thematically fickle

In April, I wrote a post about my father that garnered several kind and supportive comments. In particular, those moving and heartfelt words posted by my mother which actually brought me to tears, an occurrence generally reserved for the verrrrrrry few times (that’s sarcasm) she frustrates the hell out of me. Her comment was then followed by one from my best childhood girlfriend, Katherine, after she read the former. My mother and Katherine, who have their own relationship that has miraculously survived various Fuck-You’s flung in anger over the years, are always in my corner and can be counted on to come out swinging, sometimes flailing, when circumstances call for it. These two women are among a very select group of individuals on this planet who truly understand the pitiful man whose genetics I carry and intentionally chose not to perpetuate. But I digress.

The comment from Katherine sang the praises of my mother for being woman-enough to get my father to be man-enough to make Little Ole Me, the friend she loves. The same friend who once flipped off a cop from the passenger seat of her car while she was driving subsequently earning her a pricey ticket and a day in traffic school (good thing he didn’t find the pot). The bitch is loyal, what can I say? In response, my mother sent an email to both Katherine and myself containing several clarifications pertaining to my conception. I’m posting it here with permission from the author.

Footnote #1: I generally change names to protect the innocent but my father isn’t innocent so I’ve left it in it’s original glory with the exception that my mother typed his name in the teensiest font cyberly possible and I couldn’t figure out how to recreate that here. So as you’re reading, just imagine it sounding smaller than all the other words before and after it.

Footnote #2: The next bit is a little…graphic? Hopefully my readership won’t be too affected. I’m speaking to all 13 of you.

Read at your own risk, my mother’s words:

“…now, in response to your absolutely brilliant description regarding Aaryn’s conception, I’d like to set the record “straight”. I didn’t get him juiced up, since Aaryn was conceived during a “morner” (upon seeing that my temperature had dropped appropriately for a possible conception) on Halloween of 1969 in a small-town-motel in Wyoming. On the other “hand”, we accomplished the deed by wrapping his pencil-dick in a crisp 50-dollar bill (to make it hard) and securing it with popsicle sticks (to help maintain that condition); after the deed, I held my legs and butt (which included the womb) up in the air to enable his measly sperm to slime into the waiting egg. Even with all that, I must admit (though begrudgingly) I truly loved and adored the false image I had of john allred & therefore Aaryn was conceived in love & ultimately exceeded my wildest dreams of what motherhood could be.”