I heard a lot of things from my mother when I was growing up. Most notably, was the phrase, “You’re weird, child.” It used to leave me grinning, although, a bit perplexed. How was I weird? I wasn’t trying to be! Of course, I didn’t have to try. Eventually, I realized that and I learned to embrace it.
I still get that look from her. I don’t always get the, “You’re weird, child,” response, but I do get the look -- the look that tells me she’s standing there wondering how she ever gave birth to such a strange woman.
I’ve come to learn, it’s a Pennington trait (I figure it has something to do with our British ancestry. Let’s face it, Brits are weird, even the most unsuspecting Brits have a weird sense of humor somewhere in them... That’s why I love ‘em). As I’ve come to know distant relatives better, I’ve seen a similar weirdness in them and learned that it is, in fact, genetic weirdness. My mother agrees. “You come by it quite naturally,” she’s said. “Any other family would disown you.” You may wonder then, about my siblings. Yes, they’re weird too. But that’s not what this post is really about.
Earlier this evening, I approached my mother about a post I’d made on Facebook several days ago. Mind you, it was a post of a cat picture I’d drawn using Paint on my computer while I was sick and doped up on cold meds. Somehow, one of the markings on the cat came out looking very odd to me. I realized after a moment of gazing at the artwork I had so proudly drawn in my foggy-headed and sick-addled state, that the marking looked either like a lava lamp or a butt-plug.
Here's the post:
“This is what I’ve been reduced to: I’m not sure if that’s a lava lamp or a butt-plug on its back…”
(The entertainment value of drawing pictures of strange cats while doped on cold meds is high, sorry).
Of course, because she’s on my friend’s list (I just didn’t have it in me not to friend my own mother) she saw my drawing and commented:
“Who slammed the door on its poor tail? LOL”
I was momentarily taken aback, and so I replied, “You’re not concerned with the butt-plug looking mark, mother? Just the tail?”
A minute later, after no response, a thought occurred to me and I added, “Wait, do you even know what a butt-plug looks like?”
Still there was no response from her end.
A couple of days passed and she still hadn’t bothered answering my question or responding to my comments. Naturally, when I saw her this evening, I brought it up.
“I noticed you never responded to my comments on Facebook,” I said.
“The comments on the cat picture, of course. I asked you if you know what a butt-plug looks like.” I was betting she didn’t and that’s why she hadn’t responded. Oh yes, my spidey senses were tingling!
She was silent for several moments.
“So, do you know what a butt-plug looks like?” I asked, starting to grin.
“No, I don’t know what a butt-plug looks like,” she said.
At last! Victory!
And then, “And I don’t need to know what one looks,” she rambled off. “Why would I? It’s useless knowledge I don’t need to keep and carry around! Not all knowledge is worth having!”
I grabbed a pencil and notepad that were nearby and began to sketch to the best of my abilities.
“Sure you do,” I said, tearing off the leaflet of paper from the notepad. “This is what a butt-plug looks like.” I held it up in the air between us, showing her my drawing over the breakfast bar. She gazed at it, looking somewhat confused.
I used the pencil as a pointer. “This part goes into the anus.” I circled the tapered shaft of the plug I had drawn. “And this,” I circled the flat base, “keeps a person’s arse from gobbling it up.” (And yes, I really do say 'arse,' it's not just something I type to sound less offensive).
She continued to gaze at it, and so I turned it sideways, made a semi-thrusting motion in the air with it, and further explained that, “It’s essentially like a tac for your ass...you just push it in and voila!”
“Why would I need to know this!?” she asked, appearing somewhat horrified and bewildered.
I turned the drawing upside down and said with a slight smile, “Because if you look at it this way, it looks a bit like a carrot.”
And that’s why I’m weird. I feel this strange urge to traumatize my poor mother with little facts and tidbits about things she feels safer off not knowing about. And I gain a certain sense of satisfaction from it, from wondering if she’s going to be able to look at a carrot in the grocery store the same way again, or better yet, when Bugs Bunny pops onto the television set and says, “Eh, what’s up doc?” will she be able to keep herself from remembering?
At least now she’ll know…
That’s what’s up.