Car talk: free-for-all for any generation
I spoke only of mother-daughter forced intimacy; what I didn't mention that while my father never asked the questions, he had already intuited the answers.
Then there was the famous father-son car talk, 250+ miles to Lake Placid, with a parent who did not like rest stops. Although my father didn't see fit to preserve the confidentiality of the child-nailed-to-the-seat car talk, he did think age 13 was the perfect time to have the sex talk to end all sex talks -- five hours on the road -- with my brother.
I don't know the exact wording, but I assume wet dreams, hookers, and precisely drawn definitions of fidelity were among the topics. (My father wasn't the only intuitive member of the family.)
That car talk culminated in one of my brother's 16th-birthday presents from my dad: the proverbial box of condoms. The moral: don't kiss and tell. Or rather, if you fuck, don't tell.
For both my brother and me, we separately had our parents-to-the-seat-belt at later points in time: at 20, my brother wrested the car keys from my father's hands, since my dad was too coked up to drive; at 31, I wrested the keys from my mom, since she was too drunk.
Cozy little family stories, aren't they?
I received several comments on "Revelations at 60+ m.p.h." (There are no hyperlinks in this blog due to my inability to retain HTML for more than 10 seconds.)
sporksforall said...
"I can't tell you how glad I am this technique has never occurred to my mother. Not that she's any worse at cornering me. Given her suspect driving skills, there are many people in the southeast who should also be grateful. As to your mother, is it possible that as they get older the filter wears away?"
I must admit, it's not only her filter, but mine that we have worn plumb out.
scout said...
"Hmm, my mother prefers the not knowing in just about every case (except where my health is concerned; she has M&M reports to prepare), so when I came out it hit her like an iron skillet upside the face. Good times."
My mother is terrified of the M&M report possibility, so she is perhaps not my wisest choice as health care proxy. What really did her in was the time the NYPD left a message on her machine: I was fine, but in the E.R., having fallen down some subway stairs.
What comforted her was finding out when the EMTs took me (walked me across the street) to the E.R., the E.R. doc asked, "did you lose consciousness?" My reply? "How would I know?"
and
The Misanthrope said...
"I am glad that we don't usually have those kinds of conversations. I would lie anyway. I also don't tell daughter anything, not that she wants to know."
Lying is an option, but my guess is, your daughter knows more than you wish she did.
Then there was the famous father-son car talk, 250+ miles to Lake Placid, with a parent who did not like rest stops. Although my father didn't see fit to preserve the confidentiality of the child-nailed-to-the-seat car talk, he did think age 13 was the perfect time to have the sex talk to end all sex talks -- five hours on the road -- with my brother.
I don't know the exact wording, but I assume wet dreams, hookers, and precisely drawn definitions of fidelity were among the topics. (My father wasn't the only intuitive member of the family.)
That car talk culminated in one of my brother's 16th-birthday presents from my dad: the proverbial box of condoms. The moral: don't kiss and tell. Or rather, if you fuck, don't tell.
For both my brother and me, we separately had our parents-to-the-seat-belt at later points in time: at 20, my brother wrested the car keys from my father's hands, since my dad was too coked up to drive; at 31, I wrested the keys from my mom, since she was too drunk.
Cozy little family stories, aren't they?
I received several comments on "Revelations at 60+ m.p.h." (There are no hyperlinks in this blog due to my inability to retain HTML for more than 10 seconds.)
sporksforall said...
"I can't tell you how glad I am this technique has never occurred to my mother. Not that she's any worse at cornering me. Given her suspect driving skills, there are many people in the southeast who should also be grateful. As to your mother, is it possible that as they get older the filter wears away?"
I must admit, it's not only her filter, but mine that we have worn plumb out.
scout said...
"Hmm, my mother prefers the not knowing in just about every case (except where my health is concerned; she has M&M reports to prepare), so when I came out it hit her like an iron skillet upside the face. Good times."
My mother is terrified of the M&M report possibility, so she is perhaps not my wisest choice as health care proxy. What really did her in was the time the NYPD left a message on her machine: I was fine, but in the E.R., having fallen down some subway stairs.
What comforted her was finding out when the EMTs took me (walked me across the street) to the E.R., the E.R. doc asked, "did you lose consciousness?" My reply? "How would I know?"
and
The Misanthrope said...
"I am glad that we don't usually have those kinds of conversations. I would lie anyway. I also don't tell daughter anything, not that she wants to know."
Lying is an option, but my guess is, your daughter knows more than you wish she did.
Labels: Daddy, Driving, Mom, the brother, Under the influence
posted by alice, uptown at 3:16 PM
1 Comments:
Dads know and tell; asking questions reveals their not knowing, which makes their telling suspect.
My mom's second reaction to my coming out to her—after fretting that I was thus destined to die alone and miserable—was that we mustn't tell my father. When she broke down and told him two weeks later that his daughter was a lesbian, he said knowingly, "Yeah, I kind of figured."
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