Parental Love

I drove down to Dover, Delaware on Saturday to spend some "quality time" with my father and step-mom.

All families are complicated, each in their own unique and often horrifying way. Mine is no exception.

My birth mom and my dad were divorced while I was still gestating in the womb. Throughout my childhood my mother, a bitter young woman with a severe drinking problem, used me as a pawn in her relations with her ex husband, her mother and anyone else who got in her way. I know that, and I forgive her for that. It ruined me in many ways, but there's no going back and undoing it. I am nearly incapable of having trusting intimate relations with sexually desirable people as a direct result of that childhood. When push comes to shove, I can't let anyone in... and more importantly, I can't let myself out.

But still, I try.

Eventually I did meet my shadow family consisting of my dad, my stepmom whom I love dearly and my should-have-been siblings, my sister and our younger brother. Over the years we have gotten closer and more loving.

As my sobriety has ripened, I have learned more and more about the important things in life, such as family and friends.

Dad has started having more and more hospital episodes over the last couple of years. This year my siblings had to fly down to Ft. Myers in Florida to literally rescue the folks and drive them home because dad was physically incapable of doing it.

Mom is no help. She never bothered to get a driver's license and, recently, her memory has started to go. She really needs to be watched at all times now. This will only get worse. In fact, both of them are only going to get worse, and to be honest, it will be in very short order.

After they came home from Florida my sister suggested that each of us go to Dover to spend some quality time with them. I knew what that meant. It meant my sister suspects that the end is near for one or both of them and now would be a good time to show them that they are still loved and that they are still a relevant part of their children's lives. I know, from personal childhood experience, what it means to feel like a fifth wheel in life.

I prayed all week about it. I asked God to take charge of the visit on Saturday and to help me keep my mouth zippered shut, to smile, to be loving and considerate and compassionate, to not have any agendas, and to be of service however I could.

Well, God held up His end of the bargain. I sailed through the day, even though were trying times at the drug store and supermarket. I showered them with affection, verbally and physically, whenever the opportunity arose.

Maybe I am learning about letting people in a little bit. Or even better, maybe I'm learning how to let myself out.

I dunno.

But I do know that I'm going to cry like a baby if... when anything happens to either of them.

Hooray for the Red, White & Blue.

Did you all have a wonderful 4th? I went to see "Hancock", which I liked. It was rainy, hot and humid here in the east so I found ways to spend time indoors.

On Saturday I drove to downstate Delaware to visit my folks who are old and not doing so well. I'm glad I went. Dad is in physical rehab so I took my stepmom out for dinner. She was craving Chinese buffet, so we had Chinese buffet. She was sad to see me leave. Dad looked very frail. Much frailer than I'd like him to be. But God doesn't solicit my opinions, thank goodness, otherwise the universe would've been blown to smithereens eons ago. I felt very mortal when I left them late that afternoon.

I drove straight up to Wilmington and then took I-95 to the grand bypass around Philadelplhia known, locally, as "the Blue Route." It swings you west and north of the city until it connects with the PA Turnpike. I was heading towards Doylestown, and a 12-Step meeting I really like (LGBT). I hadn't been there in a couple of months due to gas prices (it's about a 90 mile roundtrip which, I know, is a spin around the block for Californians, but it's real distance to us wimpy Easterners.)

Sunday I slept in until 7:00 a.m., made a real breakfast, watched Sunday Morning and went to the movies again, to see "Wanted" with Angelina Jolie, Morgan Freeman and James McAvoy. I liked it, too.

Then I was the guest speaker at a 12-Step meeting devoted exclusively to the 2nd Step of Recovery ("Came to believe that a power greater than myself could restore me to sanity.") It's a tricky step. Note that it says it could restore me, not that it WOULD restore me to sanity. I didn't exactly ace it, but I spoke from the heart which is all one can expect. I think my mind is still on my aging and frail parents. And the few remaining brain cells I didn't kill with booze and drugs are, from time to time, waving "bye-bye" to each other.

It wasn't much of a holiday weekend. I did get to see some of the fireworks from the Esplanade in Boston on TV. Craig Ferguson, who hosts the show after Letterman, was hosting and he announced that he'd recently become an American citizen. I thought that was nice.

At this point I'd like to say something snide and snotty about the passing of Jesse Helms but, you know what? Why bother. Wherever he went, let him be. He, like Bush, is no longer worth any effort from those they are leaving behind.

Old Queens

When I got home last night there was a message on my answering machine from my (half)-brother. Our dad is in the hospital. He was delirious and suffering from dehydration (the two go hand-in-hand with the elderly) on Monday, had driven HIMSELF to the hospital (pain-in-the-ass-never-ask-for-help type that he, and the rest of us, is and are).

