His Awesomeness, being the suave and debonair man-about-town that he is, has set his sights on The Girl. The iPod, that POS gizmo to which he is forever and always umbilically hooked, has made it easy for him to reconnect with a former classmate from his childhood (sarcasm) and find The Girl of His Dreams.
I’ll grant you, she’s cute. Add to that the fact that she’s a texting phenom and plays the saxophone and, well, you’ve got a recipe for Hottie McHottie, if I do say so myself. I’ve been trolling his iPod for their text exchanges looking for innocuous requests like ‘show me yours and I’ll show you mine’ and photographic faux-pas that could be potentially damaging to future work endeavors. Yes, I’m alluding to pictures of private parts. And before you get all gaspy and worked up and accuse me of violating his privacy, let me say there is no expectation of privacy when you share your innermost thoughts with ‘the cloud’. My trolling turned up nothing but an abundance of waxing poetic about how pretty she is and assorted ill-timed ‘I love yous’ and kissy-kissy, gag-inducing vomitus.
Himself did his duty last Friday and took the boy to a football game forty miles away to actually MEET THE GIRL. Did I mention His Awesomeness hadn’t actually physically seen her since fourth grade? Anyway, that’s a roughly eighty mile round-trip to see her for a grand total of….TWELVE MINUTES. Who says I can’t do math? That’s amore!
Several days later, His Awesomeness asked if I’d be willing to transport him and his lady love to our local zoo for a ‘dip your toes in the dating pool’ date. No problem, I thought. A broad-daylight date where I get to meet the girl and rate her on my Hootchie Mama Scale and make the boy happy. Everyone’s a winner.
Not so fast, kemosabe.
The word came down that His Awesomeness would have to meet The Parents before any such date. No problem. Let’s meet halfway, have an ice cream, chit-chat and in engage in some minor grilling of our respective offspring and their progenitors. Nuh-uh. It turned out these people wanted a sitdown, meet and greet, get your ass grilled inquisition worthy of a weinie roast on the 4th of July, ALONE, with His Awesomeness. People, they have a LIST of thirty questions! Is he going to be approved for a home loan if he passes?
WTH?! It’s the ZOO, not a courtship! I’d be walking behind them with The Diva. Sure, they’re both fifteen, but how amorous can you get in front of the Komodo dragon exhibit?
The Mother started rattling off topics of concern: mutual respect (amen!), honesty (amen, too!), home before curfew (considering I’d be the one driving, amen!), and the clincher, a copy of MY CHILD’S report card. Oh, hell to the no and no, I’m not joking! She threw in the phrase ‘taking the relationship to the next level’ which gave me the creeps. Who the hell does that for a zoo date? She went on and on about her older daughter’s boyfriend (past and present) becoming part of the family and them doing all of their date-related stuff together with the family. Sounds suspiciously like an afternoon with the in-laws. No thanks and let’s move on. What teenager wants to spend time with a love interest’s parents? Unless the mom’s a MILF or the dad has a really cool car.
What’s next…eye of newt, blood of a pygmy-Amazonian virgin, extract of donkey testicles?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for standards of behavior. Call them principles, morals, rules for not getting your ass shot by a pissed off father. However, there are limits and mine and Himself’s have been breached. You gonna swab him for DNA? How about a sample of pubic hair? Good grief!
There was no meeting halfway here…logistically or philosophically. I don’t want to drive out to BFE; The Mother doesn’t want to drive into town as she prefers home best. So do I. It’s the only place I can go braless and still feel like a class act.
By the end of the interminable twenty minute phone call, where I felt like my parenting had been called into question, my son’s intelligence was being scrutinized and I was biting my tongue so hard it’s a wonder there’s any left, I felt like Alice gone down the rabbit hole and was trying (unsuccessfully) to get the chick off the phone. We’d covered logistics, mutual respect, higher education, honesty and God. I know I was praying like crazy for Him to pry her damn hands off her phone.
There was a war going on within me. On one hand, I was speechless, whether from the chutzpah of this woman or from the pain of biting the hell out of my tongue, I’ll never know. On the other, my true nature was shouting ‘WTF is wrong with you…say something you blockhead!’ Oh, the things that wanted to roll off my tongue. Oh, the pain of holding it all in. We are currently waiting for this nut-job to call us back (her promise…or maybe threat) to let us know what’ll work for them…they’re pushing for Sunday afternoon/evening. “That’s a Saturday thing” The Diva intoned. No shit.
I’ve since regained my tongue, my attitude and unearthed my brass balls from the depths of my purse. I’m ready. As it is, Himself has already informed His Awesomeness that there will be no date as The Parents are asshats and no chick in the known universe is worth this kind of trouble.
Is this dating these days?!
Himself, ever helpful, suggested having them over to our house where we’d pass out condoms on their way in and then offer free chlamydia testing on their way out. He also suggested asking for a copy of the girl’s STD history and potential Gardisil vaccine history. Lovely man.
“You should’ve asked her why she’s such a whack job!” he exclaimed.
Sorry, but I was too busy trying for tact. I’ll know better next time.
“Hi, I’m His Awesomeness’s mother. Are you by chance a whackadoodle?”