Mark is sitting here, reading one of the comments from yesterday’s post, snorting happily at the image of my mother as Betty White.
My mom is so not Betty White.
And Mark is a teeny bit grudge-holding where my mother is concerned. He loves my mom, but he does not forget shit. He is like an elephant that way.
Before there was a Mark? There was another guy, a guy I will call George because that is my favorite alias name for ex-boyfriends. My mom kind of liked George, and she felt sorry for him when I decided one day that I was pretty much done with George. George had a beaten-puppy quality about him that my mother found hard to turn away.
And yes, that beaten-puppy quality was there when I found George.
I did not break anything except his heart.
Turns out that when a beaten puppy get his heart broken? He goes all spineless and melty and moony and bambi-eyed and pathetic.
When men get all sappy and mushy and needy and childlike? I get all cold and rejecting and harsh. Get the fuck away from me with that little-boy shit.
Plus also? George wrote me a series of horrific letters in which he referred to his penis in the third person as “Dude,” and professed his and Dude’s undying love for me.
Which made me just want to throw that pathetic beaten puppy into oncoming traffic.
It was so over.
Immediately following the break-up with George (and if I am completely honest, the word “following” is not entirely accurate, suggesting as it does that one event preceded the other, which is sort of not true), I had what I generally refer to as my 6 months of slut. These were a glorious 6 months in which I was incredibly badly behaved.
It was way fun. Way fun.
This short-lived slutty period of my life came to an end when I met Mark.
And it has been all Mark all the time for the last 24 years. Well, there were a few loose ends to tie up, some good-bye sex to be had, but after that? All Mark all the time.
Where was I? Oh yeah! Mark being all grudgy about my mom.
Mark and I started dating in July. We moved in together 2 months later.
And I invited him home for Thanksgiving at my mom’s house. I told my mom that I was bringing Mark. I was bringing my new serious boyfriend home to meet my family. We were living together. This was important.
I was quite clear.
And my mother . . . invited George.
Sigh.
George and I hadn’t been dating in about 10 months.
The entire evening? Was spent listening to my family rhapsodize about how fabulous George was and how much they missed having him around. George was all happy and goofy and hopeful.
Not even.
When I confronted my mother, she said, in front of Mark, something like, “Well I didn’t know you and George were really done. That’s not what George said.”
Not even kidding.
I got a little drunk and started referring to George as Dude, as in “Dude, can you pass me the gravy?”
And, “Dude! You look like you’ve been working out!”
And, “Dude! I love your jacket!”
I was giggling hysterically. I was drunk. My family thought I was insane. Mark thought I was flirting with George. And George (who was not that smart and who had apparently forgotten his letters of Dude love) just stared at me blankly.
And I couldn’t stop saying Dude. “Dude. Dude! Dude. Dude? Dude!”
Oh my god . . . so funny. But I was the only one who thought so.
Sigh.
It was, to say the least, awkward. Mark was not happy.
It was no small task to get Mark to agree to drive back to my mom’s house for Christmas. I had to call ahead and make my mother swear that she would not invite any ex-boyfriends to Christmas dinner.
She promised to behave.
Dinner went well. George did not attend, although there was a large glass-encased terrarium (a gift from George) in a place of honor on the holiday table. Sigh. After dinner, my mom wanted to get photos of the family. We were a large crowd, and there was arguing and pushing and shoving as everyone tried to get positioned for the photos.
OK, we’re all set.
And then my mom? She asks Mark to move, to stand to one side of the group.
“Why, Mom? Why can’t he stand next to me?”
“Well, babe. I’m just thinking that this way? If things don’t work out between the two of you? It will be easier to cut him out of the family photos.”
Not even kidding.
Back to Mark reading my comments, laughing about my mom as played by Betty White.
He turns thoughtful, “You know, you could write a book.”
I turn to thank Mark for his kind words of encouragement.
But then, sadly, he keeps talking.
“All you would have to do is gather all of these posts and make them make sense together somehow.” He makes a gathering motion with his hands to demonstrate the concept of gathering. So annoying.
