Lame-o is my Name-o

(April 09, 2001)

"Well I gotta go, mom," I said. "You said you were in the middle of cooking, and I gotta pee, so..."

"Oh, you're at home?"

"Um...no...they let me pee at work."

I called my mother this morning as a follow-up to yesterday's impromptu visit, to thank her for dinner and remind her that tomorrow is her anniversary. My parents always forget their anniversary. Although, the inimitable Louie and JoAnna might celebrate some other day for all I know. April 10th is pretty random in terms of "milestone" events in their lives. Consider that JoAnna met the swaggering, Italian-suited, pinky ring-wearing Louie while she was just a skinny, bell-bottomed, wide-eyed-and-innocent hippy who'd just turned 17. Well not THAT wide-eyed-and-innocent. I'm sure it was hard to miss the fact that she was carting around a grimy little baby. (For those of you who sucked at the "Reading Comprehension" section of the SATs, the baby was me). Eight years and a kid later (that'd be my brother) they actually got married. Their wedding song was Barry Manilow's "Looks Like We Made It." I was little, but when I think of that time, I get a strong sense of the color powder blue. Eye shadow. Suede wingtip shoes. The vinyl seats in a white Ford Fairlane, which would get so hot in summer it felt like we'd melt into them if we didn't put down a towel.

They're not in a real anniversary-ish place right now, those two parental units of mine. The purpose of our suddenly-required visit to Dysfunction Junction was twofold. First, to deliver 13 tubes of Winsor Newton Artist water color paints. Second, to perform an intervention.

Apparently, four years of living in a half-built construction site of a house is wearing thin on the 30 year carnival ride of a relationship for the ex-disco boy and the ex-flower child.

I thought I could finish this story today, but I can't. So check back tomorrow to read about how the following things come together into one challenging Sunday: a porno novel, property repossession threats, dog shit, Boy George, a stash of pot, Denis Leary, and a hairpiece.