Even cowgirls gotta choose







The eve of the longest day, or shortest night, of the year: a major decision

Before the tourists, they committed human sacrific here.
Virgins, mostly. At least, that what I've read. 

When Jamie forwarded to me the link to the Father's Day story in the NYTimes yesterday [6/19] about a happy sperm bank donor's relationship to the progeny he spawned, I came to a decision.

I emailed Jamie's biological father [aka: the Pater Unfamilias, or PU  http://tinyurl.com/4yckhbl] to schedule a phone call. I have decided that I will tell my son that he did not come from a sperm bank: http://tinyurl.com/4zknj9f.  

I have also decided that, if Jamie wishes to meet his father after I tell him--Jamie--the truth, that I will give him my blessing. ["give him my blessings"--what a cliche. What am I, the Pope?]

"If? If? c'mon, of course he'll want to meet his father, " Miriam proffered skeptically, when I told her. 

"Of course, if," I replied. 

I mean, right now, Jamie thinks his father--for whatever his reasons--donated sperm so that women--for whatever their reasons--could have babies even if they didn't have a Man Partner Sire Machine. "Donated": like went to help victims of the earthquake in Haiti. Like  Face book Richie Rich giving dumpsters of money to the Newark NJ school system. Donated, like: benign.

I elaborated lest Miriam not get my point: "Right now, and much to my chagrin and horror, Sperm Bank Dads are media darlings. But what about when I tell him that I do know his father, that we had an affair when I was a graduate student studying in London, and that his father offered me abortion money, and when the exchange rate was especially bad for the dollar. Then, after rising to his Eton and Oxbridge breeding, Jamie's dad offered me college tuition and a Rossetti sketch. Then he had a freaking stroke--how convenient, a bloody stroke--18 months before the Jamester was headed to college. And now that Geoff's recovered from his stroke, and sniffing his mortality, he wants to meet his son. oh, all that good stuff and the fact that I've lied for nearly two decades. "

There was a long pause. Then Miriam said: "His name is  Geoff?"

I didn't answer. She continued. "Jamie calls you Jeff--the JF thing. Hasn't it ever stuck you as--"

"It has. But they spell it differently in England. Most Americans think you say it 'joff.'"

"--Oh my god, it's giving me the shivers. It's like there's this destiny at work--"

"Gimme a break. When did you leave the Episcopalian fold to become a Wikkan?" 

Be all that as it may, Geoff scheduled a phone conversation for us tomorrow, around 1 PM EST. And a few minutes ago, I stumbled upon the fact that the Summer Solstice occurs at 1:16 PM EST tomorrow. I don't really get what happens astronomically at the solstice moment--except that the etymology of "solstice" leads to: sun standing still--anymore than I get the concept of light years; something about how all the stars you think you see are merely the light from stars that died a long time ago.

So, tomorrow's the day. The longest day of the year. Or the shortest night of the year. Which, for us insomniacs, http://tinyurl.com/48grpxs, might be seen as rather a blessing. Half not a whole tab of xanax.

Thing is, the way I'm experiencing it all:  today's the longest day of the year. 

Easily, the longest day by a light year.







Of dogs and dating on the Ides of June

Best in Shoe

At one point, sheep--and their culinary derivative, rack of lamb-- were a major motif in My Serial Life [http://tinyurl.com/3cefvtm. 

Now, the Theme of Me appears to be shifting to: Dogs. 

Jamie, my son, is settling in with Peyote, his dog-sitting charge [http://tinyurl.com/3cwh89y]. He's writing the counterpart to his earlier graphic novel, Sperm Bank Dad [http://tinyurl.com/4jowk4p]. This one is:  Peyote: Oh  Brother, Where Art Thou? 

I know, one might argue that Jamie is using his art to work out his family issues [like there's something new about that?], and yes it's time I resolve what to do about his biological father. The Bio Dad I told Jamie came from a sperm bank. I'm working on how to tell the truth. But will the truth cost me my son, my best buddy, the best choice I ever made? 

Will his next graphic novel be: JF, The Stinking, Lying Bitch Mother I Now Renounce? It could happen. But mine-shaft, soul searching is rather a private matter with me and....

...it's a beautiful, blue-skied morning, and I'm going to NYC this weekend and will be seeing Richard again, the man who released my inner goddess when we  met at the Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art.[http://tinyurl.com/44gvtf3] 

All good, except for the dog thing. I didn't know he shared custody of a dog.  But hey, families, as we Liberals like to say, can be many things. He has an adult daughter from his first marriage. He has a vocal dog from the second marriage.  I found this out last night when we talked on the phone, and a few minutes into the conversation, a high pitch barking came across the wires.

 “Paris, pipe down,” Richard yelled. “Sorry. Paris is the dog.”

"You have a dog? Where was she the night we...I came over...and, you know...."

"With my ex. The second Mrs. Richard. God, that must sound callous." He went on to explain that they shared custody and that some problem with her dog walker resulted in a change of schedule. So he will have the dog this weekend while we're hanging out.

"That okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, of course. I love dogs," I replied. 

 I don't love dogs, but I've never, you know, assaulted one or anything. "What kind of dog?"

He sighed. Why do all the men in my life sigh and with such existential gusto? 

"She's a schnauhuahua. Schnauzer crossed with Chihuahua. A new breed that Ex #2 is trying to market."