I make a similar, but angrier, gathering motion with my own hands, “What the fuck does that mean? I have to gather them up and make them make sense together?”
“I just mean your posts would have to be organized. You would need a theme. You need to think to yourself . . . what would the theme be?”
“What would the theme be? Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously?”
I pick up a pen and a notepad, “I am writing that shit down. What would the theme be? You are hilarious!”
“So now you are going to make fun of me in your next post?”
“Maybe a little bit. Maybe the theme of my post will be husbands who think their blogging wives should just gather this shit up and make a book. With a theme.”
He laughs, “My parents will not like it if you are mean to me.”
I snort, “Dude! Are you kidding me? Dude, your parents love me!
And now I am all snorty with giggling.
Seriously, dude.
So fucking funny.
Dude.
So he thinks you should develop a cohesive theme and then collect and publish your blogs together in a way that’s harmonious with that theme?
Genius! And also something my husband says all the time.
I am thinking the title of my book could be . . . Dudes I Have Known
Isn’t that catchy?
Plus, it is like a ready-made theme!
Dude!
I am a genius!
Hahahaha!! Only if it is complete with pictures. Pictures of Dude’s you have known. Eww but ha! Dudes doing things like riding bikes, drawing pictures, water skiing perhaps.
Holy hell I’m either over tired or toast. Or simply am more amusing than I should be by the Dude thing. Dudes in coats. Giggles
I meant “more amused than I should be.” D’oh.
It’s OK . . . you should have been there that night.
Because I thought Dude was the most hilarious word ever invented.
And I could not stop saying it.
Dude.
Pictures! Bike riding! Water skiing!
I love you!
What have you done to me – I am STILL laughing, I have tears and need to go smoke. Ha! Dude’s smoking, para-sailing, working on a car…
I love you for putting all these Dude images in my melon. Dudes in my melon. Hehe. Ok, ok, I’m done…
You are all weak and vulnerable to dudes.
Be careful. They are everywhere.
And dudes? They will fuck with you.
Laughs and giggles more laughs, and you even got me snorting on this one. I don’t what I was expecting, but I wasn’t expected your Mom to invite George for Thanksgiving. How so very awkward but funny. And the glass-encased terrarium. Funny. Making Mark move for the photo. Funnier. And “Dude! I love your jacket!” Fucking hilarious. Images of a little penis all cozy in a poncho style coat. I’m dying!
It was not one of my finer moments.
Mark remembers thinking that I perhaps was not quite as ideal a girlfriend prospect as he had thought. And that my mother was a loon.
And yes! I saw a penis poncho as well!
Happy sighs.
DUDE!! That was hilarious !!! Since when did blogs have to have a theme? Make sense? I did not get that memo.
Blogs do not need to have a theme.
But books do, according to Mark.
I am just lacking focus, apparently.
Hmmmmmph.
why couldn’t this be in book form as is? volume one 2010 and so on…not that you couldn’t start writing a separate book, but really i think this is better than a book for me. i can’t read ahead, i can’t finish because i hope no end in sight and unless you decide to commit blog suicide it gets to stay in one place timeless…and not on a shelf or lost in a box.
You have now been promoted. You are my new favorite reader.
Because . . . YES! Exactly.
At least your family members didn’t continue to call your current husband the name of your ex boyfriend for months into the relationship … because they all loved the ex so much they couldn’t stop thinking about him. “No, Grammy … his name isn’t CRAIG!”
P.S. I LOVE LOVE LOVE your blog and laugh hysterically everyday when I read it! (The one about your daughter barfing on herself had me nearly peeing my pants!)
Thank you for the LOVE LOVE LOVE!
Someone else I know had an ex-boyfriend named Craig and then a new boyfriend (now husband) named Greg.
Somebody named my mother had a hard time with that.
HA! Ddduuudddeee. Classic mom sabotage.
Sad, puppy, childishness….gets angry, mean, pissy Jen. Unless your an actual child. Them you get sweet Jen.
And totally agree with Cassidy.
