When the Moment is Right?
0 comment Tuesday, May 13, 2014 |
The older Mr. M gets, the more he gets into mommy-see, mommy-do. And this monkey mommy tries to watch the ABC Evening News whenever possible. Why? I've no idea. Having already checked out Bloomberg, Financial Times, and the New York Times on my blackberry repeatedly, at day's end I've got enough news in my head to run circles around the lumbering Charlie Gibson.
Still, I enjoy it, look forward to his broadcast (I switched to Charlie when CBS dumped Bob Schieffer for Katie Couric). Maybe it's a relaxation technique or a nightly ritual. All I know is that I feel all tucked in sitting in my tv chair wrapped in my wool throw with a cocktail, unwinding at the end of the day, watching my comforting Mr. Rogers.
And let's be honest here: Charlie Gibson is a grown-up's Mr. Rogers. He wears reading glasses and often a cardigan; and when he says he hopes you had a good day, you just know he means it, that he is really speaking to you.
So, most nights Mr. M joins me for this thirty-minute dose of (light) political analysis, exciting medical breakthroughs, and feel-good stuff.
And for a while it was a cherished mother-son bonding time. Of course, we did have that perilous Plavix moment, when a tough strong woman emergency room doctor is "taken down" (or was it "knocked down"?) by a clot "the size of a pin." Yikes.
Holy shittola. It's not like Mr. M hasn't heard "blood clot" in this house. "Mom, are you going to die!? Should you be taking Plavix?" he asked me one night.
For the most part, though, our nightly news watchings are fairly placid and unprovocative. Except for . . . tonight. Tonight's newscast featured a fairly lengthy story on the Pope recalling an "excommunication" (or was it "recanting"?) of a bishop who denies the Jewish holocaust occurred. At the very least, this once-shunned, now-embraced bishop denies the number of holocaust deaths we all know occurred.
Included in the footage was the Pope in a puffy pompous robe sporting a peculiar hat, in some sort of bizarre ceremony; a Catholic worshipper was shown lying prostrate, face to the ground, at the Pope's feet. (My husband is Catholic, so irate readers, stand down).
"Mom, I will never be a religious guy. In fact, the last thing I will be is a religious guy. It's too weird," exclaimed Mr. M. Not sure what to say, my soothing mother mutter was, "Now, now, some religions are weirder than others."
Following this whacko papal story, was an advertisement for Levitra. My greatest fear was realized. For months I have known this moment was coming. But I was not ready. This moment was not right. In the past, I had always managed to divert Mr. M's attention during these ads. But not tonight. During tonight's presumably edifying ABC news broadcast, Mr. M and I were treated to an advertisement on erectile dysfunction far too graphic for the dinner hour.
"Mom, what is erectile dysfunction?" Mr. M casually asked, when the commercial mercifully ended. "Umm, hmm, let me give that some thought," I said, fiercely biting my lip to buy some time, to avoid laughing, so I could sound equally nonchalant. "Well," I finally said, "when a man gets older, sometimes his penis doesn't work like it is supposed to."
Phew. Game over! Yay me. Am I the master or am I the master? I leapt over that hurdle like a mother Olympian. Err, except Mr. M's face screwed up, got all contorted, like he was smelling a skunk. "Ewww. Penis not working? That just weirds me out, Mom." "Yeah, well, don't worry, Mr. M," I reassured him. "I don't think you'll have that problem." He seemed satisfied enough.
But hells bells! What might happen at school tomorrow? What on God's nuclear earth should I expect, in light of Mr. M's previous fruit roll-up school sex scandal? I can just hear him on the playground at recess. "Hey, you! My arch-enemy! When you grow up, your penis isn't going to work. You're going to have ejectile dysfuckshun."
Woe is me. Oh, woe is me.
While CPS wings its way to my house, all I can do is pray and count my blessings. Thank God it wasn't that other drug company's ad that aired. Cialis, I think it is. The one where the man and woman each soak, zombie-like, in separate bath tubs located far, far away in the wilderness or smack dab on an ostensibly (except for all the camera men and everyone else) deserted beach.
The couple is shown in an over-the-shoulder shot as they stare into the forest or the waves. "Honey, look! Two old abandoned bathtubs with no water! Let's get naked right now and jump into them! It'll be fun! We'll feel so young!"
Right on, baby. Take me now.
I am so sure.
These tubs have no running water, there are no towels, and any woman over 40 watching this ad immediately wonders, "how the hell did they get into those tubs without stripping down naked in front of each other and the rest of the world in the full light of day? Not me. No effing way. I think I'm going to throw up."
Then there's the so not-catchy tagline: "Cialis. So you'll be ready, when the moment is right." Umm, hold on, Mr. Ad Man. I've got a few tips for you. If the woman's not ready, who gives a flying F if the "time is right" for the man? Know what I mean, jelly bean? Oh, and by the way, a clawfoot bathtub is not exactly conducive to Cialising.
Friends, I will never be in the mood to strip down on a beach in broad daylight in front of my husband, jump into a bathtub that has no water, much less hot water, and stare catatonically at the ocean. I don't care how great is the view. It's just not going to happen.
No doubt, even Mr. M would have many of my reservations. "Mom, how come those people are naked in old-fashioned bath tubs, without any doors, out in the middle of the woods? How did they fill up their tubs without a hose? Why don't they have any towels for when they get out? Aren't they cold? Why didn't they just take a bath in their nice warm house?"
Hell if I know, son. Hell if I know.