Monday, January 23, 2006

The Peach has Father Issues

In a time where divorce is at an all-time high, there are many girls out there who are being raised without a good, solid father-figure in their lives. When they reach adolescence, chances are that these girls will begin their life-time pattern of clinging to men in the kind of emotional dependence that makes testicles shrink and therapists rich.

I do not have these kinds of issues.

My mother has had 2 divorces. I have a loving, overly-concerned Italian father (“let me cut your meat; you cut your pieces too big and you’ll choke to death…I don’t care if the waiter is laughing”), a loving, boisterous grandfather who has always lived less than 20 minutes away and who considers himself to be my “replacement” father (“oh, you’re seeing your father this weekend? You mean he’s not too busy consuming alcoholic beverages at the local drinking establishment? Maybe I better come pick you up”), an over-bearing ex-stepfather who thinks that only he can save me from my “crazy-ass mother” (“I know we haven’t talked in 10 months, and the last time we did my girlfriend got drunk and called you and TigerCat crazy hos, but we built a guest-bedroom for you in our new house, and if you decided to come live with us there’s nothing your mother could do about it”), and a…what do you call your mother’s common-law live-in boyfriend? There’s no hallmark category for that, let me tell you!

Anyway, I have too many solid father-figures in my life, and at times it’s out of control. They all fight over who gets to spend the most time with me and TigerCat, and god help us if any of them should ever be in the same room together. I believe the last time that happened, at TigerCat’s high school graduation 3 years ago, my grandfather sucker-punched my dad in the gut, the live-in common-law boyfriend hid in the car, and my ex-stepfather ran like hell shortly there-after. I don’t think these things happen to other people. If they do, then please contact me or TigerCat and you can come spoon with us when we get together and stay up all night wondering if these things happen to other people. We’ll have pie!

TigerCat and I have had some pretty serious conversations when we share beds at holidays (my mom sold the house to go live with the live-in common-law bf in a 2 bedroom apartment, we’re not THOSE kinds of sisters):

TigerCat: Peach? Are you asleep?
Peach: No, I’m too busy picturing what life will be like when I become Mom. *shudder*
TigerCat: Do you think that the muffin man is actually a man? Like, a man made of muffin?
Peach:…I think the muffin man sells muffins.
TigerCat: Really? I’m pretty sure he’s actually a muffin.
Peach: No, he definitely just sells muffins.
TigerCat: But the gingerbread man is made of gingerbread!

Of equal importance, TigerCat and I have spent many, many long nights picturing our weddings. Not the usual typical girl crap like flowers and dresses. But how in the name of gentle jesus we’ll be able to get all of our family (families?) together in one room without the world actually ending. We really do believe that Armageddon may in fact occur precisely when the families of our 4 father-figures culminate under one roof. Even God doesn’t want to live in a world where things like that are allowed to happen.

Even more distressing is deciding who will walk us down the aisle. I’m pretty sure each of the 4 father-figures thinks he has a claim on it (well, except the live-in common-law bf, but he’s so nice and I just feel bad leaving him out of it!) and is willing to fight to the death for the job. Thus, my sister and I have come up with the perfect solution. We have it all mapped out, much like a football play.

On the right: Biological Father
On the left: Ex-step-father
Holding the train: Live-in common-law bf
Walking in front, arms folded, with the glare of judgment in the eyes: Grandfather.

Picture it like a diamond-shape. Or maybe more like a bullet. A giant bullet of dysfunction, resentment, and red-flags shooting down the aisle.

God help the man who waits at the altar. But really, odds are TigerCat and I will scare off all men and still share a bed at 75, talking about what good catches we are and living with our combined 100 cats (“Boots is actually very intelligent! She comes whenever I call her! Boots! BOOTS!! YOU FUCKING CAT!! Well, she’s just getting over a cold…wait, don’t go! Come back, mail-man! TigerCat just made her famous sandwich fingers! Damnit, TigerCat, you scared away another one, you whore.").

So this entire entry is moot.

The Peach


Anonymous said...

I swear the muffin man is really a muffin. Seriously .. "do you know the muffin man? the muffin man? do you know the muffin man who lives on drury lane?" He could be a muffin. a man made out of muffin. maybe he would think I am a good catch?


Peaches' Fuzz licker said...

So if this muffin man of which you speak was real what flavour would he be? Would he have a succulent and rich cherry centre for me to steal? or would he be filled with extra large chocolate chips to melt and fill my mouth?

The one thing you wouldn't have to worry about with him I suppose would be lying to the question of whether or not he tastes good. No more having him go out and buy you donuts after sweet relations.