truvy
Thursday, October 03, 2002
How the weather really has to do with me being hurt by the actions (or inactions) of my father... part I
Okay, so I've told you I'm in therapy, right?
Well, it's not so bad - not great, but again, I'm giving it a try. Why the fuck not?
So, an innocent remark about how humid it was this morning (my Southern passive-aggressive way of saying, "could you please crank that fucking a/c? My dog can breath on me harder than that thing is trying lamely to cool the room!", or something along those lines) turned into thoughts about Lili, bearing down with Category 4, make that 3, make that 2-force winds this morning in New Orleans. I mentioned that Robert and I might go to NoLa next year for Mardi Gras (yeah, I know, you two fucking hate the tourists, but do I at least get bonus points for having lived in Baton Rouge as a boy?), and that we'd never been there together.
Well, the last time I was there, since you asked Dr., was for a cousin's wedding. "No, not a real cousin," I explained again, "one of those good friends of the family cousins." (am I the only one with more "aunts & uncles" than blood relatives?)
Well, M. was marrying some nice born-again girl in a fundamentalist rock-concert wedding (truly one of the most interesting "religious" experiences I've evah had, let me tell you 'cher ), and I met Mama, her husband & my sister there on the way back from some hellacious business trip to Buenos Aires, where, incidentally, I lost 8 pounds in a matter of 5 hours (yes, I weighed myself just to be gross about it), having gotten some horrifying parasite to cause things to propel out of my body at the speed of light from both ends. Yum!
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, New Orleans, N'awlins, NoLa, whatever - where the turtle light in the living room - the one w/ the yarmulke - is from. So, we met there over a nice spring weekend for the wedding, and we were all quite relieved that no chickens were sacrificed at the service, and loved the bologna & pimento-cheese spread sandwiches & Kool-aid being served in the social hall afterwards. Overall a nice weekend w/ a bit of debauchery when we returned to New Orleans (no Mom, please don't wait up!).
So, cousin M - I unearthed this morning, was really the son my father never had. How's that, you ask?
Well, my dad was a big jock - played football for University of Florida, blew out his knees & then switched to an academic scholarship because he was smart, too. We're a big football family - sister was a trainer, we had season tickets, I even played for a couple of years, but didn't really "take" to it, ya know? M, of course, loved football - lived for it & tried (in vain) to play for a major university. He was a good player, and every year sent my dad a picture of him in his uniform - the mega-jock school picture. My dad was crazy about M., and carried that picture in his wallet. I don't think he had one of me in there - maybe hidden away somewhere, but not the big picture that flashes out whenever he opened the wallet. I can picture him now on a business trip - "Oh, is that your son?" "Why, yes, it is - he's a fine boy."
Don't bother with the straight-A student Choir fag son, no, don't bother.
See, aren't humid days the worst? I hate therapy. Wouldn't it be better to just leave these feelings alone? Aren't they all just convenient excuses for not taking responsibility for your own life? Am I really that unhappy that I need to be doing this? The man's been dead for 14 years, you'd think I could leave him alone for a while.
I don't know.
So I think I'll just not think about it.
Pardon me for stealing so blatantly, but I'd rather just talk about fuzzy kittens (make that puppies) for a while.
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