Last weekend, I experienced one of the milestones of a relationship.

As I have shared before, my boyfriend D* took a job shortly, actually the exact day of, our first date. It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if we didn’t hit it off so goddamned perfectly and became practically inseperable for the next two weeks before he left for his new temp position in Washington DC. Him being in Washington was and is really no big deal — he comes home almost every weekend and spends every conscious and unconscious moment with me, much to
the dismay of his friends, I’m sure. So it would only be fair that I would come visit him at least one weekend. Besides, the company had put him up in a nice hotel (I’m sucker for hotels, most likely because of my parents’ former gypsy like ways when I was very young), and I hadn’t visited DC since Clinton’s first inauguration back in ‘92. Oh, how I miss those days of ignorant bliss. *Sigh*….

Anyway, there was a bigger reason to save him a trip to Philly — his folks conveniently lived less than 10 miles outside Washington. Yep, I was about to meet the parents.

It was only only fair. Not only had D spent time with my father and stepmother, not the most warmest and entertaining people, on more than one occasion, he had also accompanied me to my devoutly Catholic grandmother’s house in Jersey (and keep in mind, he’s a Jew), where he met her, my mother who was in for a visit, and my talkative, still-living-home uncle who digs t-shirts with depictions of wolves on mountain tops. So the time had finally come to return the favor. It wasn’t that I was annoyed, or even nervous about the prospect of meeting them. I just wanted them to like me. I knew they had met D’s other girlfriends before, but screw those bitches. I wanted to be their favorite.

D and I pulled up to their house in rural Maryland on a Saturday, and his mother came out of the house, as if she had been watching out the window for the moment we hit the driveway. Now D had warned me about her — not that she was mean or anything, but that she was crazy in a good way. Overly warm, extremely talkative, and a bit whacked — nothing I couldn’t handle. Actually, it was kind of nice not being able to not get a word in edge wise rather than struggling to keep the conversation going with a dead fish. His father was the polar opposite. Of course he was friendly, but extremely quiet and even-keeled. And, this is horrible to say, but when I met him, I couldn’t get over how incredibly young he looked. I actually thought, “Holy shit, I’ve fucked guys that look older than him.”

They couldn’t have been more hospitable. D’s mother offered us drinks and snacks, like, every 5 minutes, in between the extensive tour of her home and collectible modern furniture — it was hard to keep her focused. D’s father relaxed on the couch, every now and then slipping in some dry, witty one liners. They took us to dinner and taught me how to eat crabs, got us ice cream, and fed me wine. And when the time came to go, they hugged me warmly, with Mama D adding, “If you ever want to get away from the city, even if it’s without D, feel free to come out here and visit anytime. I usual find myself getting close with D’s girlfriends.”

I thought, “Damn, how many girlfriends has he brought home?! “

Alright, I’m not going to unleash the crazy this go ’round. I’ll let that comment slide.

The next day on our way to the Smithsonian museums, D’s mother called. “Where are you guys? DC? Great, I’m on my way there. I’ll meet up with you!”

D very gently put the kibosh on that idea, and when she pressured him for a dinner date with us that night, he sidestepped the request like a slick politician.

A guy friend once told me, “Y’know, Jess, you’re the kind of girl you date, not the kind of girl you take home to meet your mother.” I know, what an asshole. Needless to say, I’m not friends with him anymore, but that comment left an undeniable scar in my psyche. For a while, I actually believed that about myself, and it was partly the reason why I never let myself get involved in a serious relationship. I truly believed I would never be good enough. Then when I met D*, I decided I didn’t want to think that way anymore, and just by making that declarative statement, it actually worked. But I’d be lying if I don’t have the more than occasional relapse. Jesus, if I didn’t have the relapses, this stupid blog wouldn’t even exist.

Luckily, the parents helped reassure me that I’m in the right place with D. He likes me enough to introduce me to his parents, and they liked me so much, they wanted a second helping. So maybe I am the kind you DO take home to mother. Suck it, Rick James.

* - One of these days I’ll reveal D’s real name. Just not today.