August 10, 2005

I'd Sleep on the White Tile Lobby Floor

My Grandma is evil, conservative jerk.

However, when she has a habit of handing out $500 check for birthdays and Christmas to her grandkids attending college, it means I play nice. And that means she's the last person I'm coming out to, after the $500 checks stop coming.

I know. I'm so shallow and materialistic. Shallow, materialistic, and poor.

Anyway, she came and took the family (at least the ones who weren't in the hospital) out to lunch.

She opens her purse and takes out a clipping from her local newspaper. It was a letter to the editor she had written, angry that they were now including gay and lesbian "commitment ceremonies" with the wedding announcements.

And who should call, at that very moment, but my exboyfriend?

No, not Heart. Goodness, no. I hesitate to call this guy the "good ex" and Heart the "bad ex," even though Heart has an ugly ugly soul and will be reincarnated as a dung beetle with some terminal sexually transmitted disease.

So there I was, with the first love of my life on my cell, whose voice I hadn't heard in almost two years, and my bigoted semi-rich grandmother on the other side of me, spouting Biblical verses and blocking my way out of the booth.

Now let me tell you something about awkward conversations. I've been through my fair share. I've hemmed and hawed, gritted my teeth, fumbled and rolled my eyes, all with tension in the air so palpable I wanted to mold it into a hammer and end it all.

But this one takes the cake. I mean, fucking A, man.

The old RawYouth, back when this blog first started, would have made a big deal about the fact that the ex called my cell, when I didn't have a cell phone when we dated, and he didn't call me from his cell, he called me using a friend's phone, which meant that he's memorized my number and ooooooooooh first love angst.

But now I'm just cool.

(Don't tell him this, but he was at a picnic with some friends and I think someone spiked his lemonade or something, maybe just a bit. Anyway, he contributed to the awkwardness, too.)

I was able to talk him the next day on AIM and explain the whole thing. He seemed cool with the explanation as to why I was acting so weird on the phone, and wished that I would have handed my grandma the phone and let him take care of things. Since he sounded a bit, well, glug-glug, and I doubt she knows how to use one of those "cellophones," I'm glad I didn't hand over the phone; besides, I hadn't had a chance to cash her check yet.

Besides, I have the sweetest cell phone number on earth, which helps explain why he knew to call me. No, I'm not going to post the number, but I will replace numbers with letters.


It's a fucking sweet number man. All palindromic and easy as fuck to remember. Which is why I'm not making a big deal about it. Just a small 'hmmm...' sort of a deal. I'm not surprized that he remembered my birthday, since I was born on the Hiroshima anniversary and he was born on September 11th: our celebrations coincide with massive deaths. It was like, fate or something.

Don't laugh at me he was my first love shut up go away I hate you.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.