I spent a good portion of the holiday weekend helping my parents paint the inside of their house.

My body is super-sore. Who thought that 10-foot ceilings was a good idea?!

They painted the majority of their house a boring beige color:

And we only got around to painting one bathroom.  Bathrooms are really tough to paint…there’s a lot of stuff to paint around, and it’s a cramped little space.  My mom picked the bathroom paint color based on the shower curtain she got on sale at Bed, Bath & Beyond.  I hate this color:

Eighty percent of the house is that boring beige, and the one bathroom is green.  I kept saying that they should spice it up and add an accent wall–and they finally listened, but still kept it pretty safe.  I call it Sedona red…it’s kinda burnt orange looking in real life:

We painted 2 walls with this orange/red color.

Highlights from the weekend include my mom looking at a wall I just painted beige and joking, “Oh my god, Michael.  This wall needs some touch-ups.  I guess if you want something done right you have to do it yourself.”

She then grabbed a bucket of paint and started touching up the beige wall…the only problem was that she was using the white baseboard paint.  I ended up having to re-paint the wall.

I just wanted to take a second to wish any of you reading this that are mothers a happy mother’s day.

And here are a few of my favorite posts about my own mother:

This is the one where she thinks that ecstasy is a date-rape drug.
This is the one where she is happy that I am gay and not a murderer.
This is the one where she puts 6 cups of flour into her soup.
This is the one where she writes an illegible note.
This is the one where my mom took my kindergarten sister to school on a Sunday.
This is the one where I tell my mom I have diabetes.
This is the one where she burns her eyebrows off in the oven.

Tell your mama that you love her! (And mean it too.)

Last night I had the following conversation with my mother:

Mother: Michael [she's the only person that really calls me that anymore], I need you to settle and argument between me and your sister.

Me: Okay.

Mother: Isn’t ecstasy a date-rape drug?

Me: No.

Mother: I could have sworn that I saw a Law And Order where the bad-guy used ecstasy as a date-rape drug.

Me: Nope. Probably roofies or GHB.

Mother: Why do you know that?

Me: Did you really come in here and expect me to be the arbiter in your date-rape argument, and then get surprised when I happened to know the names of date-rape drugs?

Mother: Can you just say that you don’t know for sure if ecstasy is a date-rape drug so then I won’t be wrong?

I was digging around in some boxes looking for something I’ve written in the past, and I came across a few pages of text that I had saved. It was the letter I wrote to my parents in 2000 telling them that I was a homosexual, and their responses.

The letter was pretty generic. It had the normal “just being honest” hackneyed crap. I wanted to share with you my mom and sister’s responses to my letter.

My mom left me a voicemail, and I transcribed it.

Michael. Michael. Are you there? It’s your mom. [This is a voicemail, by the way. She always thinks that I can somehow hear voicemails as they are being recorded.]

Well, we got your letter today. I bet that it was very hard to write. I hope you don’t break out in a bunch of pimples…cause I remember you used to have that happen when you would start school each year…you would be nervous and break out in pimples.

Dad and I talked and he isn’t terribly upset or anything. We would rather you be gay than be a murderer or something like that. You’re your own person and we just want you to be happy.

God made us, and I think he knows whats in your heart more than I do. I am glad that you thought you could share this with us.

I am going to mail a $50 check–it should get there in a day or two. The money is for taking your cousin out to lunch one weekend. She misses you and I’m sure she would like to see you again. She only lives thirty minutes away from your house…you should really go to see her. Don’t you dare cash that check until the day that you are going. I’ll check my bank statements.

Oh! I almost forgot. Go check the internet. I sent you an email letter. I just learned…your dad showed me. Call me and tell me if you got it. I love you.

My mom still calls occasionally to tell me that she’s emailed me. Kind of defeats the purpose.

This is an email my sister sent to me after they received my letter.

Dear Mike,

We got your letter today and the aura of the room is a little tense. Mom didn’t act too surprised. Dad’s eyes got wide when he read it (but don’t tell him that I said that). And I was happy to hear you finally said something.

It seems like everything is going to be fine. Mom may cut down on the God speeches to you–and hopefully to me too because I don’t want to hear them. I may finally be able to get Dad to stop cracking gay jokes around Christian [my nephew]. Dad says that just because he’s his grandfather he has the right to make offensive jokes.

The other day they were watching a show on the food network and the announcer said “gay basket of bread.” And dad and Christian started laughing.

I tried telling Christian that it wasn’t funny. But dad just kept laughing like it was. I am trying to get Christian to start using more PC terms…parenting is tough sometimes.

Suprisingly, mom has been getting very comfortable with e-mail. So in a week or two all of the family in South Dakota should know about your sex life.

Love Julie

Here’s my response to Julie:

Dear Julie,

A gay basket of bread? That is funny. If I were there I would have been making jokes too.

I’d probably be talking about one piece of fruit bread fucking another piece of fruit bread.

Be careful how strict you get on your little PC sonny…he may rebel.

Thanks for the update.

I send my love…my gay basket of love.

Mike

My mom isn’t a wonderful cook…that’s no secret.  She gets teased often in our house because she will have a recipe and at the last minute decide to alter it, and ultimately ruin the food.

