My Mother’s Ridiculous Rules for Dating

Chapter 1

Today, I am a ‘normal’.

At first, I thought it was just something I would pretend to do. But as I look at myself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door, I’m realizing how easily I slip into the wardrobe – khaki pants and the most basic blue Oxford shirt I could find with sensible loafers. ‘Normals’ go to an office from 9 to 5, take vacations twice a year, and are productive members of society. Nothing wrong with it. Some of my best friends are ‘normals’. I just never thought I’d become one.

When I first took a job at Brands to the Rescue, I told myself it was only to supplement my ghostwriting gig with the doyenne of romantic women’s fiction, Justine Jasmine. But last year she retired to some tropical island and I needed to find another body to haunt. Somehow I got it into my head that I should go out on my own. I had my agent shop around the manuscript I thought would be her next book. But, dramatic pause, under my own name. I’m trying to become my own ghostwriter, so now the calls are coming from inside the house.

Or rather, not coming at all.

I check my phone for notifications, but the screen is the same as it was thirty seconds ago. My agent, Loretta, said she hoped to hear something from Hurlington Press by the end of the summer, and with Labor Day this weekend, time is running out. An offer from them could mean quitting my side gig as a ‘normal’ and maybe becoming a real writer.

For the past four months, I’ve endured a series of painful rejections from editors who called my work ‘old-fashioned’. One even had the uncanny gall to say it was too much like Justine Jasmine’s work. It was Justine Jasmine’s work, but thanks to the NDA, I can’t tell anyone that. I knew what I was giving up when I started working with her; I just thought it would be easier to get it back.

Luckily, the summer hasn’t only been about rejections from publishers. I’ve also had periodic feelings of abandonment brought on by being dumped almost nine months ago by my on-again, off-again lying boyfriend of more than two years. One evening when I thought he was going to ask me to move in with him, he instead told me he was leaving for Los Angeles to ‘try and make it work’ with his recently separated husband. I told myself I would be over it by the end of the summer and exploring my not-so-hidden daddy issues with a brand-new guy, but I’m still in the fake-it-till-you-make-it phase.

I grab the last part of my normal cosplay, a canvas satchel with leather trim, throw it over my shoulder, and squelch the desire to check my phone one last time before heading out to attend a meeting at the soul-crushing headquarters of the normals – Brands to the Rescue.

Right as I’m reaching for the door, someone knocks. I open it. ‘Mom, what are you doing here?’ I slide my phone into my pocket.

‘That’s a terrible way to greet the woman who gave birth to you,’ she says, pushing past me despite the fact that I’ve barely opened the door wide enough for a cat to slink through. Her small meteorite of a purse is on her shoulder, and she’s wearing a floral blouse, pale peach culottes with aqua Converse high tops that I am one hundred per cent sure she has lined with comfort inserts. A turquoise studded headband keeps her curly copper-brown hair under control.

‘I’m sorry. Hello, Mom,’ I say, closing the door and following her into my microscopic living room. I bow toward her so she can place a kiss on the top of my head. She smooches me and then presses her lips together.

‘Feels like less hair,’ she declares. ‘Are you using the minoxidil I got you in bulk from Costco? It’s generic but it has the same ingredients. Don’t poo-poo it.’

I panic and immediately check the top of my head with my hand. The thick locks of dark brown hair all seem to be there, but I should be more regular about the treatment. How does she know? She’s barely through the door and I’m already being criticized.

She throws her arms around me. ‘Hello, my beautiful boy.’ She beams and then spits on her fingers to smooth my cowlick. ‘I had some business in the neighborhood and I…’

‘Business in the neighborhood?’ I ask. ‘You’re a retired schoolteacher who lives at the foot of the George Washington Bridge in New Jersey. What kind of business do you have in Hell’s Kitchen?’

‘Samuel, I know you think your mother’s life starts when I open the door and ends when I leave, but I have professional responsibilities just like other people.’ She points to her enormous purse and then places it on the table. ‘I did not come over to discuss that. I came over to show you what’s in this package. You can also get it in black, but I thought the rainbow made more of a statement.’

Impromptu visits from my mom have been on the rise ever since Aunt Shug died almost a year ago. It was a sudden and tragic loss for both of us. One thing I’ve learned this past year is that everyone grieves differently. My mother grieves by showing up at my door unannounced or texting me articles about social causes I’ve never even heard of and admonishing me for not being more engaged. She has always wanted to heal the world, whether the world wants it or not. And even though she won’t admit it, staying busy keeps her mind off the loss. I’ve dealt with the loss by dating emotionally unavailable men and having publishers remind me that I’m not nearly as talented as my mother thinks I am.

