Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, CJ McBridezilla found himself celebrating his holidays with his old family members and soon-to-be new family members, unbeknownst to even them. And while our bride has met the masses, Trevor has yet to look his future in the face...
The next time that parental introductions would occur would be one month later as the holiday season came to a close, culminating into that one day for which all mini-malls, super-centers, and village bars celebrate: Christmas. Oh, Christmas, the sound of Capitalism Carols in the air. Anyway, as my family is what one would consider "broken," Trevor was to find himself smack dab in all things CJ, not once, but twice. First up, would be the very large and loud gathering at my Aunt and Uncle's home.
Let me start at the end of the story by telling you first, that Trevor survived. The holiday merriment that he experienced was very different from what I was accustomed to. Christmas, for me growing up, had always consisted of going to my Grandma and Grandpa's ranch-style abode. There would be a small gathering with presents, Bing Crosby's "White Christmas," and White Zinfadel by the box. It was small, but it was, in a word, merry. For twenty years, the holiday spirit had meaning for me. For twenty years, I enjoyed the ritual of Christmas. But, in December of 2001, our holiday goings-on changed. Truthfully, Christmas died. I do not intend this as a provacative statement against religion, but as a small truth that has defined me for the better part of this decade. You see, Jim McBride, my grandfather, always made the holidays, not only bearable, but damned-right enjoyable. He loved to be surrounded by his family. And he loved to give gifts; great gifts that were always perfect for the recipient. In October 2001, Jim McBride's health had started to decline. In November, we canceled Thanksgiving due to his hospitalization and by the beginning of December, he was dead.
So flash forward to 2008, where Trevor was going to be initiated into the new McBride tradition. The new tradition brought about new festivities and among these new traditions was the beautiful blending of families. Big families. Big, loud families. Big, loud families with lots of loud children. Lots of raucous-ass children. My Uncle and my Aunt were the new hosts of Christmas, bringing her family (brothers, sisters, parents, nieces and nephews) to our family. My aunt had spent loads of time making the food and planning the festivities with all the traditional fixings: tree, stockings, and presents, presents, presents!
Trevor and I promptly arrived at 1:00 behind my Grandma, my Father, and Donna, my Dad's long-time girlfriend. The introduction occurred in the driveway. As I had already been called a vapid-whore over cranberry sauce, I was sure that this meeting was to be especially memorable. As it turned out, everyone was completely cordial and pleasant. We walked into the house and were greeted with wonderful smelling food and loads upon loads of noise. Chit-chat, banter, screaming, and crying. A very merry XMAS to all.
If there is one thing to be counted on with my family, it is that there will always be a bountiful amount of liquor at any family gathering. Today, would be no different. As we entered the house, I made an immediate left hand turn into the kitchen to scope out the large pot of brewing coffee and the Bailey's Caramel Liquor that I had brought with me, stashed in my stylish, yet affordable purse from White House, Black Market.
As I made my way to the coffee pot, I became aware of two horrifying facts. One: there was no coffee brewing and the coffee maker that they owned look like something out of Star Trek; all futuristic and terrifying. And two: it dawned on me that my Uncle Rob's house had recently made the cover of the Peoria Journal Star for having a very large Black Widow Spider infestation on his lot. So here's me, sober without an immediate cure, in a home that, although treated, was home to my worst nightmare...ever. Because I can't just freak out in my head all alone like a normal or even sane person, I let Trevor in on my discovery. Being the problem solver that he is, he figured out the coffee maker and let me quietly sit in the corner doing shots of Bailey's Caramel Liquor straight out of the bottle.
Newly armed with my good friend Bailey, I began to simmer down into a coma-like lull. There were polite conversations abound with the usual questions surrounding new partnerships.
"Where are you from?", "What do you do?", and so on and so forth. He was pleasant and assured. He passed every test with remarkable ease and comfort. If he was nervous, they never knew it. And here's the best part: the only negative feedback I received on him was that he was a little quiet. FABULOUS! They had nothing to nitpick, or rip apart. He passed all of the family nonsense with flying colors.
