In the current economic recession, my mother and I have concluded that it's a shame that we can’t live together to save money. We're at twenty-something and fifty-something, both pathetically and legally single, but one MAJOR factor makes it just too uncomfortable enough to be around each other: our sex lives. I know she will say it's the dirty dishes I leave in the sink, the excessive hair in the bathroom or the cigarette butts strewn around the garage. But deep down we both know that the cheaply designed, 2-story house, with its close capacity and thin walls, would ultimately shine a light into each of our lives that we would rather die than get a glimpse into. I can't even imagine hearing the slightest screeching of the legs of my mother's bed scraping on the hardwood floor or hearing the tone of her 'O' voice.
I shattered my parents' image of me as a sweet, innocent child when it was brought to their attention that I might be pregnant as a freshman in high school. Luckily I dodged that bullet. However, the sheer disappointment and look on their faces prevented me from opening up to my mother for the next 10 years. [While still in high school, I was rummaging through my mother’s drawers, and I stumbled upon her shiny, red rocket. I'm sure I had the same look of shock and disgust on my face that they did.]
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My mother is my voice of reasoning; the one who [almost] always is right. She is the woman I put in my Fave-5 and speak to on an almost daily basis, much to her annoyance. We meet for lunch occasionally with our snazzy designer hand bags, our fitted dark wash denim jeans and jaded discontent for the male species. Our self-loathing gets the best of us and we just can't help ourselves. She's a woman with baggage; and I'm talking 3 suitcases which exceed the 50 lbs weight limit, a carry on bag that never seems to be able to squeeze into the overhead bin and of course, a snazzy designer handbag. We're finally starting to open up about our love lives. A recent uncomfortable moment came when I met my mother's current boyfriend for the first time and he was shirtless with a six-pack stomach (They were doing some messy home improvements in the garage but that didn't prevent the disgusting thoughts from circulating in my gutter-mind).
Our comfort level is not at full on, juicy details: we're not comparing penis sizes like my roommate and I do. But, we're slowly opening up and divulging about the men that come in and out of our lives. I nonchalantly mentioned the other day that I had to make the embarrassing trip to Planned Parenthood for Plan B because an intoxicated, yet passionate romp the night before took an irresponsible turn for the worse. She didn't bat an eyelash! We're making progress....