The Beautiful Mess: A Childhood Story

I wrote this for my parents, for Mother’s Day. I wish I had more time to make it better, but I’m already a day late.

Thank you very much for everything, mom and dad. I love you both so much.

***

When I was growing up, my mom and dad were a lot more emotionally composed and resilient than I was even remotely aware of at the time. Even now, I’m not sure I’ll ever fully comprehend the stress they endured and the sacrifices they made so that they could more than properly raise a family. In a word, they were tough.

Mom gave birth to Kevin and Holly – the bookends – in February 1986 and December 1990, respectively. They squeezed me, and then Ryan in (or out) in between.

That’s four children in less than five years, an ill-advised decision that meant there was a great deal of both maintenance and money required to keep us from being taken into care by someone like the principal in “Matilda.” So both of my parents worked very hard. My dad was in charge of that whole money thing, and since you can’t run an autobody shop with a bunch of half-naked kids running around with proton blasters (the toy from “Ghostbusters,” not our junk – I said half-naked, not full-frontal), he had to go to work during the week and my mom had to give up her profession as a nurse to take care of us.

Two Heads, One Heart: Caught Catching a Beat

I first discovered masturbation at about the same time online pornography was rising to prominence. Mine is the first generation to come of age with such broad and easy access to photos and videos, and it was fucking awesome.

I didn’t find out about this online porn thing – or, more accurately, I didn’t have the gall to venture into that cyber world – until I’d already become a pseudo expert in the ways of shooting wads at shower walls. In retrospect, I think this was a positive. Had I achieved my first orgasm while sitting at a computer watching an early episode of the epic weekly soap opera “Cum Fiesta,” I probably would have stroked out (in more than one way) from sensory overload. It was far better for me to wade in the shallow end, which is to say jerking it to the Victoria’s Secret catalogs I stole from my mom so often that she just started giving them to me outright.

But when I did begin watching porn, it added something to the whole masturbatory process that, although unnecessary to make it enjoyable, turned it into something much, much better. Continue reading…

Two Heads, One Heart: First Date, First Documented Erection

When I was 10, my little brother hosted his birthday party at Safari Sam’s, an indoor complex that combined an arcade and one of those big indoor playgrounds with colorful plastic pipes and nets and a severely unsanitary ball pit. (In the late 90s, everyone in my neighborhood had their parties there. I’d been to one where the fun times were shit on – literally – when management had to close the playground portion because some kid was unable to control his bowels and had left his mark throughout the tunnels.)

Mom told me I was allowed to bring one person, and I chose Amanda, my first ever “girlfriend.” I was only in fifth grade, but I felt like it was time for Amanda and I to get out on the dating scene. At the time, “dating” meant to me that you were doing something together outside of our elementary school. I didn’t know much about dating or girlfriends other than I wanted to go on one and I wanted to have one. Mostly because my older brother did, and he got to kiss her at middle school dances while they played that Aerosmith song from “Armageddon,” which seemed pretty fucking groovy to me. Continue Reading…

Crush Me, Flush Me, Let Me Go: A Break-Up Story

When she left, the only tangibles that didn’t go with her were an old gray T-shirt she liked to sleep in, a fluorescent green toothbrush, and a black hair tie.

Initially you thought she’d taken everything aside from the smell of her hair, which was still on your pillows and your sheets. You refused to wash those sheets for much longer than you care to admit, even now. Especially since that smell was, she had admitted during the brief break-up discussion, also lingering on another boy’s sheets, in a bedroom in another borough.

She left, and you stopped doing whatever it was you were doing before, which was, you suppose, doing what you could to build a life with her. One you hoped and even assumed had potential to last until one of you died.

You went to work, but took sick days on the premise you were physically ill instead of metaphorically heartbroken (because if your heart was literally broken you’d be fucking dead, and because if calling in because you’re sad about being dumped is probably a fireable offense). Read More…

Dear Diary: Grandpap Tells Me a Bachelor Party Story

My Grandpap has been a hugely positive influence in my life. This cannot possibly be overstated. If you want to say your Grandfather is better than mine, go ahead. I won’t contest it. Because for you, ignorance is bliss.

I aspire to be many of the things he is. And one of those things is a great storyteller. The man has an anecdote for any occasion, and his delivery is excellent. We’ll often be in the midst of a conversation about something, and he’ll say “Have I ever told you the story about ________” and then launch into an awesome story that is totally relevant to the discussion.

This happened most recently a few nights ago when I called my Grandparents to say hello, and to thank them for the Saint Patrick’s Day card they’d sent me (my Grandma asked me if I’d spent it on what she had intended: green beer).

We were talking about my brother’s impending Bachelor Party.

You Should Be My Wedding Date

My big brother is getting married in May. His is the first of five weddings I’ll be attending before the year is out. And there may be even more if any of my friends get knocked up between now and Christmas.

