When he was still in high school, Velvet and a buddy were watching Snakes on a Plane and said that I could easily play the Samuel L. Jackson role. I'm not sure what prompted the remark, but I found it gratifying.
It may be true Samuel L. Jackson shows up on a movie set, says "motherfucker," collects his check and goes home, but during that time, he radiates authority and competence with a little bit of crazy. These are good qualities for a mother to have - and I mean mother as in a woman with a child not as in Motherfucker.
Naturally, I have a variety of parental shortcomings. The one Velvet finds most annoying, besides my tendency to oversimplify, is looking to him for an explanation of why That Guy Who Won't Talk to Me won't talk to me. I don't do it all the time, but I've done it enough for him to tell me it's annoying.
At first, I was very reserved about even mentioning that fellow because there's something sort of pathetic about discussing your adult relationships with your child. I've been extra careful about that with regard to Buzz Kill but since Velvet has witnessed more than a few theatrical arguments between me and Buzz Kill, explanations were occasionally in order. I have never, ever spilled my guts to Velvet about That Guy either because after 15 years of therapy, I know better than to parentify my child.
However, when That Guy and I broke up a couple of years ago, I cried in my room for days. Again, a bit of explanation was in order. The conversation drifted into questionable territory, though, because Velvet has a tendency to get mouthy with his opinions. Once he started cultivating his whiskers, he was merciless in his critique of my behaviors which blew all my good intentions to shit. I had to stand and defend.
In a way, it's been good for Velvet to view the complexities of a Male-Female relationship playing out in his living room. It's as if he's watching a cross between Lifetime TV and an After School Special that presents my one-sided, PG-13 version since he and That Guy never laid eyes on each other. There was a time when I was tempted to introduce them, but I fully believe that there is absolutely no reason to bring your romantic interests into the life of your child unless it has been well established that the person is, in fact, serious and as permanent as anyone ever gets. Kids have enough trouble when their parents have gone through a divorce.
Further, it's not like I was asking Velvet what I should do about That Guy. I would tell Velvet about an incident and he would assess my behavior to determine if That Guy's reactions were justifiable from the perspective of someone with whiskers. I needed to say, "Can you believe this shit?" to someone, and Velvet was the only person in sight. I have to say, "Can you believe this shit,?" about politics and/or current events all the time. Like when MTV fixed it so kids could text donations to Haiti after the earthquake but didn't make a single arrangement for the souls our government continues to destroy daily in Afghanistan.
Perhaps that is why Velvet has come to the conclusion that I'm a Klingon.
According to Velvet, Men don't like women who can walk up to a man and say, "You're a pussy!" bust him upside the head and then dare him to prove her wrong. He may be right, but I don't know where Velvet got the idea that I'm like that since he's never actually seen me date anyone. He's seen me and his father, for sure, and I can't deny that most everyone in the world would concur that I stomped the shit out of his father -but that was only after everything else had failed. Up until then, I was patient, understanding and compliant.
Being compared to a Klingon Female is just as gratifying as being compared to Samuel L. Jackson. The Klingon Bird of Prey aspect is a little unflattering since it makes me seem predatory or imperialistic, but I'm willing to concede that my tenacity might seem kind of fierce to someone on the receiving end, especially if I'm proving a point. I never thought of it as Predatory, though. I thought I was Relentless. In any case, I'm very glad that my son thinks I'm as powerful as a Klingon Warrior. I wish he'd have said Sarah Connor from Terminator, however, but Velvet believes I have been less than helpful when it comes to teaching him how to shoot. Apparently I've been falling down on the job now that he's decided he'd rather be a Revolutionary than a DJ at Raves.
I doubt that Velvet would think that Sarah Connor is the ideal mother despite her arsenal, but like Samuel L. Jackson and the Klingons, she is Capable, Authoritative and a little bit Crazy which is a good combination when you're putting together a team to go off the grid. It's a good combination for a preschool teacher, too.
I'm not sure if the photos of me in Dr. Von Monkerstein's soon to be released graphic novel, Hip Deep, Mountain High will have any impact on Velvet's opinions or not. I've told him that I'm the model for a Boozy MILF in a graphic novel, and he thought that was kind of cool. I'm afraid that the reality might be kind of appalling. I originally figured he'd never see it anyway. Sadly, once my mother hears about it, and she eventually will, Velvet may be confronted an illustration showing his mother from a very different perspective.
The photos aren't tacky, but they are certainly cheese cakey and my cleavage always shows even when an outfit isn't overly revealing. I've been thinking that there might be a way to arrange for a percentage of the sales of Hip Deep. Mountain High to help finance the Rebel Alliance. If we're going to resist our corporate overlords, we're going to need to raise some funds, and I've always liked the idea of using Tits for the Progressive Agenda.
This is one of the photos my dear friend VeryMissMary shot specifically for Hip Deep, Mountain High. A couple of installments are already available at the dedicated blog, Hip Deep, Mountain High. There's a link to the story at the Facebook page, and Steve, aka Dr. Von Monkerstein, mentions it occasionally at his main blog Monkey Muck. He'll probably monkey with this photo when he gets up to the milfy part.
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