Just as the present-opening extravaganza began to wind down, we said our goodbyes and happy holidays and fled the scene like a couple of bandits in the night headed straight for I74 East. We hopped across the river and went on over to his parents house for their evening of present-giving. I sat quietly and watched the Thompson family laugh and joke over presents and old times like a scene from "The Homecoming: A Walton's Family Christmas". Mom and Dad ushering out gifts and the granddaughter, Madison grabbing individual stockings from the mantle. As an outsider I can honestly say, Christmas was brought back to me, a small bit.
Trevor's next family fiasco involved the ever-lovable, mostly zany Patten family, my Mom's brew. Something to note about the Patten family: we are caricatures of real people a lot of the time. You know, like the normal picture of you with some feature greatly exaggerated to bring out the funniest part of you. Only, as beautiful people, the exaggeration is found in the personality, rather than the physical. For instance, Aunt Jamie: loud and raucous. Aunt Karen: aloof and nonchalant. Nana: talkative, for days...
My Mom, unable to come down for the actual holiday, had decided that she would pop down for a visit following Christmas. Trevor's eldest brother Josh was also in town visiting from Phoenix, AZ and was hanging out with his little brother for the day. Fate would have the cold winds from the Northern Chicago air collide with the balmy currents of Phoenix right over 803 W. Corrington Ave for a meeting that I wouldn't soon be forgetting.
The meeting was casual. My Mom, Aunt Karen, Nana and a couple of my cousins sitting around my Christmas Tree with Trevor and Josh. All was going well with the telling of stories and a mimosa and then it happened. My ever-aloof, ever-nonchalant Aunt Karen brings up my Mom's 3rd husband. What happened next was merely proof that the good Lord has a sense of humor. The glorious tale of her flight from his grasp commenced.
The year was 2000. My Mom had recently been married to man she was dating for a good eight years. They had decided that they were going to move to Gold Canyon, AZ for his retirement and her life. They sold their home in Chicago, loaded up a 30-foot UHaul and began the 2000 mile journey across the US of A. The back story, which Trevor and Josh were unaware of, goes that he wasn't a very nice man. He was controlling, domineering, and outright mean. Mom had been having misgivings about making the trek and beginning anew for a while but kept putting off the talk that should have preceded the move. So, all loaded up and on their way to Arizona, my non-confrontational mom in all her eloquence pulled into a gas station, dialed his cell phone number and told him that it was over. That's right. My Mom eighty-sixed her beau at the local Gas-n-Gulp, leaving herself homeless and unemployed. As all children do, she retreated to Bartonville to stay with her mom and began to rebuild her life, which did not nor nor would it ever, include a newly built home in the middle of Arizona.
Don't get me wrong. The story itself isn't much more than hopefully hilarious. But the telling of that tale in front of my now brother-in-law-to-be was mortifying. The one terrible thought began to creep into my head: does he think I'm going to do the same thing? to his baby brother? Not at all, the kind of thing you want floating in the mind of the big brother.
The rest of the eveing happened very quickly as it was a short visit. Presents, chit-chat, and more mimosas and fianlly, a departure from both parties. As my family left my house, I ran to the bathroom, applied my bronzer, and high-tailed it to the nearest bar I could find. A few drinks later the holidays were over and the thought that I had survived rang gloriously through my head.
On a side note, while my embarrassment from that evening remains a good chuckle in my head, let it be known, that I am proud of the choice my mother made to start her life over, without him in charge. I will applaud this bravery forever, even if it does involve a Gas-n-Gulp.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a "Thank God! It's over."
Monday, September 21, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Intro to Parents 101...
Previously on Confessions of a Male Bridezilla, the soon-to-be male bride and groom had an interesting first meeting, followed by a series of other interesting firsts: kiss in the truck, date at Diesel, and a romp in the sheets. But another series of firsts were on their way: introduction to the families.
