So, my dad called me up last night to ask me about the men I met at the park.
“What?” I asked.
“Your mother said you met some men at the park and that they took you to dinner last week.”
Now, here’s the thing about my mom. She just makes shit up. I mean, she uses real facts–like I know some guys, I go to the park, and I go out to dinner when I can swing it–but she puts them together in ways so interesting that you’d think anyone she was talking about would barely have time to sleep or work*.
“Mom told you I was dating two guys? Is this still about Thanksgiving?”
“Those drunk gay guys that called you? No, not them.”
“Your mother said they were partners.”
I hear my mom in the background yelling, “They were drunk? I thought they had Parkinson’s.”
“What?” I ask again.
“Oh, Parkinson’s,” my dad says. “Not partners.”
“You always accuse me of making up stories and how can you know if I’m making things up when you never listen to what I’m saying?”
“Why should I listen to what you’re saying when you’re always making things up?”
“Anyway,” I interject.
“Okay, listen, you need to be a cheap date. When I met your mom, we went on three dates. I took her to the movies. And I took her out to eat a couple of times and then she said we should get married. And I figured, she had bad eye-sight and a teaching contract, I could do worse. So, we got married.”
“I thought you got married so quickly** because you didn’t believe in premarital sex and Mom had needs.”
“Who told you that?”
“Well, there you go. Your mother’s always making things up.”
* I just realized that my mom would make an awesome blogger.
**They met in September of 1968 and were married in June of 1969.