‘Mom, I was in the middle of something.’ Telling her I have to get to work will only make her bristle, which is what she does any time I mention Brands to the Rescue. She thinks I should be doing something more meaningful than writing copy for drugs that promise to ameliorate your seasonal allergies or house paints that will last long into the next century.

‘Oooooooh,’ she sings with a mixture of curiosity and elation. ‘Are you writing? Working on a short story? I was thinking you should write something about that woman who subbed your Spanish class in high school when Mr Garcia was having his knee operated on. She was a very interesting person, and I was just talking about her to our neighbor Mrs Simpson.’ She pauses for a second to put her hand to her chin. ‘Oh wait. She died.’

‘Mrs Simpson died? She used to babysit me.’ My lip begins to quiver.

‘No, not Mrs Simpson. The woman who subbed your class died. Or was it Mr Garcia? Oh, I don’t remember.’ She waves her hand to shoo away the thought and my lip steadies. ‘Anyway, what are you working on? I’m sure it’s wonderful. I’m so glad you’re writing again.’ Her voice floats with joy.

‘I am not writing,’ I say. When I was a kid I made the mistake of telling my mom I wanted to write a book. The next thing I knew she started introducing me as ‘My Son, The Writer’. I was six and still sounding out words but that didn’t stop her. Writers are people who have characters speak to them effortlessly in their minds or imagine marvelous ideas about compelling situations and then turn those thoughts into books that people then buy. Stephen King is a writer. Danielle Steele is a writer. Sam Carmichael is not.

‘But you’re so talented.’ she says knitting her eyebrows together. She says this all the time, the way some people say hello. I guess she means it, but I’m not sure I believe it. I don’t feel very talented, and certainly not lately. I may soon have to accept the fact that the world has finally discovered I’m a fraud.

‘Why don’t you show me what you bought?’ I ask, changing the topic. The sooner I see what’s in the package, the better my chances of getting to my meeting on time.

‘I saw this on the Internet.’ She places the package on the table. ‘I was scrolling through pictures of queer Dalmatians and—’

‘Wait. What? What are queer Dalmatians?’ I ask, tilting my head toward her.

‘You know, the dogs with the black and white spots. They’re so sweet.’

‘Yes, I know, but how do you know they’re queer? They’re dogs.’

She puts her hands on her hips. ‘Sam, I did not come over here to debate identity politics with you. Some people are queer. Some animals are queer. Some Dalmatians are queer. Get used to it. Okay?’ She sighs at me. I’ve never met another person who can use a sigh like a spear, but my mother can.

‘Anyway, I was scrolling and I saw this ad and I thought it would be perfect for Pride.’ The woman is obsessed with Pride. She treats it like New Year’s Eve, Halloween and Arbor Day rolled into one event. I treat it like PrEP. It’s a nuisance but I don’t want to know what will happen if I stop it.

She pulls out a pink rhinestone pocketknife from her purse and uses it to stab the over-stuffed plastic envelope like it’s some kind of sacrifice. She removes the bubble wrap and tells me she’s going to send an email to the company about their excessive use of packaging with some links to stories about micro-plastics in the water. Her heart is in the right place even if her mind is often in a universe far, far away.

‘Look at this,’ she says.

I cover my eyes like Jamie Lee Curtis waiting for Michael Myers to attack her. Slowly, I peek between my fingers.

It’s worse than I thought.

She is holding up a hideous tangle of rainbow-colored straps and silver cock rings. I think it’s called a harness but while the standard issue is black and seen on the chest of some hairy leather daddy, this one looks like it was dragged through the dyes at an Easter egg factory. It’s a rainbow nightmare of pleather straps and plastic pieces.

‘What is that thing?’ I ask, my hands at my cheeks.

‘I’ll have you know these are very expensive if you buy them in a store. I got such a good price on it.’ My mother would rather lay down on Fifth Avenue and get run over by the M3 bus than pay full price for something. My entire childhood is a blur of coupons, discount stores and BOGO sales. She shakes the colorful web until some of the pieces separate and then she holds it up by one of the silver rings. ‘You really need to get out more. I mean, what does it say about you that you’ve never been in a harness before?’

‘It says I’m not a trashy slut,’ I quip.

She gasps. ‘Stop it right now, young man.’ Her arms lower so the harness is limp on the table. ‘You are slut-shaming.’ She wags her finger.