Before we journey into the tale of parental introductions, let it be known that the time line places us near the most dreaded of times of the year: the damned holidays. For this reason, we must set a mood; CJ's mood for the last 27 years of holidays. I hate them. Even as a child, I was never eager to stand in long lines to sit on Santa's lap. No one was passing off a hillbilly drunk, reeking of stale cigarette smoke and Milwaukee's Best as good ol' Kris Kringle for me. The holidays, for me, had meant lots of relatives that you don't know or don't like, terrible Christmas movies usually involving a bebe gun or Chevy Chase, and food. Lots and lots of food, followed by the unavoidable belly-aching about the extra 15 pounds gained around the holidays til mid-March.
So, as you can imagine, my ritual of hunkering down and praying for daylight had commenced. This year, however, something new had happened. I had fallen in-love with a gentlemen who was really family oriented. REALLY REALLY family oriented. It wasn't just being a twin, though I'm sure that had a little something to do with it, but his whole family was close. My family, while not distant from one another, certainly had maintained a respectable amount of space from the next of kins. We'd see each other four, maybe five, times a year, throw back a few bottles of whatever, regale each other with exaggerated tales of hilarity, and drive away having survived yet another holiday season. This was commonplace for me; it was easy. Trevor's family, though, would not be like anything I'd known.
It starts with A Very McBride Thanksgiving. Up unto this point, my family had been very involved in my relationship with Bob and very uninvolved in its' aftermath. This is not to say that they did not support my decision, but at the distance that I had kept them at during the break-up, I knew that they would be shocked to find that I had begun seeing another man. Trevor had his own family plans that day and so, we had separated to our respective dinners to endure the holiday merriment. In true-to-form fashion, as soon as I arrived, the questions surrounding my whole ordeal began to arise. To make matters worse, as part of my new-lease-on-life, I had given up alcohol intake. So, not only do I now find myself in the middle of a sinkhole hell of holiday cheer, but I have to do it all sober.
For a refresher course in CJology, sobriety hadn't been my strongest attribute in, well, ever. But sobriety during a break-up, a new relationship, and a holiday stream was going to be the ultimate test, a battle-royale if you will. Surprisingly, I was able to dodge daunting questions like "how are you doing" with a side-shoulder hug, and "will you be alright"with doe-eyed sympathetic stares looking for answers within my oh-so-telling eyes. What a bunch of shit! I was over it. I was fine. That's what people like me do: we become fine. And by fine, we mean unfeeling, cold, and blunt, but nonetheless...fine.
As we had just been seated around the table in grand-ole Thanksgiving style, the passing of every dish holding feast commenced. Spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and helpings of turkey were going to be accompanied by the annoyances of small-talk surrounding my life. So I let it out.
"I'm fine. In fact, I'm so fine that I've started dating again. I am dating. I am dating a someone. I have a someone."
That did it. My task had been accomplished. Utter, uncomfortable silence. And not just normal silence, but a judgmental, screaming silence with an icy tone was filling my head. Yes ladies and gents, a cool, damn-near frigid front had rushed into Bartonville and settled directly over our dinner table. Dad was silent. His long-time girlfriend, Donna, snorted into her wine glass. My uncle just looked at me. It was my non-blood relative aunt who broke the chilly quiet.
"So, what's his name? How'd you meet him?"
"Trevor. I met him at a downtown bar. He's a Senior at Bradley."
What came next was as unexpected as any event I've lived through to date. You see, my grandmother had been listening to the banter between my aunt and I steadily, calculatingly, and as mentioned before, judgmentally.
"So from one man to the next. What are you? Some kind of vapid whore?"
Silence.
