The Understanding of PDA: What Is This Thing Called Hugs?

*melting into goo*

Growing up, public displays of affection between my parents only happened when the father figure was drunk. Granted, there were hugs for the kids until they got a certain age. And even “I love you” … again until a certain age. It’s like once you weren’t a small child those things melted away.

I remember calling my mother on it not that long after their separation. I was battling not wanting to live with either parent, and staying with an aunt in the hood, a step down from our nice middle class fake happiness. I remember telling her “You never tell me you even love me!”

I said it again less than 10 years later when she fought custody against my best friend for my god-daughter, my birth daughter I decided to give away (http://dimensionthe5th.com/2013/03/18/the-girl-grows-and-asks-questions-the-child-i-gave-away/)

It took me until my 30’s to realize that it’s pretty hard for a woman to teach love if she’s never received it.

My mom with her siblings grew up in different welfare available projects. I know she grew up without toothpaste at times. Without any food but flour and water. Using sheets as menstruation pads because they weren’t affordable. If my grandmother had been a better person, maybe she would have shown more love to her 6 children, but the woman didn’t know love herself, probably because again her mother of 13 children probably could not adequately show it.

So it’s a cycle that my mother and I are slowly breaking, through trial and error with new relationships. In some ways I see my mother in her first relationship after 13 years and it frustrates me of her naivety. Luckily she’s not with a man who exploits it. He sees a woman who could easily be taken advantage of, and does not. He shows her instead what a relationship should be like, not full of verbal abuse and “love” only when drunk enough to show emotion.

We had a conversation while I visited for the holidays:

“Your Dude seems very affectionate. “
“Weird right? I’m not that good with PDA.”
“I know. It’s nice when someone openly shows that they care, and it’s not because they’re drunk.”

We’d slowly learned to show love to each other as mother and daughter over the years, but both hadn’t really learned until recently to let down our guard and be loved by a man. I think the shock of that just makes my emotions a mess. I hadn’t looked at it deeply. That I was learning for the first time possibly to truly put my hand in another’s just because. That I wasn’t looking at relationships around me and subconsciously wishing for something that was missing.

It’s something I never want to lose.

Oh No, I’m Blinded! Dealing With Monster Teen’s Growing Body

I share this because after telling the story to friends, I realized that maybe other mother do not talk with their sons this way. And plus, in hindsight it is hilarious. But when it was happening I was just frustrated.

So my son is a musician, and plays in the school band. The other night he had a performance, and I found out only the night before that he needed to be dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks. Of course I have to buy this ish short notice!

So after work the next day, I run to the store, estimating my monster teen’s growing size. Pretty much holding things to me and picking a size slightly bigger. It works well for the shirt. For the pants, well, the last size I’d bought him was 32-32. And as a side note, stupid men’s sizes are stupid. Yes, I know they make more sense than a woman’s because you can have a tall skinny dude that needs a tiny waist and all, but it’s too confuzzling for me. So, I just bought his dress slacks in 32-32. I forgot about the one thing my genetics have cursed him with.

My son has a badonkadonk.

This is not a representation of my son. He has a huge butt, but that does not turn him into a monkey.

It is a ridiculously big behind for a male. He’s in denial. He thinks I’m making it up just how like I had him believing for some time that he was a clone after my first of him had an “unfortunate accident.”

But his butt is huge, and when I rushed home, gave him his new clothes to iron and throw on while I changed, I came back out to a visual dilemma.

From behind, his pants looked rather tight. It was showing off just how curvy those back cheeks were.

Me: You gotta go up a size in pants next time.

Monster Teen: Why? They fit.

Me: You look like you are smuggling cantaloupes back there.

Monster Teen: My butt is NOT big Mom!

And then… He turned around and I’m blinded.

Me: Oh no! You can’t go out like that!

MT: What?!

Me: All I see is crotch!

MT: WHAT?!

Me: Your junk is sitting up like a beacon right up front. No one will be able to see anything but that!

You remember in the movie Labyrinth, how we as children were introduced to David Bowie’s package? David Bowie has websites dedicated to his package.

