Frankie Lou Sings the Blues

Ah, those fake milestone relationship moments. You know, the ones that are supposed to be really important but you don't actually care that much about? It's like Greg and Sarah getting married just so they could move to the Czech Republic together without too much of a hassle, or like Ingrid and Brian going through the whole ridiculous proposal scene after they had already decided they were engaged. For me, that moment has always been Meeting the Parents. I've never really given a shit what my parents think about the person I'm dating; in fact, if they don't like my current flame, it's almost a good sign. My parents loved Elliot. What does that tell you?

I've never really gotten butterflies in my stomach about meeting the parents of my main squeeze, either. If someone is going to break up with me because of a bad review from Mom 'n Pop, I figure I'm better off alone, anyway. The only time I've been nervous before a parent meeting was when I went to California and had dinner with Elliot's mother, but that was only because I was thinking quite strongly about marrying him and was worried about spending the rest of my life sitting at family dinners across from someone who despised me. "Pass the potatoes, you unbearable tongue-pierced whore who stole my little boy [I was planning to get my tongue pierced at that time, FYI]."

Can you guess where this entry is going? I met my beloved Jefe's parents this weekend, and I didn't worry for one moment. The truth is, part of my lack of worrying about parents is that parents have always been my thing. They love me. When I was a kid, my friends' parents would ask their children to have me spend the night or come with them to the movies. Why, you ask? Was I angelic? Polite? Neat? C'mon, you know me better than that. I was entertaining as all hell. Whereas most young'ns cower in front of parents and give stilted responses regarding age, hobbies, and family when questioned, I just let loose and said the first thing that came into my head. I was precocious, weird, brave, and spontaneous. I was one of those kids that made you laugh while you were trying to give me a lecture. I am the Master of the Parents.

And I'm proud to report that I defended my title this weekend. From the moment I was introduced to the kind and hospitable Mr. and Mrs. We've-Got-a-Small-Angus-Beef-Ranch-Out-in-the-Middle-of-Fuck-Nowhere-and-We-Inseminate-Cows-with-Frozen-Sperm-and-an-Arm-length-Glove, I knew it was going to be smooth sailing. They were easy to like: down-to-earth, funny, and Oklahoman as a scizzor-tailed flycatcher. Still, I was on my game hardcore. When you're fighting for the affection of your lov-ah's parents, you've got to get in some really good punches early on.

Swing One: Perfect outfit: casual yet classy, tasteful, feminine enough for Dad to think you're sweet but not so feminine that Mom thinks you're a flaky bimbo. Bam!

Swing Two: Eat lots of Mom's food and pretend to enjoy it. Bam! Luckily, with Jeff's mom I didn't have to pretend; that ham he's been talking about on his blog is no myth.

Swing Three: Fulfill Mom's requirements for what a good girl should be. With Frankie Franklin (I swear to God, that is her name, and I love it), I met all three: 1) college educated, 2) free of tattoos and/or unusual piercings, and 3) trained enough to say "Yes, Ma'am" in response to her questions. Bam! Bam! Bam!

Swing Four: Laugh at Dad's crazy stories. Again, this wasn't difficult, because they were actually funny. Bamma-lamma ding dong!

Swing Five: Love on the family pets. Awww, come here, Stubby, and let's cuddle. Go fetch, Shaq [so named because he's black, I think]!

And may I say, bam?

It all went swimmingly, and when I left, Frankie Franklin hugged me and told me it was good to know her son was in such good hands. I left beaming, and my darling rewarded me for all my hard work by treating me to a giant bowl of pesto tortellini with a chilled bottle of Conundrum. I was in such good spirits, I decided to quit smoking that night and had my last cigarette right there in the Bellini's smoking section.

However, right now I want a cigarette so badly I could kill you. Yes, YOU. Please don't tell Frankie I'm a smoker.