There is just he and my step-mom in the house. There's plenty of family within driving distance, however. My step-mom's mind is shot and she really shouldn't be left alone. Dad had sense enough to get himself to the emergency room. However, he did not have sense enough (or time enough) to drop her someplace where she'd be safe -- from herself and others. So she was left home, alone.

Although he's 83, he'll probably be fine. This time. But the time is coming when "something" will "have to be done about" them both.

I have a half-sister and half-brother. Dad is really more their dad than mine. Aside from the sperm donation he didn't really have anything to do with me until I was an adult. That wasn't his "fault" (my birth mom was a vindictive, hateful bitch, not to put too fine a point on it), but we don't have a typical father-son dynamic in our relationship. We're more like cordial friends. We certainly don't feel obligated towards each other for anything. Or, at least, I don't.

And that's why I think that they are more my half-siblings problem than mine. Nobody helped me with my birth mom when the time came for me to become her legal guardian and to commit her to a nursing home. I had to walk through that pretty much alone. With an expensive law-firm in Wilmington, Delaware. My mom didn't have any friends at the end of her life, and she'd blown through about five husbands. Nobody wanted anything to do with her -- but it fell to the "dutiful son (me!)" to see to it that she was cared for. If you call old-age hell-holes "care."

So, forgive me for wanting to keep a polite distance from the current familial drama.

However, this coming on top of "H"'s death last week has left me even more distanced from life than usual. And it's not helping matters that this coming Sunday

I__T_U_R_N__S_I_X_T_Y

Is it any wonder, then, that I occasionally lapse into thinking "Please God, just let me die peacefully in my sleep Saturday night"?

At least I'll look pretty good. I'm getting my hair done Saturday morning.

And my friends, L&M, are taking me out for a birthday dinner Saturday night.

Come to think of it, things are actually pretty good right now.

But come Sunday, if I live that long, I, like the late lamented Quentin Crisp, will officially become

One of the Stately Homos of America!

Tires, Stitches, Greening America & Mommie Dearest

I took one look outside last Friday morning and decided to call in well ("I feel great -- I won't be there!") Actually, I knew I was going to blow off work by the time I left the office Thursday night. The weather was forecast to be shitty and it didn't disappoint.

I was seeing the eye doctor at 4:30 to get the giant stitch in my eyelid removed, so that gave me the day to kill. So I went in search of new tires for the car.

My Honda Element came with Goodyear Wranglers -- the biggest pieces of crap it has ever been my misfortune to own. They lasted exactly 32,375 miles. I do NOT recommend them.

I wound up at Sam's Club at 10:00 a.m. in a driving rain and found out they only had one set of tires in stock that would fit my car. And they did not come with any guarantee.

The $600 government rebate was burning a hole in my bank account so I crossed over Route 1 and dropped into the Firestone store. They had a lovely set of Bridgestones which were, frankly, less than I expected to pay and which came with a 60k mile treadlife guarantee. They were installed in a thrice and I was once more safely on the highways of New Jersey, in a monsoon.

The only movie of note which opened over the weekend was that trashy Vegas thing, which I decided to skip, so I killed time at home until it was time to see the eye doctor.

I'd spent all week thinking that he'd put two stitches into the incision. But I was wrong. It was one, giant, stitch, tied off at both ends of the incision, with the majority of the thread hidden inside the lid someplace. He snipped the ends and yanked it out and my eye, VOILA!, looks nearly as good as new (well, I no longer look like I'm winking at everybody, thank God!).

Saturday I drove up to northwestern NJ to personally inspect the construction site of a new home being built by really close friends of mine. It was amazing. It's huge. About 5,000 sq. ft. The ground floor is entirely his company -- he's an industrial designer. The upper two floors are the "living levels" of the house. It's constructed entirely of concrete slabs and industrial steel. Utterly fireproof. It's also green to the point where they'll always manufacture more electricity than they use (and will, eventually get a paycheck FROM PSE&G every month for the surplus juice they sell to the grid). The house is heated and cooled geothermally. They dug down 100's of feet to get to the permanent temperature line. Cooling tubes are embedded in the concrete slab floors and walls. The cantilevered roofs of the house and out-buildings will be totally covered with photovoltaic cells. There'll also be a wind-powered generator, about 100' tall, to crank out some power on cloudy days.

I spent nearly an hour there before I started feeling like a third-wheel at the construction site, so I left. I'm happy for my friends, but sad that they will be living so far away from me now. This couple has been there for me through thick and thin over the last 10 years, and I love them dearly.

I know I'll always be a welcome guest up there...

Sunday was a beautiful day, but....

I'm nearly 60 and I still have "issues" with my long-deceased mothers (my birth mom and her mom, my grandmother). You'd think I'd be able to move past all that by now.

It's amazing how we let people live, rent-free, inside of our heads. Even years after they've long since died. I guess I'm just one of those people who love to run a Hotel du Pain inside their head. Or at least feel compelled to do so.