My childhood… if it hadn’t already been sullied, that moment would be now.

 

http://id34111.securedata.net/areaology/area.html

I don’t want my son to have websites. *Shudders*

Monster Teen: What am I…

Me: Can you move it? Push it down the leg of your pants or something. Ugh. Just, just get it out of everyone’s face!

MT: grumble grumble grumble

Me: BIGGER PANTS. And boxer briefs.

If it wasn’t for having to leave out the door at that moment, I would have NEVER let my poor teen go out the door like that. I know he already catches the eye of many a young female. Well the other night he was serving them free teen on a platter with that get-up. Much to my “ew that’s my son” disgust.

How would a man handle this same situation with his son I wonder?

Son of Donkey! Why I Stopped Cursing Years Ago

So I have a few words/sayings that I say instead of cursing. My favorites are: son of a donkey, daggone, frack, frack a doodle, shittake mushroom, be-witch, heffa, and fudge bucket in hot sauce. The only times for over almost 10 years that I actually cursed is in extreme anger, and smexy time. The funny thing is, some actually look down on me for NOT cursing. So let lead you around the long version of why I USED to swear like a Sailor, and then quit.

Once upon a time the was a little black geek girl who attended many mostly peach crayon heavy schools in the suburbs. Her ghetto extended family constantly talked about she “talked white”, like it was such a horrible thing to be educated. The little BGG didn’t really care as long as she didn’t bullied too much at school (which didn’t happen too often as other kids learned soon enough that little BGG was crazy from the day she was born, and would always be a geek that fought back). But as she grew older and those dastardly hormones kicked in, well, she wanted to fit in. Especially as the life she knew began to fall apart as her parents separated. So… She turned to those that used to make fun of her, and tried to be like them.

Hi, my name is dimensionthe5th, and long ago I was a poser.

Before splitting up my parents raised me in a pretty middle class home. My mother was soft-spoken, polite, submissive and naïve. She didn’t drink, and didn’t curse. My father was a true soldier-turned-coastie that couldn’t have a clean mouth even with a soap wash. He was the Man of the House, and everything and everyone followed his rules. The women of the house dressed the way he felt right, even to hair styles. I was raised to be an independent woman, as long as I stayed within the rules of what He considered proper.

Anyway, my parents splitting up, depression, hormones, and starting high school at an age slightly younger than average (nerd power!) made me begin to act out in the ways that went against my parents way of raising me. That meant that at 13, I started stealing my dad’s cigarettes that he left everywhere. And started smoking weed and drinking whenever I visited the bad bunch of cousins. I also began changing my mode of dress, from quirky girly (since my mom is a borderline little person I could fit her clothes by 11 and liked wearing her older pieces), and started cursing and speaking like my family members. That meant a lot of slang and cursing. And my lovely hobby of reading like a speed demon, I put it away.

I sucked at the beginning of the ghetto fabulous transformation. My cursing was off and school friends and the bad-influence-cousins made fun. But I watched, and learned, so I could fit in. Even after my son was born, I kept up with the “hood” attitude, although many could easily see right through it. Even after joining the military I wore doo-rags over my hair, baggy jeans, and always had a black n mild in hand. I drank loads of beer that first year to get used to the taste. And every sentence either had a curse word or the word “n*gga”.

The funny thing is… I never felt comfortable cursing, no many how many years I did it before I stopped. The same goes with the whole hood tough chick style. I grew up loving dresses and reading the dictionary for fun. To limit myself to a stereotype that I was not born to, well, I said before that it should always be about being true to yourself.

After evil ex boyfriends and mental health appointments, by my mid twenties I started to come back to myself. That I don’t need to dress in “Lady Thug” or “Hoochie Iz Us” brand clothing to fit in. That I could be myself and still scare the baby Jesus out of the young enlisted troops without ever uttering a curse word. That I should be proud of the way I talk, because at least I sound intelligent, and as an adult, its looked at as a good thing unlike the stupid childhood/teen years.

So when someone asks me why I do not curse, I say nicely as possible that I’d rather sound intelligent than like a common hood rat.

Also, it’s just more all around fun to make up your own curses 😉