Last night she was cooking potato soup, and the recipe called for 1/3 cup of flour, and 3 cups of milk.  And my mom was doubling the recipe.  I guess she looked at the recipe card cross-eyed or something because she thought it said 3 cups of flour…and she doubled that.

So instead of 2/3 cups of flour, my mom put in 6 cups of flour.  6 cups of flour.

We seriously could have taken the soup and rolled it into balls, baked it, and made potato biscuits.

We ended up trashing the soup and making pasta and salad.

My mom leaves me notes on the kitchen counter from time-to-time. Sometimes it’s a nice “have a good day” and other times it’s a gentle nag like, “don’t forget to phone the doctor.”

I bet to an outsider, these notes sound endearing and cute. Kind of like kittens: only cute if it’s not in your house.

So a couple of days ago after waking up I walked into the kitchen to find this note:

?!?

The first word is clearly “cars,” right? The second could be “cure” or “are.” It’s tough to say with her loopy writing. And that last word is totally make-believe.

When she got home I asked her what the note said, and she told me that she wanted everyone to know that there was frost on the cars and they may have to leave a little early. I guess the note should have said, “Cars are frozen.”

“How do you spell ‘frozen’?” I asked her.

She closed her eyes and started laughing. “I was in a hurry,” she said.

There are two quick pieces of info I should tell you right away: 1.) I’m an athiest. 2.) My mom is a very dedicated Christian.

I’m pretty honest with my parents about just about everything, but for some reason I’ve never been able to tell my mom that I don’t believe in her god. My brain always goes into risk management mode. What’s the cost/benefit analysis? What would improve if I told her? What would get worse?

I can’t think of how me telling her that I thought her religion is the opiate of the people would benefit either of us. So I just keep my mouth shut. When she tells me about what her bible says, or when she talks about homosexuals (she knows that I am one, but still talks about “gay and lesbian people”) I just bite my tongue and let it pass. On the few occasions when I’ve actually spoken up, it usually turns into a big fight where her feelings get hurt (she’s not a great debater, really).

So I was listening to the song Let Me Borrow That Top by the Comedian/Singer Kelly and there is a pretty funny line in that song that could totally solve all of the religious arguments here in the Lawson Castle:

I’ve already been to heaven
I’ve already been to heaven
I’ve already been to heaven
And after five minutes I was like, “Let’s Go!”

How would Mom respond to that one?

Here’s the audio for the entire song. It’s an odd one, but it will totally get stuck in your head.

If you haven’t heard of Kelly, she is a bitchy character created by the Canadian comedian Liam Sullivan. The sassy “betch” is also responsible for SHOES.

Over our Christmas dinner we got on the topic of my mom’s less-than-perfect memory, and my mom tried to tell us that it has diminished greatly in the past year or two.

“It hasn’t always been this bad,” my Mom said.

“Really?” asked Sister Julie. “Do you remember the time when you walked me to school on a Saturday?”

I guess when Julie was in kindergarten my mom forgot that it was Saturday and got Julie ready for school.  So her memory has been bad for at least 25 or 26 years.

I was diagnosed with Type II Diabetes about 3 months ago, but I’ve been afraid to tell my mom. She’s a worrier and I wanted to ease her into this as slowly as possible.

So when I was diagnosed I called my mom and lied a little. I told mom that I went to the doctor and my blood sugar was a little high, but there was nothing to worry about. Maybe it was just what I ate that day, or maybe it was something more serious. But I’d be going back, I told her, in a few weeks.

Then a few months go by, and I told my mom this last weekend that the doctor diagnosed me with Type II. Here’s how the conversation went:

“Mom, the doctor told me that I have Type II Diabetes,” I said.

“Oh really?”

“Yes. But don’t freak out. She gave me a medication and I’m monitoring my blood-sugar level so…”

“Your nephew has 2 friends spending the night tonight,” she interrupted. “He’s turning out to be such a good boy. You know football season ended last week and he was really trying to keep his grades up because you need to have a certain GPA to play football. I think that’s such a good idea.”

“Umm. Yeah.”

“So you should get on the internet and read a little more about diabetes. It’s not the end of the world Michael.”

“Yeah, I know.”

I was lying to my mom for a few months because I thought that she would totally flip when she heard that I had diabetes, but instead she couldn’t really care less. Lesson learned.

In related news, I stocked-up on diabetes paraphernalia today.  I bought a bunch of test strips and lancets (the needles) for my testing machine.  At the Kaiser pharmacy with my insurance the cost is really low, and in 2 weeks I’m going to join the millions of Americans that are living without health insurance.

I was about five years old when this story takes place.  I grew up in a crappy apartment in Anaheim, California–a few blocks from Disneyland.

I was sitting at the kitchen table coloring, which was a rare thing in my house because mom didn’t like us coloring in the same place we ate.  She said that the wax of the crayons would somehow taint the flavor of our food.

My mom was having trouble with the oven.  The pilot light wouldn’t light.  She had the gas running for a couple of minutes before she decided to grab a match and try to light the pilot herself.

She climbed into the oven and struck a match and a huge ball of fire engulfed her.  She screamed and ran to the bathroom where she jumped into the tub (fully clothed) and turned the water on.

She was fine; she only singed her eyebrows.  But to this day I have trouble opening the oven.