Without repeating the zine itself verbatim, this zine is an extremely personal one for me. When my grandfather passed away in January, I inherited his (extensive) book collection, as I was the only other one in the family who could describe themself as a “book person.”
Books were the only thing Grandpa and I had in common so of course unpacking his library was how I worked through a complicated grieving process (if you ever actually work through a thing like that). And, of course, I made a zine about it!
This past Saturday night, BoyRoommateFriend met the family. (Why, that’s a premise you could shape a Ben Stiller movie around!)
My family has a remarkable way of dealing with new significant others. Mum, in particular, has a knack for staging these so-called Events. When she can’t lure you into the trap of an alleged birthday party,* she resorts to emotional blackmail.
So, she invited the two of us around for a family birthday dinner on Saturday, impressing the importance of the evening with an appeal to familial bonds so simultaneously sincere and full of shit that she could rival the greatest rhetoricians.
A short list of reasons why my mum is a superhero. In no particular order.
She wears a Batsuit.
I once nicknamed her housecoat “The Batsuit” in an attempt to mock her. (It had to do with certain resemblances to the Schumacher/Clooney batnipples.) Like any person full of win, Mum turned this around on her would-be bully and now we ALL call it “The Batsuit.” She even put “New Batsuit” on her Christmas list.
This is the story of How I Learned to Start Worrying and Hate Class Differences. I’m pretty sure most of why I grew up to appreciate Marx is encapsulated in this tiny little nugget of childhood.
This is the second time I’ve had to write this post (as I’ve already grumbled about). Whenever such a thing happens, I try to be all self-help sentimental about it and tell myself that this simply means it will be better the second time around.
That’s probably not true. I’m pretty sure I struck gold before. This is just cheap brass in comparison.
The house was silent save for the flickering of some distant infomercial blasting through the two am airwaves: a direct transmission of nothingness from the autocorrected perfection of the studio right into Dad’s vacant, tired eyes.
Mum took a spontaneous trip to New Orleans this past week, which means that Dad has been home all alone.
Now, Mum normally gets the brunt of the memoir/sledge-hammer, but I really think that’s mostly because she’s a much more exuberant personality. Dad, on the other hand, is a quiet force, soldiering on beneath the radar.
So I’ve been so busy editing (deadlines, man, do they suck, eh?) that I haven’t had much time to write any new posts. I am, however, an iDouche, which means have the power to record voice memos when I’m supposed to be doing better things (i.e. driving safely).
In lieu of a written post, I present you with this. A verbal recount of why my cat is the coolest damn cat in the world. It’s not because he’s cute or anything (he’s not, really) but because he can outsmart skunks… and my dad.