‘I’m not. I support sluts. I support trashy sluts. I just happen not to be one.’ I don’t tell her it’s not for lack of trying. This past summer my sex life was as steamy as an episode of Little House on the Prairie . I look back at my mother and her frown. Do other gay sons have mothers like this? Nice suburban moms on the outside but relentless social justice warriors on the inside? The kind who shame their sons for slut-shaming?

I pick the harness up from the table with two fingers like it’s a soiled diaper. It’s hideous. Not even a trashy slut would wear this and, again, no offense to trashy sluts. #Teamtrashysluts.

‘Mom, forget it. There is no way I would walk down Fifth Avenue in the middle of the day wearing this.’ I wrinkle my nose and let the contraption dangle from my fingers. This thing says, Look at me. Look at me , when my usual motto is Would you mind looking elsewhere? ‘I’m sorry, Mom. I appreciate that you thought of me but…’

She grabs the harness from my hands. ‘Of you? What makes you think this is for you?’

‘Isn’t… I mean… ah…’ I stammer.

‘This isn’t for you, Samuel. It’s for me.’ She says this like it’s the most normal thing in the world. ‘I’m going to be wearing it for Pride next year.’ She holds it against her petite curvy figure and adjusts her headband in the mirror. ‘I wonder if I could glue some sequins on?’ She holds out a strap for me to examine.

‘You can’t be serious. Mom, you can’t wear that to Pride.’

‘Sam,’ she says to her reflection, ‘loosen up. People are there to express themselves.’

‘People? Yes. Mothers? No.’

She rolls her eyes and ignores my comment.

‘I’m worried about chafing. If you had experience with these you’d know how to prevent chafing. Maybe I’ll wear something underneath. Like my swimsuit,’ she says putting her hand to her chin. ‘But I keep that at the Y. I guess I could bring it home after my aqua aerobics class, but I’ll need to make myself a note to remember to bring it back.’ She starts to rummage through her purse and pulls out a Post-it note and a Sharpie the size of a large carrot and begins to write herself a reminder for something that’s not going to happen until almost a year from now.

‘Mom, you can’t wear…’ I start to say and quickly realize I’m wasting my breath. She’s going to do what she wants to do. It’s actually one of the things I admire about my mom. She’s someone who truly doesn’t care what other people think, which is a good thing because I think most people think she’s out of her mind. But the fact is, she knows her own mind better than anybody I’ve ever met.

I start shoving the harness back into its packaging so I can get her on her way. ‘I’m sure you’ll be the hit of the parade next year ,’ I say. ‘But you don’t want to miss the bus back to New Jersey.’

‘I thought we could make plans for your beep-beep next week.’

Almost a year ago, my mother started pestering me about my big thirty-fifth birthday, and I forbade her from saying the word birthday around me until a week before the actual event. My mother loves a loophole so she started saying beep-beep instead. She still had the same questions and nags but remained within the letter of the law, if not the spirit of my decry. Technically she could start using the word today, but I’m not going to tell her that.

‘Lunch wherever you want, Mom. Really. It’s fine,’ I say, trying to get her out the door.

‘On your beep-beep day I thought I could come here to give you your big surprise.’

I freeze.

‘What do you mean, surprise?’ I ask, halting my push to get her to the door. A surprise from my mother is not good. It’s never good. I’m still getting over the surprise of my mother wearing a rainbow-colored sex harness during a parade down Fifth Ave.

‘Saa-haam,’ she sings, her Jersey accent surrounding the slightly nasal notes. ‘If I told you what it was, then it wouldn’t be a surprise.’ She could have any number of atrocities ready for me wrapped up as a surprise. When I turned ten, I had my first all-boy birthday party. I was convinced it would help me fit in for the rest of the year. Then she surprised me with a cake that she had custom ordered from the grocery store with a picture of Joan Crawford on it. I’ve worshiped her since I was born but explaining who she was to a bunch of boys who had their cakes decorated with baseball team logos and race cars was not how I imagined spending that day. A surprise from my mother is never a good thing.

‘Fine, fine,’ I say, opening the door for her.

‘And can you come over on Thursday evening? The thingamabob broke again and I need you to fix it.’

‘Sure, did you try to tighten the do-hickey…’ I start to say.

‘Yes, but it still is jammed and I can’t get the other thing to do the thing.’

‘Yeah, Mom, of course.’ I bow my head down so she can reach it with a kiss.

‘I love you times a million billion,’ she says and we hug goodbye.

‘I love you a billion more,’ I say and close the door.

With a mother like mine, I’m not sure being a ‘normal’ is even a possibility.