Dropping G-Bombs

My relationship with my parents very much resembles the state of the US Military, prior to this year.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

So long as I’m silent and keep any and all details of my life a tightly pressed secret, then we can pretend to get along amicably. Leave it to Beaver, Little House on the Prairie amicably. It’s like we are constantly on camera, choosing our words carefully and shifting our weight uncomfortably as we walk through the hot coals until it’s time for me to go home. Don’t get me wrong. I love them to death and I love spending family time, but it’s just that it gets really difficulty trying to wrestle all the colors of a wily, bucking rainbow back into a cramped closet.

My Mom is the best. She’s trying to get comfortable with the idea that her daughter is a flaming hot lesbo. Little by little she has been progressing towards the G-word. She asked me if I was going “to that thing in San Francisco”? She admired all of the little rainbow souvenirs I had brought back from Pride this year, saying she liked the colors and she would wear it (gasp) but did it strictly mean that she was… you know? (Hesitation. Uncomfortable eye shifting.) Gay?

My younger sister started laughing uncontrollably, knowing that this was the first time she had finally let the little G-word trickle, however uncomfortably, from her lips. I wanted to answer the question seriously but then they both started cracking up and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. We laughed long and hard and it was amazing. The ice had been broken just a little bit more. Making way for bigger and better progress.

And so, as my Mom, Dad, sister and self are all gathered around either side of the breakfast bar in the kitchen Mom drops this little ribbon-wrapped atomic bomb.

“Hey, that new gay bar is open in downtown!”

Dead. Silence. Even the crickets are leaving the war zone.

I don’t even bother looking at my Dad. I don’t even want to see what his expression is. I can already envision the disgust and the clenched jaw and the flared nostrils. And that little vein above his eye that I hate with a passion.

“Why? Did you apply?” his question is not directed at me at all, but as a joke towards Mom, who is a lifetime waitress and restaurant manager.

Wtf?

“No. But it’s open now. It’s supposed to be cool,”

I feel like I’ve just stepped onto the set of Punk’d. I’m waiting for the host to rush out with camera men and tell me I’ve just been had.

But no host, no cameras. The uncomfortable (but suddenly not intolerable) silence is lifted by my amazing sister changing the topic with her woman’s intuition of perfect timing, and I breathe a little easier.

My brain does an instant replay as I recap what just happened.

Mom said the word Gay. And the world didn’t end. Dad didn’t spontaneously combust.

Maybe there is hope for my little family yet. Maybe I’m the one who has been too afraid to broach the subject. Maybe the only reason progress hasn’t been made is because I haven’t been reading the signs of change.

Maybe… it’s time.

Degrading Darling Nikki

So, I’m a little peeved. Just a little. I mean its not a big deal but… it is.

My parents car is in the shop for a shoddy transmission. Which is an expensive and time consuming repair. And they had tickets to the Power House concert that just happened at the Honda Center. It’s weird enough that my nearly 50 year old parents are going to a rap and hip hop concert, but that’s irrelevant.

Me, being the awesome, amazing, super heroine daughter that I am, let them borrow my car, my baby, my darling Nikki (yes, my car is named after a Prince song), on a Saturday night, nonetheless. Leaving myself stranded and solo for the entire evening.
Alright, fine. I can sacrifice a Saturday night of young adult debauchery for the greater good. Not a problem.

But now when they return my sister decides to tell me a “funny” story.

Apparently, Dad was so insulted by my unoffending little rainbow chain that hands from the rearview mirror that he grabbed it in a fit of “What the fuck is this?” and threw it to the floor on the passenger side. Mom saved it from insult and placed it gingerly in the glove compartment. Then he complained about my I <3 Boobies lanyard that holds my car keys. And took that off too, tossing it somewhere.

I mean, I get it. I’m gay, you’re not. And you don’t approve of it. But, damn. This is my property that you are so adamantly degrading. My property, that I LENT you out of the KINDNESS of my heart. Does anyone else see the problem with this? I’m not asking you to tie a rainbow bandana around your head or paint your own car with pink triangles. But to disrespect my property?

See if I ever do you a favor again.

I probably will.

I’m an idiot like that.

I didn’t approach him about it. I let it go. For better or worse, I don’t know. But Mom put everything back the way it started before turning the car back over to me, its rightful and loving owner.

Poor Nikki.