Ok, to make the story really, really good you have to have a clear picture of my grandmother. She is 70 years old, 5'4" tall, and British. British in every sense of the word. So, can I tell you that when Mary-Frickin'-Poppins asks you if you're not just a whore, but a vapid one, it tends to create stirred emotions in the room. Donna snorted, yet again, into her Boxed-wine White Zinfadel-containing glass. Dad cracked a smile and looked down, his shoulders twitching to avoid outburst of laughter. My uncle and aunt quickly shoved mouthfuls of turkey down their gullets. The rest of dinner was hurried and encumbered by more thoughtful silence. After a rush of goodbyes, I flew out the door and chain-smoked the whole way home.
So endeth the life lesson: Never tell British grandmommies about new boyfriends over Thanksgiving. Check.
After this, I figured that no matter what occurred at the Thompson feast, it could never be as shocking nor as uncomfortable as this day had been. Boy was I wrong. Earlier in the week, I had purchased a floral arrangement for the Thompson family. They were Calla Lilies, with greenery and a pretty, clear vase. I thought it was best to go with simple elegance. I mean roses seem pushy, mums are ugly, and carnations? Ewe.
Trevor arrived promptly to pick me up at my house so that I wouldn't have to join his festivities alone. I was prepared to meet the family, but I wasn't prepared to meet his FAMILY. His whole family. We are talking parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, aunts, uncles, cousins and so on and so on. We pulled up to his lovely cul-de-sac and I took my first of many deep inhalations of the evening. Armed with my lilies, I hand-in-hand strolled with Trevor into his parent's home where, upon entry, we were greeted by the noise created by Whiskey Sour and Jack Daniels, the yorkies belonging to the Thompson's. Following the raucous noise of barks created by the pups, I hear an even bigger bellow.
"SHUT UP! DAMN DOGS!" Enter Mr. Thompson. Or at least Mr. Thompson's voice. The first person I actually met was one of his older brothers, Chad.
"Chad, this is CJ, he's my...friend."
Thanks, Trev! Way to clear that up for me. I was mortified. You see, it began to dawn on me, in this moment, that Trevor had not actually lept from his closet singing "Over the Rainbow" all dressed up in Mother's heels. To the members of his family that weren't a twin, gay-friendly, or his mom, Trevor was still a girl-lovin' man. Ok, let's not overexaggerate, but he wasn't out. And, for that matter, he had only 'come out" to his mom just a few days earlier. Luckily enough he had mentioned me during his chat so she was aware of my existence. Dad, Chad, and the rest were neglected from this new-found information. In a word, awkward.
So as I made my way into the kitchen, the introductions began. There were a couple of family friends who were on their way out as we were on our way in. They were Jacy and Jason, an "adopted" sister and her fiance' along with Trevor's mom, Robin (though she would be Mrs. Thompson for months to come.) Most of his family were curious to meet me. You may remember Taylor, the twin from earlier tales, Becci and Michelle, adorable and accepting cousins, and then there was also Nicoli and Emily, both fabulous people with adorable children, which coming from me is alot considering I think most children are snotty little toe-rags full of germs and vomit. These kids, however, were cute. And smart. And best of all, they were tolerable, well-behaved children.
After I'd met everyone else, it happened...
"Dad--this is CJ, my boyfriend."
Silence.
That was two show-stopping silences in two days. I was definitely on a roll.
"Hi, Mr. Thompson. Nice to meet you."
His response? "Ya. Uh-huh. Nic, toss the salad."
The irony of his statement was not lost on me then or now. But, dinner was soon served, and then we were on our way home. I survived. I lived past the awkward introductions of all members Thompson. Mom liked the flowers, the food was excellent, and the family members were as nice as I could have hoped. Obviously, with two sons, already out in the family, Trevor's coming-out wasn't the most shocking of occurences to Rusty's (Dad's) existence. But, a word of advice to all closeted queers: DO NOT, under any circumstance, COME OUT ON THE HOLIDAYS! A second word of advice: DO NO BRING THE BOYFRIEND HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS BEFORE YOU DO COME OUT!
All in all, it was awkward and awful and humiliating and I wouldn't change a single ounce of the way that it happened. It only makes our story that much more perfect.