I hope you all had a pain-free Mother's Day. I didn't.

For Your Consideration

I got back from Florida on Sunday.

I love my dad and stepmom. It saddens me to witness the deterioration they are experiencing. When I arrived at RSW in Ft. Myers last Thursday the folks had driven out to the airport to meet me. Dad apparently had gone to park the car and sent mom in to find me. She found me, alright, but then couldn't remember where she had left Dad. We wandered around for what seemed hours. I asked her repeatedly if she had come down from another level. She couldn't remember.

Eventually we spotted Dad driving around and hailed him to pull over. Later I gently suggested to dad that they both get cellphones and learn how to use them and always carry them.

Physically, though, mom's in pretty good shape. It's dad that's physically falling apart. It takes him 2 or 3 minutes just to haul himself out of a chair. He's in pain. A lot. But he sucks it up and acts like everything is fine. Now I know where I get it.

Don't let anybody kid you. It's just as much nature as nurture. I didn't even know my dad until I was an adult. And yet still we have much in common, aside from good looks and our full heads of hair.

Every day was Groundhog Day, with morning discussions about where we were going to have lunch that day. We'd leave around 12:30. We'd be home by 3:00. I learned to love watching "Monk" on USA. I'd never seen it before. I channel-surfed a lot and went to a 12-Step meeting every day. Dad was very generous to me with the use of his big-assed Chevy van.

The trip back to the airport on Sunday was about as bad as the trip on Thursday. This time Dad totally missed the exit for the "Departures" deck and headed into the lower-level "Arrivals" area, instead. And despite my repeated requests for him to stop near the escalator up to the check-in level he drove to the last baggage carrel for Jet Blue. Where I had arrived on Thursday. Despite my sprained ankle I schlepped my baggage back for half a terminal and lugged it upstairs (the escalator wasn't working) to check-in.

I've never been so grateful to leave Florida.

When I got home there were beaucoups envelopes from the Screen Actors Guild containing "screening copies" of DVD's of most of the films up for SAG awards. I'd already seen most of them, but there were a few I haven't seen yet. I plan to watch them this week.

My friends are pea-green with envy that I get "screeners." I assured them that this isn't like being a Member of the Academy (AMPAS), and that I won't be in aisle 3, with my own seat-filler, when the SAG awards are broadcast this coming Sunday, the 27th.

Still, it was kind of exciting to see the envelope stuffers that all began:

"For Your Consideration"

But then, there seems to be no end of things for me to "consider" these days. Most of which isn't good.

The Wild (Black and) Blue Yonder!

Yup, that's me. Last Thursday morning, nearly a week after the accident. Notice the left eye (on the right) which is still swollen shut. This is just before the doctor removed the stitches. I still look like Baron Von Frankenstein's high-school science project. I look slightly better than that now.

A friend is flying from Newark to Cleveland this afternoon. He travels about as well as Southwest champagne, which is to say not well at all.

Like many American travelers he's convinced that if you worry hard enough in advance the plane won't crash.

I'm not much help when I reassure him that all the worry in the world will NOT keep a plane aloft. I know. I flew in the Navy for 4 years. Believe me, it takes talent to crash a plane (or a dedicated religious fanatic).

He'll be fine, of course, because even religious fanatics have no desire to enter Allah's Kingdom via Cleveland.

I, on the other hand, might not fare as well on Thursday when I wing my way from Newark (EWR) to Ft. Myers (RSW) for 72 hours of non-stop thrills and spills with mom and dad.

It would be cruel of me to ask God to send along a religious fanatic on the same flight. After all, none of the other people are going to visit my mom and dad. I'm sure all their moms and dads are just swell.

Actually, mom and dad are okay. I didn't know them until I was well into my 30's (I mean really know them -- long story but my birth mom was an alkie bitch with issues and I wasn't supposed to have contact with my dad and his new family... ever).

But they are getting quite old and quite set in their ways. I have a pretty good idea of how it will go. They'll be excited to see me for about 10 minutes. Then we'll get the early bird special someplace and head back to the house in order to get that all important "afternoon nap." This will be followed by dad wandering down to the clubhouse to hang out with his cronies and play pool while mom disappears into the computer room.

I'll be the unspoken of thing in the living room.

Friday morning I'll steal the family van and sneak off to a 12-Step meeting. The rest of the day will be an eerie recreation of the previous day.

On Saturday it will be more of the same except I will sneak off at the God awful hour of 7:00 p.m. to go to a LGBT 12-Step meeting at the MCC in Ft. Myers. I'll be living large that night.

On Sunday, God willing, I'll be on a plane by noon heading back north.

I love them. I know they love me. Age is taking it's toll on everybody I love, including me.

It's time to make every moment count. At last.

