After reading that my mother gave Chuck and me edible body chocolate, hundreds—okay, two—of you said you couldn't imagine your mother giving you such a lurid gift. That's fair. But you have to understand something: My mother is very, very pretty, and after a lifetime of being chased for sex, the woman's got it on the brain.
Seriously. If you'd been ogled and propositioned nonstop for 60 years by men (and some women), you'd have to absorb some of that eventually. It's Newton's third law. To every action—in this case, a large group of perverts heckling one person— there is always opposed an equal reaction—in this case, the transformation of said person into one ginormous pervert.
It's science, baby.
But enough about her. I want to talk about me, and what it's been like to live with a beautiful, blonde, buxom, oversexed mother.
Picture it: 2002. Or 2003. I don't fricken remember. Chuck and I were on hiatus. I was renting an apartment in an old Victorian house. The landlord was a 70-year-old man named Mr. Rogers. He wasn't a sprightly 70. He had a gray pallor, was skinny and had a jiggly turkey neck.
To say that Mr. Rogers was a packrat would be a gross understatement. My apartment was at the very top of the house, and I often had to climb over refrigerators, velvet chairs, boxes, newspapers and mattresses to get to it. Sometimes I had to climb over Mr. and Mrs. Rogers (they drank a lot of Wild Turkey).
It wasn't a dirty house—they had a maid—it was just incredibly cluttered. And a little Munsters-ish.
Why am I telling you all this? Because even though Mr. Rogers looked like he was at Death's door, he somehow managed to scale his mounds of mess to get to my apartment on the nights my mother stopped by.
My mother and I would be sitting there, and we'd hear a soft knock. I'd get up and open the door and there he'd be in a red silk bathrobe and khaki pants, holding a glass of bourbon. He'd tell me he needed to talk to me about something, like the gas bill or the new parking "situation" and while he was talking he'd float closer and closer to my mother.
One night, he was so intoxicated by her (ok, and Wild Turkey) that as he was leaning against the wall staring at her, he started sliding down the wall in his silk robe! Just imagine Frank Perdue dressed like Hugh Hefner in your living room. And knowing he wants to bone your mom.
Wait, what the hell was my point?
Oversexed mom...perverted landlord...traumatized daughter...
Oh hell, you caught me. I just wanted to tell the Mr. Rogers story.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.