I am so, so happy for these lovers, but I am also selfishly ecstatic for myself, because:

• Weddings are about the only time you get to see most of your loved ones and friends at the same time once you reach a certain age
• I get to watch two people in love pledge a lifelong commitment to each other
• I get to wear a suit, drink free alcohol, and stay in a hotel room
• I’m not getting married, and better them than me Continue reading…

Dear Diary: An Abnormal Monday Morning

This is a short/true story about a funny/embarrassing thing that happened to me the second Monday in March.

**

I’m not a morning person at all. No matter what, the early commute to work is rough for me, and it probably always will be. I love my job and I love seeing the view of Manhattan every morning as I go over the bridge, but these two things still don’t make me jump out of bed screaming “GOOD MORNING GOD! THANK YOU FOR CREATING THOSE MOTHERFUCKING BIRDS! I REALLY RESPECT THAT THEY WAKE UP AND START TALKING LOUDLY TO EACH OTHER AT 5 A.M., JUST LIKE MY CRAZY ASS SUPERINTENDENT, WHO I THINK STARTED NAILING ON SOMETHING DOWNSTAIRS AT ABOUT THE TIME I WAS GOING TO BED SUNDAY NIGHT! I WISH I UNDERSTOOD WHAT EITHER OF THEM WERE SAYING WHEN THEY TALKED, EVEN THOUGH I REALIZE THE TOWER OF BABEL WAS A NECESSARY EVIL. BUT WHATEVER – MONDAYS ARE THE TITS!”

My mood is usually brightened when I step out the door, flow some New Pornographers through my headphones, and start walking toward the subway stop near my apartment in Bushwick. This is because for the past six months I’ve been living in a place where there are beautiful women everywhere – or at least women I perceive to be beautiful – and as a single dude I enjoy looking at them while on my way to work. It’s a treat, and I’m not sure it will ever stop seeming that way, because I’ve lived in places where I would go days without seeing hardly any females who were not also coworkers.

First Date Questions

First dates are like interviews.

At least in my experience. Every halfway decent one I’ve ever been on is a volley of questions, as if both parties are reporters and the person across the table is his or her subject. Except instead of writing about them, both people are tasked with trying to decide whether this person has enough potential to be included in future plans – whether that is a second date, a night of wild sex, and/or everlasting love.

But in my experience, these questions have been mostly softballs, like “Where do you work?” or “How many siblings do you have?” or “Are you going to pick up this check…?” (The last one is usually asked with the eyes.)

You get to really know a person more by either asking questions you actually want to know the answer to, or through the off-the-cuff answer they give when you ask them something they were absolutely not expecting.

So why waste time? I’m 25. The internal clock is ticking. I don’t have time to sit through all that mundane banter.

Here are some questions I would like to ask on a first date. Continue reading…

Scott Has 99 Problems

1. Feels unnecessarily guilty when, trying to be helpful, uses better-than-average sight to read a faraway sign and people say something like, “How did you see that far? Man, I wish I had your eyes! No glasses! You have no clue how lucky you are!”

2. Realizes that since he reads frequently he will probably wear his eyes out and become nearly blind by 50, necessitating an uncomfortable period of time when he has to get used to contacts. His friends will make fun of his ineptitude because they’ve been effortlessly poking their own eyeballs with that clear film since age six.

3. Does not know if he would be any good at punching because the only fights he’s been in have occurred during dreams, where his fists swing slow like he’s punching under water.

4. Gets sort of angry when people tell him he pronounces his own name with an accent, because it’s impossible to pronounce one’s own name incorrectly unless they are saying it differently than his or her parents said it when they decided to give him/her the name.

5. Ends generally jovial conversations by reciting the sentiment from no. 4 in a serious voice when someone calls him “Scatt.”

Cooking Stuff in the Buff and an Introduction to Selective Apathy

One time a middle-aged man I had never seen before walked straight through my apartment’s front door while I was standing by my stove, cooking stir-fry in a wok.

I was completely naked.

I’m not a nudist and don’t even really like being naked in front of people all that much – I’m not Kate Winslet or Lena Dunham. Sometimes, though, I come home from exercising, take off my sweaty clothing, and start making dinner.

Many would deem it unnecessary and sort of dangerous to cook naked (especially if you’re using oil or grease), but I like to live dangerously, and I’m not going to wear my drenched post-workout clothing while I’m cooking.  I sweat like Shaq when I so much as walk a street block in the summertime, so I want those clothes off of me as soon as possible. And I’m certainly not going to take a shower before coming back to the kitchen to prepare a meal, because like I said: I glisten impressively, and stoves are hot, so I’d have to take another shower right after I finished cooking anyway.

Efficiency > Safety. Continue reading…