10:24 p.m. - December 24, 2003
Christmas Eve confession?
This afternoon my mother asks if I could recommend a church for Christmas Eve services that has interpreters. My mom, in church-going mode? Told her about my church's service, said if she'd feel comfortable she would be more than welcome. My mom with her dyke-holiday-wear and lipstick lesbian partner came to my right-wing, evangelical, traditional values-espousing church, and I introduced them both to my pastor.
A momentary worry: That my mother would somehow bring up homosexuality and my pastor would find his ASL skills more advanced than I give him credit for. I felt awkward introducing them to church friends but I was proud that my mom wanted to come to church and nobody batted an eye. Go mom, go Christians.
In the car my mother remarked, That wasn't so bad. Queers are too hard on Christians and I didn't know what to say in response.
Thanked her for coming and she smiled and said thank you and I felt great.
[Editor's note: Sap danger zone. Undoubtedly, it's Christmas Eve.]
Mom hands me a desserts cookbook, says select a photo and I do; says she'll make it and she is. Three-layered torte and it smells fantastic.
Earlier, mom snooped around the storage room (the smallest bedroom) and shrieked. Everybody who can hear comes running and there's my mom, pulling out the cooking materials Dana and I bought years ago. Fancy stuff. You have cake pans?! You have a mixer?! You have Williams Sonoma gadgets and pots and pans and Longaberger bakeware and more?! Why didn't you tell me?! My sister rolled her eyes in disgust, asks my mom whether she finally understands how bad I am, and my mom just looks at me like I'm crazy.
Am I? Most of the things Dana and I bought together in preparation for grown-up life sits in the spare room. All new, in boxes, mostly unused. There are glasses and dishes in there, I think, and stuff I don't even know about. Napkin rings. Those spatula things with rubber heads (scrapers? stirrers? I don't know). Bowls, lots of bowls. Tupperware. Everything just sits there less because I lack the time or inclination to unbox and use the shit, but more because I don't see the point. While they aren't spiteful reminders of what was, they -- you know, that's obfuscation right there.
Truth is, I like kitchen shit. I love Williams Sonoma. I like shit that lacks obvious purpose. I hide all of it away because I don't want to seem too gay. Effeminate.
Yeah. The wind in the sails dissipated quickly there. Tired of being hard on myself.