"Wow. how's that working out? what's the dog like?'

"Working badly. The dog's high strung and takes doggie Prozac. But Paris isn't so bad. We'll just have to keep her out of the bed."

Awkward pause. Time for JF filler questions.

"So, Richard, why the name 'Paris' for a Mexican-German hybrid?"

Man sigh, repeated.

“Paris Hilton. My ex named the dog after Paris Hilton. If you hung up right now, I’d completely understand.”

“I never hang up on people. Just please, don't tell me your ex’s name is Tinkerbell. But look, shoot me a picture of Paris Hilton the dog.”

Which he did. Words escape me.

.

I forwarded the photo, without commentary, to Miriam. She called within minutes. "Where did you find this? It's hilarious."  

I told her the story. She said: "Okay, so this guy's second ex-wife named their dog Paris Hilton. What was she, like, fifteen when they got married?"

"In human or dog years?" I replied. Miriam asked if she could post the canine Paris Hilton on her Facebook page. I said no. A picture of a dog that butt ugly would, within minutes, be all over the Internet.

I may not love dogs, but I will not be responsible for inciting canine viruses.







My essay in The Rumpus: I'm a Funny Woman!

WWJD

Seem destined to have Jane on the brain, and in my blog [scroll down to my previous post which unveils a shocking picture of VS Naipaul cross-dressing as Austen].


So, here's the link to my essay in the Funny Women column in The Rumpus. Read! Thumbs Up it! 


http://therumpus.net/2011/06/funny-women-54-thomas-hardy-isnt-jane-austen-get-over-it/#more-80752







P.S., V.S.: Tosh This

All that bile must come from
a bend in the liver

VS Naipaul [Nobel Laureate]... has lashed out at female authors, saying there is no woman writer whom he considers his equal – and singling out Jane Austen for particular criticism.. . . .[Naipaul continued]  "My publisher, who was so good as a taster and editor, when she became a writer, lo and behold, it was all this feminine tosh. I don't mean this in any unkind way."   
                                               The Guardian, June 2, 2011


I'm going to set aside my tepid feelings about  Jane Austen, though I've thoroughly enjoyed myself making occasional disparaging Austen remarks in my My Serial Life postings. 


I'm also going to set aside my loneliness for my son Jamie, 700 miles away, babysitting for a dog named Peyote [http://tinyurl.com/3cwh89y]. Ditto  my agita about the return of Jamie's biological father [http://tinyurl.com/4yckhbl]. Ditto how to tell Jamie his father did not come from a sperm bank [http://tinyurl.com/4e3u2sf].


Because I need to put  my serial life on pause and  give V. S. Naipaul a good bitch slap.  


I don't, of course,  mean bitch slap in any unkind way. 







Something about Parenthetical Man's Hair.....

When the house lights came up,
it was Follicles Bergere

Jamie leaves tomorrow to house and dog-sit for Peyote, his art professor Kirk's bull terrier [http://tinyurl.com/3cwh89y]. He decided to have an early dinner out with his high school friends. Which is okay. You know. I suppose the risk was I would turn dinner at home into The Last Supper. I've been going a little overboard this past week.


He says he'll be home early, and we'll watch a couple old episodes of Ab Fab; it was from Eddie I stole my best parental line: "Mummy's trying her best, darling." So I've been sitting here trying to kill time, figuring I'll deal with the big stuff--what to do about Jamie's biological father's request to meet Jamie http://tinyurl.com/4yckhbl--tomorrow.   


I started thinking about that night the Parenthetical Man [PM]  took me to see The Importance of Being Earnest, and how I've avoided thinking about our date, which was perfectly fine in all ways except for the hair thing, which killed the incipient "mood."


What happened was this: When the play ended and the theatre went from dark to "get out now" over lit, I turned  to beam my delight at PM. I saw these rows of stalks of hair, all perfectly aligned like early season corn stalks along the crest of a hill on an Amish farm.


Initially, it perplexed me greatly, and when I'm perplexed even moderately my mind free falls into peculiar associations. At that moment arose the image of the Terracotta Army: all those sculptures of soldiers excavated in China, lined up, orderly, by the thousands. 


What was with the hair thing??


Hair plugs. 


I'd never seen hair plugs--to the best of my knowledge--but, trust me, when you see Early Stage Hair Plugs, you know exactly what you're looking at. You wish you didn't, but you do.


Later, when he took me to the Campbell Apartment at Grand Central for a Prohibition Punch,  we sat on the balcony, talking about the play, laughing, making up stories about the beautiful young people on the first floor.  It was romantic. His smile made those parentheses. It was dark.  His hair looked full.


But an unwelcome thought kept making its way into my head [the persistence of unwelcome thoughts is one of the symptoms of OCD, btw]. 


I kept wondering from what part of his body they'd lifted the hair follicles. That's how it works. I know because women in my family suffer from Female Pattern Eyebrow Baldness and by 68 or so, they start using Sharpie pens to make eyebrows.  I've looked into hair transplant alternatives to Sharpies.


So I knew that there are all kinds of parts of his body from which those plugs might have been harvested. 


Then I started to notice how he would abstractedly massage his left underarm area, as if it were in some pain. 


Then arose another  image, this time of him spraying his head with Right Guard before our date. 


And even a second Prohibition Punch couldn't get me in the mood after that.