Last night Chuck and I had my mother, Linda, and stepfather over for dinner. We wanted to thank them for hosting Junior’s birthday party (and the girls) at their house last weekend, so we bought them a nice bottle of scotch.
My mother doesn’t really like scotch, but it’s the only thing she’ll drink. When she was in her twenties, she researched the alcoholic drinks with the fewest calories and scotch was the winner.
And oh, how it won last night.
Somehow we got on the subject of Chuck and I: The Early Years. It all began in 1997. I was 22; he was 25. Fresh out of college, I was over my unshaven armpit phase (I only lasted a month); Chuck had hair. Sigh.
Chuck had just ended a relationship with a woman who was 31 (i.e., an “older” woman), and I had told my mother as much. I may have also mentioned that Chuck’s previous girlfriend was 25, to his 21.
What did my mother glean from that?
Chuck [to Linda]: “You thought I was a male prostitute?”
Linda: “My daughter said you had dated older women.”
Me: “You thought Chuck was a male prostitute?”
Stepfather: “Should we all eat some bread?”
Linda: “I’d just seen Loverboy! I was able to put together the pieces. I’m not stupid, you know.”
Me: “I didn’t say he’d dated 50- and 60-year olds! I didn’t say money was exchanged!”
Chuck: “I wish I was a male prostitute!” (High fives stepfather)
Me [to Linda]: “I don’t know what I’m more disturbed by: the fact that you thought Chuck was a gigolo or that you were okay with your daughter dating a male hooker.”
Linda [winking at Chuck]: “I thought my daughter knew what she was doing.”
Me: “I think I may throw up.”
Chuck honey, you know how everyone needs a theme song? Well, here you go.
If you haven’t seen Loverboy, I highly recommend it. It’s funny, lighthearted and sweet (for as sweet as a movie can be about a boy who sells his body for money).
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.