Yes, if you are a sad puppy child? Then I am all over you with the love.
But if you are a sad puppy man? You should step back from the curb as the bus zooms by.
DUDE!!! LOL! I just call Rob’s his little Rob lol!
I have never understood the need to name a penis.
Just reading the words, “Little Rob,” makes me giggle.
A lot.
I had an ex who named it himself. Kinda sad when no one wants to give it a “pet” name but you lol.
I hope you are not thinking that I named Dude.
Because, dude . . . No fucking way.
Dude!!! tell Mark you realized the 6 months of slut needs a book deal because you organized it.
But your mom is hilarous.
Hee hee!
How funny if I wrote a book about all of the dudes before Mark!
I am dying here.
Dude! I am dying!
Dude. I love six months of slut. I had about a solid year of slut that ended with the meeting of my current husband. My husband also gives me helpful advice about writing a book as well. They are such helpful dudes across the board.
I wish I would’ve have been at that Thanksgiving with you. Between the two of us alterately shouting Dude and collapsing in giggle I think it would have rocked.
Alternate book title: ‘Sluts and the Dudes that Make them Giggle’
Now I’m giggling. Maybe it needs to be ‘Temporary Sluts’ so as to not create any confusion?
Thoughts?
I am thinking . . .
Dudes and the Temporary Sluts Who Love Them . . . for a bit.
And the 6 months of slut? It was fun. Done with it now.
But it was way fun.
I think our moms must be secret best friends. I started dating my now fiancé and we moved in together 2 months later. Then i told them i was bringing him to the labor dsy BBQ, and what does my family do? Oh yes, invite my ex-husband! Gah! Seriously?
My mom can be a little bit sabotage-y.
It amuses her.
I named my penis “Eddie Haskell” because it endlessly gets me into trouble and yet is always so polite when presented to my mother.
What? Why is everyone looking at me like that?
I am all helpless with giggling.
Excellent. My plan is working perfectly.
Bwah hah hah!
It’s good that my slutty period is behind me.
Because giggling? Makes me all vulnerable.
Hee hee!
And I’m glad that my man-slut phase is behind me too, because… umm… because…
Yeah, I got nothin’.
Good, because I like to have the last word.
Word.
Hee!
Dude.
That’s fucked up.
Dude. I am in love with your awesomeness. There are days when all that stands between me and a liquid Drano cocktail is you blogging about vomit or pee-initials or creamy donkey balls in your mouth. Especially the creamy donkey balls in your mouth. Because of this love, I’m going to give you the last word here.
Just, you know, not during this comment right here.
Even if my mouth were stuffed with the creamy donkey balls?
And for the record, my mouth is not so occupied.
I would not let you have the last word.
Even if my last word was, “Mmmphphpphh.”
It would still be mine.
Plus also? I am off to mom it up around here, but if I come back later and you are all last-wording up in here?
Then it is so fucking on.
Bring it, dude. Bring it.
Well I am going to shower and then go do daddy-type activities, maybe involving power drills or engine blocks or skinning wild animals, but more likely involving going to the library and then for ice cream cones with the girl, so you totally win this round!
Except this is currently the last word. So I now winning.
Sweet.
I am going to lull you into a sense of security.
Because you are here with the last word and shit.
But later, I am coming back to kick your ass.
And that is my final word.
I would be afraid, but you live so very far away.
So I think I’m fairly safe.
Look at you, all lulled and falsely secure.
You are doomed.
Finally! I was getting tired of being blessed.
Bring on the doomage!
Bring on the doomage!
You win the award for best string of words in a comment today.
As long as you are able to accept it without comment.
Those so sound like things my mother would say and/or do.
I love that you called George Dude. Hilarious.
I was pretty hilarious.
And my mother can be annoying.
Dude, who the hell would name their penis dude? I have tears in my eyes thinking about the dinner where you’re the only one getting the joke. I totally would’ve done the same thing…& probably peed myself laughing my drunk ass off.
I was a comic genius in my own mind that night.
Also? There may have been pee.
I was kind of drunk.