Ah, me blog. She fits like a glove. You know, for years I was a journaler. I have these old lined-page blank books that I pull out from time to time to remind me of two things primarily: how much I have changed and how much I’ve stayed the same. I cannot go back to the written journals, though there was a time I recall thinking I could never write stream of consciously in type. With enough typing and practice that has changed, and from time to time I write something on paper, but then have to transfer it to type ASAP. All that is to say, that this is my exhibitionist journal, and I appreciate your voyeurism. Sometimes, I wish I were more political, more ambitious in researching stuff as so many of you are. I mean, I just feel a need to tell someone that I ate squash and zucchini with a slice of jalapeno Muenster cheese melted on top for breakfastand consider it a given you know me well enough by now to know I think the latest thing John McCain said was dumb and what Obama said isn’t exactly what I would hope for, but it’s better than McBush Co. ™ still. I read your blogs to find out the details.
You also already know that I need to do a butt-load of dishes, I’m not getting laid near enough, I have guilt for writing this, another edition of TMI™, yet I have a compulsion, call it a creative urge if you would please, to do it anyway. You already know I am the victim of family violence, suffered from an eating disorder and a few addictions, had a thyroidectomy, and am a closeted, married lesbian who loves sex with men and partakes in teh Zoloft as of late.
I mean, there really is nothing else I could write here, nothing new or more revealing, but then… let me tell you something that happened this morning. This guy called and my daughter answered (another story unto itself, as she and I are sharing a phone in what has become my punishment for her transgressions) and told her to guess which cousin of hers it was. Well, her cousins are younger than this guy seemed to be, as she is the oldest amongst the small lot, and he says, “This is Breida, right?” (Go with it.) Close enough for her to think he said my name, and she hands me the phone which shows the return number is private. I ask who it is, and he says for me to guess. It’s one of my cousins. Well, I only have one cousin who would be so obnoxious, and he happens to be one I don’t know well enough to know whether this is his voice or not, and it just so happens he lives in the area where my mom is visiting, so I assume it’s him. He confirms that I am correct and then asks me if I’ve heard the bad news. “No,” I say, worried with ears perking up, “I haven’t.” “I’m gonna be a daddy.” Geez, when you put it like that, it is bad news. I offer my congratulations and feel very awkward. He says he called to get my advice. Now, I may be tied with my brother and my grandmother for being the biggest pro-creators in my family, but this really surprises me.
So, to be a good mentor for my cousin (he doesn’t know me well enough to know better), I ask him how he feels, what advice he wants. He states his ambivalence in the situation, how he loves this woman, but it’s a troubled relationship, how she’s considering an abortion which is instinctually where my inclinations lie in the whole debacle two minutes in as my mind wanders to the last time I saw Mark. He was recounting with attempted humor how he missed his connecting fight in the airport on the way to our grandmother’s 80th birthday party because he got so drunk on his previous flight that he passed out in the airport for a few hours. My aunt had worried for a while why he wasn’t on his due flight when she went to pick him up. Cute.
He proceeds to ask me what I can tell he doesn’t want to say. Yes, if there is someone in my family anyone would consider asking about sex, it would be me. They might say it’s because I apprenticed with a midwife for a time, have two teenage daughters, or because have four children with four different biological fathers (am a slut) of which three were birthed at home, or that they remember when I shouted out off the back of a my aunt’s ski boat to “JUST PUT YOUR VAGINA ON IT!” (referring to an intertube)when I was ten, much to my grandmother’s chagrin and consternation, but I would say it’s because I’m an open-minded good listener who will say just the thing that no one else has the guts to say. Whoever’s version you go by, I could tell that he didn’t want to say it, but had a question that only I, his cousin he’s seen once in 20 years, could be asked. “I mean can a woman really get pregnant that way?” “What way do you mean?” I mean…. “Do you mean without penetration?” I ask. I mean really. Are you dumb? Did you jack off and finger her or did she give you a blowjob and claim she’s pregnant? These are the questions I want to ask.
But, what I asked instead was, “How old are you?” I was seriously doubting this was my cousin. This is absurd. He seems genuinely uncomfortable and it’s not like he’s masturbating or anything, getting off on the whole thing. Though I know he’s near my brother’s age, I did not want to do the math and just had to check. He said, “What do you mean? You know how old I am.” I say, “I know, but it’s been a long time, and I was just wondering exactly.” He says, “This is Breida, right?” I say, “This is Freida.” And, he hangs up.
I kinda wish he would call back anyway, ‘cause someone needs to tell this guy a few things about the birds and the bees, and who better than me, Freida Commitment Bee?
Coming soon…. I get a new camera phone and “You’re Grounded!”
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