Boston is Funny...

My Mom’s anniversary is coming up soon, which is great. It’s kind of a big one; it’s their fifth wedding anniversary. I think the fifth wedding anniversary is a big deal. The traditional wedding anniversary gift for the fifth year is not, however, a big deal. Wood. That’s what you’re supposed to get. Wood is certainly a practical gift, but not very exciting. I suppose wood is an improvement on the fourth wedding anniversary gift, which is fruit, but Jesus, in the days of mad bling, I think we can do better than fruit… or wood.

I digress… now, this aint Mom’s first marriage. This is actually her fourth.

My first “dad” was our mailman. He’d pop in for a few minutes a day, as we were on his route. He delivered our mail, but for mom, he delivered so much more. He would give her a little package every day, if you know what I mean. He gave her a little piece of certified male, if you catch my drift. He would fuck her.

Dad left when his route was transferred. He informed us one day, that the reason the office was transferring him was “all politics.” I didn’t question the reason, and to this day still believe that politics has something to do with reassignment procedures. Like when I had to switch offices because of asbestos, it was “all politics.” When my wife and I moved recently - purely political. Then she got all political when she moved my Clint Eastwood watercolor series into the basement. Fuck politics.

But, through rain, sleet, snow or shine, Mom was destined to be wed and she quickly remarried and stayed that was for quite some time. She married our church pastor. Controversial, because our church was of Catholic denomination. Father Daddy was a good man. They split after he got me pregnant. He was totally cool though, because he paid for half of the abortion. We went halfsies. He was a good man, with a great big heart. That might have been his downfall. He just had too much love to give. I miss him.

Mom settled down again with a quieter fella fairly soon thereafter. His name was Pete, which was short for a much longer name of Middle Eastern extraction. “Pete” told us he owned the local convenient store, but we knew he was just a fucking shift manager. He would follow us around the house making sure we didn’t steal anything, even though it was our stuff. In fact, the only things he owned were a sleeping bag that reeked of licorice and the key to Mom’s heart.

Things got really weird once, when I was reading my subscribed National Geographic (one particularly heavy with African tribal porn) and he scolded that I wasn’t in a library, and that I had to buy the magazine.

“It’s my fucking magazine, Pete. And I’m really uncomfortable with you staring at me while I’m taking a shit. I thought I locked that door.”

I think Mom had enough of his petty bullshit and finally called it quits. That and he would beat her until she was bloody and stupid every early Sunday afternoon before he cooked brunch for the family.

I miss Pete too; he made great eggs Benny.

I think Mom is finally happy now, and I really believe that she has found her soul mate. And I love my new Dad, Mary.

Filed under: Today in Boston

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