Before we journey into the tale of parental introductions, let it be known that the time line places us near the most dreaded of times of the year: the damned holidays. For this reason, we must set a mood; CJ's mood for the last 27 years of holidays. I hate them. Even as a child, I was never eager to stand in long lines to sit on Santa's lap. No one was passing off a hillbilly drunk, reeking of stale cigarette smoke and Milwaukee's Best as good ol' Kris Kringle for me. The holidays, for me, had meant lots of relatives that you don't know or don't like, terrible Christmas movies usually involving a bebe gun or Chevy Chase, and food. Lots and lots of food, followed by the unavoidable belly-aching about the extra 15 pounds gained around the holidays til mid-March.
So, as you can imagine, my ritual of hunkering down and praying for daylight had commenced. This year, however, something new had happened. I had fallen in-love with a gentlemen who was really family oriented. REALLY REALLY family oriented. It wasn't just being a twin, though I'm sure that had a little something to do with it, but his whole family was close. My family, while not distant from one another, certainly had maintained a respectable amount of space from the next of kins. We'd see each other four, maybe five, times a year, throw back a few bottles of whatever, regale each other with exaggerated tales of hilarity, and drive away having survived yet another holiday season. This was commonplace for me; it was easy. Trevor's family, though, would not be like anything I'd known.
It starts with A Very McBride Thanksgiving. Up unto this point, my family had been very involved in my relationship with Bob and very uninvolved in its' aftermath. This is not to say that they did not support my decision, but at the distance that I had kept them at during the break-up, I knew that they would be shocked to find that I had begun seeing another man. Trevor had his own family plans that day and so, we had separated to our respective dinners to endure the holiday merriment. In true-to-form fashion, as soon as I arrived, the questions surrounding my whole ordeal began to arise. To make matters worse, as part of my new-lease-on-life, I had given up alcohol intake. So, not only do I now find myself in the middle of a sinkhole hell of holiday cheer, but I have to do it all sober.
For a refresher course in CJology, sobriety hadn't been my strongest attribute in, well, ever. But sobriety during a break-up, a new relationship, and a holiday stream was going to be the ultimate test, a battle-royale if you will. Surprisingly, I was able to dodge daunting questions like "how are you doing" with a side-shoulder hug, and "will you be alright"with doe-eyed sympathetic stares looking for answers within my oh-so-telling eyes. What a bunch of shit! I was over it. I was fine. That's what people like me do: we become fine. And by fine, we mean unfeeling, cold, and blunt, but nonetheless...fine.
As we had just been seated around the table in grand-ole Thanksgiving style, the passing of every dish holding feast commenced. Spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and helpings of turkey were going to be accompanied by the annoyances of small-talk surrounding my life. So I let it out.
"I'm fine. In fact, I'm so fine that I've started dating again. I am dating. I am dating a someone. I have a someone."
That did it. My task had been accomplished. Utter, uncomfortable silence. And not just normal silence, but a judgmental, screaming silence with an icy tone was filling my head. Yes ladies and gents, a cool, damn-near frigid front had rushed into Bartonville and settled directly over our dinner table. Dad was silent. His long-time girlfriend, Donna, snorted into her wine glass. My uncle just looked at me. It was my non-blood relative aunt who broke the chilly quiet.
"So, what's his name? How'd you meet him?"
"Trevor. I met him at a downtown bar. He's a Senior at Bradley."
What came next was as unexpected as any event I've lived through to date. You see, my grandmother had been listening to the banter between my aunt and I steadily, calculatingly, and as mentioned before, judgmentally.
"So from one man to the next. What are you? Some kind of vapid whore?"
Silence.
