Dave, is days away from turning four years old. He’s a combination of a goofy frat boy and a comedian. In a sense, he’s got my genes. Tonight before bed he had his hands down his pants. When my sister-in-law spotted the self-exploration, she suggested he come over and read a book with her.

“I can’t Mommy. I have to fight with my penis. It’s too big,” he said.

That’s my boy. If you get caught with your pants down, try to have a happy ending.

I got over that metrosexual man thing more than a decade ago when I realized my husband used more hair products than I did. It wasn’t the ‘80s, after all. So when I met a man who said he was in touch with his inner lesbian and he’d come over and fix my furnace on our second date, I had to say yes.

He showed up sporting a thrift store chic workman shirt with a “Todd” name patch and “Greco Heating and Air Conditioning” above his pocket. I giggled as he came in the door and hugged me. When he sat down on the sofa he squirmed around.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“You are probably sitting on one of my crazy pillows,” I answered.

He pulled out a stuffed rooster from his back pocket. “I could of brought you flowers, but I thought you’d like cock instead,” he said.

A sense of humor, good, but can he fix a furnace? No, but he spent 45 minutes trying, which is about how long my ex-husband used to spend in the bathroom doing his hair.

I’ll take cock any day.