Monday, June 20, 2011
|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:
Posted by JF at 7:44 PM
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
|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 [
“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.
Posted by JF at 10:59 AM
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
So, here's the link to my essay in the Funny Women column in The Rumpus. Read! Thumbs Up it!
Posted by JF at 7:22 AM
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
|When the house lights came up,|
it was Follicles Bergere
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??
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.
Posted by JF at 9:00 PM