Go hug somebody you love. You both deserve it. It'll take you places. And you won't even need a plane to get there.

p.s. I haven't had the nerve to tell the folks what happened to me. I guess they're gonna crap themselves when I come walking off that plane.

Nana

I spoke at length about my maternal grandmother yesterday and about how she sacrificed to give me what she could in my childhood.

I should elaborate a little on some of the circumstances surrounding that. Long story short, my mother couldn't be bothered raising me as a single, 19 year old, parent. Hence I wound up being cared for by her sister (my aunt) her mother (my grandmother), her grandmother (my great-grandmother) and a succession of her girlfriends, many of whom would've made her a fine husband, if you catch my meaning and get my drift.

But my grandmother drank. A little at first, then more after her mother-in-law, my mom's grandmother, died. I was six when that happened. Then her other daughter, my aunt, married and moved out. After that I eventually became my Nana's confidante, son and best friend. I also became her bartender ("Ronnie, get me a beer while you're up, please and take this empty with you.")

Sometimes I became her ambassador to the neighbors. I remember once being told by the drunken man next door that there was "going to be trouble" if I didn't do something about a tree that was about to fall on his car. I was 11. Another time a beer bottle went horribly awry in the middle of the night and visciously attacked my Nana. I had to go wake the neighbors and ask them if they could drive us to the Emergency Room so Nana could get stitched up.

I hated Christmas Day. I hated Easter, too. And Thanksgiving. These were big drinking days in my family and I knew that no matter how much resolve they all showed before the big day arrived, when it did it was almost guaranteed to end in screaming, arguing and acrimonious verbal exchanges.

One of their biggest sources of contention with each other was, surprise, me. They would often drink and fight over me. Matters of custody, mostly. Like I wasn't in the room, or couldn't hear them from upstairs where I was shaking under my covers in fear that they might hurt each other for real... or me.

I lived a life torn between two women I wanted to love, my mother and my grandmother, but both of whom seemed to do everything within their power to make sure that I would grow up hating their combined guts, instead.

They had their good moments, as I wrote about yesterday regarding my grandmother, but those times were almost always outweighed by the self-centered evil of their uncontrollable anger and self-pity which emerged when they were drinking.

I know now that they were not bad people, but merely sick people.

I got something they never got, though.

And that was "better."

Mothers

Today's photo is a townhome that's for sale in my area for a mere quarter of a million. But it does have a sunroom attached (it's an end unit!) and an outdoor patio (behind).

Yesterday was Mother's Day. I called my stepmom last night to wish her a happy Mother's Day. I had to call late in the day because mom and dad had left their winter quarters in Florida on Friday (they drive back and forth twice a year) and you never can tell how long it'll take them to get home.

They're getting frail now. I can hear it in their voices. They do their best to stay with me during the conversation, but every once in awhile I can sort of sense them drifting off.

I'm glad I called.

There was a time when I had two mothers, my birth mother and my stepmother. My birth mom has been dead since 1995. She was 64 when she passed away. She'd been crazy, from Alzheimer's, for years. The symptoms started to appear about the time she turned 50. I had to have her committed to a nursing home, and became her legal guardian, when she was 59, in 1990. I was 41 and it was the year after my heart attack.

I reacted to all that by drinking and smoking more.

My birth mother was 19 when she had me. She divorced my father without telling him that she was pregnant with me... so he couldn't ask for visitation rights. She forbad everyone in the family from allowing me to have contact with my father (and his 2nd family) throughout my childhood. Occasionally one of my stealthy relatives would spirit me off for a quick visit to my "father's family" on Christmas or some other holiday. But it was only ever for a few minutes and then I'd be taken home amidst oaths that I would keep it a secret.

We had lots of secrets in my family when I was a kid. Like my half brother or half sister I didn't know I had until we were planning my birth mom's funeral. It seems mom had another kid after me, out of wedlock, which she gave up for adoption at birth. My aunt blurted that one out while we were planning mom's funeral.

My family also liked to go for the "big dramatic" scenes whenever it would cause the most chaos.

My birth mother was crazy. She was also a drunk. She died not knowing that I was a drunk, too. Part of my "amends" to her was getting sober.

Ironically enough, the stepmom I wasn't allowed to know as a kid became a real mom to me after I became an adult. She never talked down to me. Why would she? We were both adults by the time we got to know each other. We genuinely like each other. We don't have the usual mother/son baggage. It turned out she'd borne a lot of guilt over the years for not having been able to engineer my rescue from my birth mother when I was a kid.

Now she's getting on in years and I know that it's only a matter of time before I lose her, too.

Sure, she's a little batty at times, but who isn't? God knows, I am!

But as Crazy Mothers go, she's the best.

There isn't a day that goes by that I miss my birth mother and there isn't a day that goes by when I don't think how sad I'm going to be when my real mother finally passes on.