My thirties seem to be zipping along.

It seems like I was 29 with “one more year of carefree living bro!” just days ago. I must be getting older because I watch the Jersey Shore with as much nostalgia as I do revulsion. When I hear Mike being mocked because he’s 27 and going after girls in their early 20’s, I find myself defending his whole ‘Situation.’

The problem with getting older isn’t the physiological slowing (that’s why God invented caffeine!), it’s the increasing awareness of the finiteness of things, people, and experiences.

That’s a fancy way of saying that I’m starting to freak about my parents dying.

Aaaaand I’m starting to think I need to marry a bitch so my mom can die with her Irish eyes smiling.

She’s “worried” about me. She’s worried that I will never meet a woman who is both willing and able to take care of me. Each year that passes she thinks that my chances are receding like my hairline. I’m the opposite; I think my chances are expanding like my waistline.

This is why she worries: both of my brothers are doctors. And they’re both married to doctors. I know it breaks her little heart when my father does the family introductions at holiday parties: “Hey, this is Dr. Dawes, Dr. Dawes, Dr. Dawes, Dr. Dawes, and… Bill.”

My dad finds that intro hilarious. My mom is different. I’m actually mixed, even though most people can’t tell. I’m half-white, half-trash. My dad is caucasian and my mom has a mullet. Don’t laugh, it frames her tooth well. I’m kidding of course. She has dentures.

Both of my parents are making a little bit more of an effort with our relationship now that they are convinced they’re gonna be dead soon. My mom even made the ‘this could be our final Christmas together as a family’ threat last month. (Irony alert: Oy vey).

My mom has gone so far as to apologize for the drinking she used to do. Recently, she confessed: “Billy, I have to tell you something: I drank through the entire pregnancy.”

In typical Southern fashion, she tried to make it seem okay when she added, “But don’t worry, it was alllll top shelf shit…. Bailey’s Irish cream, as a matter of fact.” Apparently, when her water broke it was 80 proof. Although I don’t remember my infancy (I mean, I was wasted, how could I?), I’m assuming her drinking mean I didn’t breastfeed. Or, if I DID breastfeed, it was probably with salt and lime. I’m too embarrassed to ask.

My mom wasn’t really a huge fan of church but went every Sunday JUST for the communion wine. My dad went to get salvation, my mom went to get sloshed on the blood of Christ. Or, as she called it, the ‘Christini.’

My dad has never been as fun or as Irish as my mother regarding church. He tended to take things a little more seriously. I grew up reading Christian comic books (the Adventures of Jesus Boy!), listening to Christian Rock (oxymoron alert), and worrying about the physical pain of perhaps going to hell. It’s a real place in his mind, replete with imps and dinosaurs and firey fire lapping up the flesh of naked sinners.

He was so afeared for my soul that my dad even sent me to JESUS camp. As much as I make fun of it, that camp is where I finally learned how to pray from the heart. I remember the first time I was overcome with emotion and got on my knees to pray: “Dear Jesus… please get me the fuck out of Jesus camp.”

My dad also thinks premarital sex and masturbation are sins. Sins that, if accrued too much, could result in my reservation in Hades. Because of this, my dad tried to cockblock me with religious imagery all over my bedroom walls growing up. While most kids had posters of metal bands and hot pinups on the wall, my walls had Bible verses and a poster of a little yellow duckling in high green grass that said, “Only the meek shall inherit the earth.” In retrospect, I was giving myself a daily reminder that “Hey Billy, be a pussy. It’ll suck in terms of your lifetime, but you’ll get a slice of Heaven out of the deal.”

He went so far as to put a plastic Jesus on the nightstand right by my bed. It was a bobble head, so most nights Jesus was very disappointed. Sometimes, 3 times a night….

My dad fit the three “R”’s that are destroying, I mean embodying, America today. He was religious, Republican and racist. I know, I know, those words are basically synonyms, but there it is. My dad went to weekly racist meetings every Sunday called ‘Church.’

Ironically, from the crucible of this upbringing, my first serious girlfriend in high school was black. Plus, I grew up in a very racist area… called the UNITED STATES.

For religious reasons, my dad didn’t think I should ‘COMMUNE’ with a black girl. I remember thinking, ‘But dad, isn’t The Bible black?… And wasn’t Eve black? I mean, she was made from a rib.”

My dad eventually came around and opened himself up to the idea that racism is bad. Or at least only acceptable within a small circle of good friends. I mean, I can’t hope for miracles, can I? My mom stopped drinking and turned her energies on being the emotional center of the family.

Truth be told, although my dad is a Republican and a homophobe and a racist and religious, he is probably the best human being I know. He is an inspiration and an amazing man. I don’t know exactly how that’s possible but it’s true. My mom was also an incredible mom who showered and showers me and my brothers with love and support. I kind of feel like I have the best parents ever, despite the things I wrote… which are like 87 percent true. I mean, they raised my two brilliant and amazing Doctor brothers… and Bill….

My parents are going to read this, but I am posting it anyway with two fervent hopes:

My parents have a very good sense of humor.
So does God.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, January 27th, 2010 at 7:12 pm and is filed under All blog entries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.