“Love goes up a pig’s ass.”
That was my mother’s favorite retort. She uncorked it whenever she heard someone use the word “love” in a sentence. It didn’t matter if it was being used as a noun or a verb. Her response was always the same.
“Love goes up a pig’s ass.”
Now, that’s a good starting point when trying to compose a question that will stump Dear Abby. It’s not so good, if you are a young teenage boy in search of female companionship. I was petrified of commitment for fear of ending up at the malodorous sphincter of a three-hundred pound swine. Maybe that explains why I only dated skinny girls.
Dating preferences aside, I walked around for the longest time with a nagging suspicion that there was something my mother wasn’t telling me. We’re talking about a forty-year marriage that produced seven healthy offspring. Can such a union exist without the presence of love and affection? Was it doomed from the start? Or did my dad do something along the way that proved unforgivable in my mother’s eyes…an affair, perhaps? I didn’t want to think of my father along those lines, but it would certainly account for love’s subsequent journey to the bowels of an animal possessing cloven-hooves and a runny snout.
I wrestled with this new theory for the longest time. I kept coming back to the same question
time and time again. Why would my father want to be with another woman? My inexperience
with the opposite sex left me grasping at straws. Aside from the yearning to experience warmth,
compassion, sexual combustibility, and maybe a well-cooked meal or two…I couldn’t come up
with a single, solitary thing that would lead me to believe he strayed. I decided to give my father
the benefit of the doubt and shelved the infidelity theory for the time being.
It wasn’t until my sophomore year of high school that I finally gained insight into my mother’s
bitter outlook toward love. I had begun my first serious relationship and thought it was time to share the news. Believe it or not…my mother was the first person I told.
“I’m going steady.”
“…with who?”
“Rhonda Rathman.”
My mother’s reply was as quick and predictable as a Kenyan winning the Boston Marathon.
“That girl’s been around more times than the handle on a shithouse door!”
I knew that she meant that in a derogatory fashion, but I refused to see it that way. Keep in
mind…I had just spent the last week-and-a-half fondling genitalia that didn’t belong to me. I was
enamored, to say the least. Naturally, I came to the defense of my innocent sweetheart.
“I think she’s really nice.”
“I’ll show you how nice she is,” my mother replied. She reached into her pocketbook and
pulled out a small scrap of paper. Handing it to me, she said, “I was doing the laundry and found
this note in the pocket of your brother’s jeans. I don’t know of any other Rhondas at school. Do
you?”
I recognized the handwriting right away. It read: You are so cute. When am I going to
get that car ride you promised me? Hugs and kisses, Rhonda.
“Can I keep this?” I asked.
My mother smiled and said, “It’s all yours.”
At lunch the following day, I walked up to Rhonda’s table and threw the note down in front of
her. All I said was, “Nice handwriting. We’re through…by the way.” She shrugged and took
another bite of her sandwich. I stormed out of the cafeteria. I wasn’t looking where I was going
and ran directly into my best friend…the one I had ignored for the past two weeks. His greeting
said it all.
“Well, well…if it isn’t lover-boy himself.”
“Love goes up a pig’s ass,” I snarled.
The torch had been officially passed between mother and son. My buddy was elated that I had
obviously returned to my senses. He grabbed me by the arm and squealed, “C’mon…let’s go to
the gym. Rachel Moore has P.E. and I heard they’re using the trampoline!”
We sprinted down the hall like our pants were on fire.
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