Ok, to make the story really, really good you have to have a clear picture of my grandmother. She is 70 years old, 5'4" tall, and British. British in every sense of the word. So, can I tell you that when Mary-Frickin'-Poppins asks you if you're not just a whore, but a vapid one, it tends to create stirred emotions in the room. Donna snorted, yet again, into her Boxed-wine White Zinfadel-containing glass. Dad cracked a smile and looked down, his shoulders twitching to avoid outburst of laughter. My uncle and aunt quickly shoved mouthfuls of turkey down their gullets. The rest of dinner was hurried and encumbered by more thoughtful silence. After a rush of goodbyes, I flew out the door and chain-smoked the whole way home.
So endeth the life lesson: Never tell British grandmommies about new boyfriends over Thanksgiving. Check.
After this, I figured that no matter what occurred at the Thompson feast, it could never be as shocking nor as uncomfortable as this day had been. Boy was I wrong. Earlier in the week, I had purchased a floral arrangement for the Thompson family. They were Calla Lilies, with greenery and a pretty, clear vase. I thought it was best to go with simple elegance. I mean roses seem pushy, mums are ugly, and carnations? Ewe.
Trevor arrived promptly to pick me up at my house so that I wouldn't have to join his festivities alone. I was prepared to meet the family, but I wasn't prepared to meet his FAMILY. His whole family. We are talking parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, aunts, uncles, cousins and so on and so on. We pulled up to his lovely cul-de-sac and I took my first of many deep inhalations of the evening. Armed with my lilies, I hand-in-hand strolled with Trevor into his parent's home where, upon entry, we were greeted by the noise created by Whiskey Sour and Jack Daniels, the yorkies belonging to the Thompson's. Following the raucous noise of barks created by the pups, I hear an even bigger bellow.
"SHUT UP! DAMN DOGS!" Enter Mr. Thompson. Or at least Mr. Thompson's voice. The first person I actually met was one of his older brothers, Chad.
"Chad, this is CJ, he's my...friend."
Thanks, Trev! Way to clear that up for me. I was mortified. You see, it began to dawn on me, in this moment, that Trevor had not actually lept from his closet singing "Over the Rainbow" all dressed up in Mother's heels. To the members of his family that weren't a twin, gay-friendly, or his mom, Trevor was still a girl-lovin' man. Ok, let's not overexaggerate, but he wasn't out. And, for that matter, he had only 'come out" to his mom just a few days earlier. Luckily enough he had mentioned me during his chat so she was aware of my existence. Dad, Chad, and the rest were neglected from this new-found information. In a word, awkward.
So as I made my way into the kitchen, the introductions began. There were a couple of family friends who were on their way out as we were on our way in. They were Jacy and Jason, an "adopted" sister and her fiance' along with Trevor's mom, Robin (though she would be Mrs. Thompson for months to come.) Most of his family were curious to meet me. You may remember Taylor, the twin from earlier tales, Becci and Michelle, adorable and accepting cousins, and then there was also Nicoli and Emily, both fabulous people with adorable children, which coming from me is alot considering I think most children are snotty little toe-rags full of germs and vomit. These kids, however, were cute. And smart. And best of all, they were tolerable, well-behaved children.
After I'd met everyone else, it happened...
"Dad--this is CJ, my boyfriend."
Silence.
That was two show-stopping silences in two days. I was definitely on a roll.
"Hi, Mr. Thompson. Nice to meet you."
His response? "Ya. Uh-huh. Nic, toss the salad."
The irony of his statement was not lost on me then or now. But, dinner was soon served, and then we were on our way home. I survived. I lived past the awkward introductions of all members Thompson. Mom liked the flowers, the food was excellent, and the family members were as nice as I could have hoped. Obviously, with two sons, already out in the family, Trevor's coming-out wasn't the most shocking of occurences to Rusty's (Dad's) existence. But, a word of advice to all closeted queers: DO NOT, under any circumstance, COME OUT ON THE HOLIDAYS! A second word of advice: DO NO BRING THE BOYFRIEND HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS BEFORE YOU DO COME OUT!
All in all, it was awkward and awful and humiliating and I wouldn't change a single ounce of the way that it happened. It only makes our story that much more perfect.
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