PRETENDING TO BE NORMAL
Why do men make a mess when they pee? Not my husband. His mother trained him well. But her husband. For a week now, I’ve been cleaning up the drips on the floor, on the toilet rim and moving my bathroom rug that I washed especially for their visit. My step-father-in-law has real bad aim.
I don’t remember my father ever making a mess when he peed. There were no mornings that I’d get up, run to the bathroom, pull down my pajama bottoms, sit on the toilet and feel the unpleasant wetness of yellow water under my bare feet.
Two weeks ago I got that phone call. The one that comes too early in the morning to be anything good. It was my sister. She said my father died. Actually, she said “passed away” but I don’t like that expression. “Passed Away.” I like “transitioned.” That sounds better to me but it’s too ‘New Age-y” for most people so I just say “died.” But then “Died” sounds too harsh for some people, so a couple of times I said “passed away.” But I felt like a phony.
We made the 5 ½ hour drive to the Bay Area. My first impulse was to fly but after the United Airlines owner/operator left me on hold for about ten minutes, I had time to reconsider. Driving was much better. I’m afraid to fly. That is, afraid of dying in a plane crash. Hey, I’ll fly if I’m going somewhere good, like on vacation to Hawaii, or Europe. But it’d be too ironic to die in a plane crash on the way to deal with death. My mother’s religious friends would then say that my father loved me so much he wanted me to be with him. I hope to God he didn’t love me that much.
Usually when I have to take a plane, I get drunk. That way I feel happy and adventurous like a rock star on tour. But it didn’t feel appropriate for a drunken rock star to show up at my mother’s house the day my father died. So, driving was the best option.
I was drunk in front of my parents once. I was living in New York at the time and I flew home for some holiday. I arrived at SF airport, the way I arrive at all airports, drunk. I spent the whole forty-five minute drive to their house chewing on Certs and trying to pretend I was normal. I pulled it off. They just thought I was really happy to be home.
One time I smoked pot with my neighbor, Walker. Then, after chewing a roll of Certs and squirting half a bottle of Visine into my eyes, I came home stoned. My mother was sitting in the kitchen eating a bacon and fried egg sandwich on toasted white bread. She’d take a bite, and yellow egg juice and grape jelly would squeeze out the sides and drip onto her plate. It was the middle of the afternoon but her favorite lunch was breakfast.
Instead of running off to hide in my room, I decided to stay there and pretend to be normal. I sat down and watched my mother chew. My sister stood at the sink washing dishes. I listened to the dishes clatter in the sink and the repetitive rattling of the pipes as she turned on the faucet to rinse each dish. My mother mumbled something incoherent, her mouth full of breakfast lunch. I don’t know what she said, but I started laughing. It was funny to see the yellow egg and purple jelly tumble in her mouth around her pink tongue and white teeth. She stopped chewing and stared at me. Her cheeks were puffed out from storing bits of sandwich. I laughed harder. Then she started to laugh too. My sister turned around, looked at the both of us, then she began laughing. We all laughed for what felt like minutes. It was that intense kind of laughing that has a life of its own. It completely takes over and vibrates every cell of your being. I love laughing like that. And as the laughter trailed off we all sighed with relief and wiped away tears.
Okay, I just heard the toilet flush. Time to go clean up the urine.
My father never got pee on anything.
Why do men make a mess when they pee? Not my husband. His mother trained him well. But her husband. For a week now, I’ve been cleaning up the drips on the floor, on the toilet rim and moving my bathroom rug that I washed especially for their visit. My step-father-in-law has real bad aim.
I don’t remember my father ever making a mess when he peed. There were no mornings that I’d get up, run to the bathroom, pull down my pajama bottoms, sit on the toilet and feel the unpleasant wetness of yellow water under my bare feet.
Two weeks ago I got that phone call. The one that comes too early in the morning to be anything good. It was my sister. She said my father died. Actually, she said “passed away” but I don’t like that expression. “Passed Away.” I like “transitioned.” That sounds better to me but it’s too ‘New Age-y” for most people so I just say “died.” But then “Died” sounds too harsh for some people, so a couple of times I said “passed away.” But I felt like a phony.
We made the 5 ½ hour drive to the Bay Area. My first impulse was to fly but after the United Airlines owner/operator left me on hold for about ten minutes, I had time to reconsider. Driving was much better. I’m afraid to fly. That is, afraid of dying in a plane crash. Hey, I’ll fly if I’m going somewhere good, like on vacation to Hawaii, or Europe. But it’d be too ironic to die in a plane crash on the way to deal with death. My mother’s religious friends would then say that my father loved me so much he wanted me to be with him. I hope to God he didn’t love me that much.
Usually when I have to take a plane, I get drunk. That way I feel happy and adventurous like a rock star on tour. But it didn’t feel appropriate for a drunken rock star to show up at my mother’s house the day my father died. So, driving was the best option.
I was drunk in front of my parents once. I was living in New York at the time and I flew home for some holiday. I arrived at SF airport, the way I arrive at all airports, drunk. I spent the whole forty-five minute drive to their house chewing on Certs and trying to pretend I was normal. I pulled it off. They just thought I was really happy to be home.
One time I smoked pot with my neighbor, Walker. Then, after chewing a roll of Certs and squirting half a bottle of Visine into my eyes, I came home stoned. My mother was sitting in the kitchen eating a bacon and fried egg sandwich on toasted white bread. She’d take a bite, and yellow egg juice and grape jelly would squeeze out the sides and drip onto her plate. It was the middle of the afternoon but her favorite lunch was breakfast.
Instead of running off to hide in my room, I decided to stay there and pretend to be normal. I sat down and watched my mother chew. My sister stood at the sink washing dishes. I listened to the dishes clatter in the sink and the repetitive rattling of the pipes as she turned on the faucet to rinse each dish. My mother mumbled something incoherent, her mouth full of breakfast lunch. I don’t know what she said, but I started laughing. It was funny to see the yellow egg and purple jelly tumble in her mouth around her pink tongue and white teeth. She stopped chewing and stared at me. Her cheeks were puffed out from storing bits of sandwich. I laughed harder. Then she started to laugh too. My sister turned around, looked at the both of us, then she began laughing. We all laughed for what felt like minutes. It was that intense kind of laughing that has a life of its own. It completely takes over and vibrates every cell of your being. I love laughing like that. And as the laughter trailed off we all sighed with relief and wiped away tears.
Okay, I just heard the toilet flush. Time to go clean up the urine.
My father never got pee on anything.
That’s one nice thing I’ll always be able to say about him.
No comments:
Post a Comment