Operation: Meltdown

When Fauxhawk and I got back together in September for the third time, we both understood that an essential part of his fauxprosal for a pregagement involved a complex and multi-tiered campaign to win my parents’ hearts. This was no small feat, considering their deep and abiding distrust of not only Fauxhawk, but all of my boyfriends. While I love my family, they can be formidable, critical, over-protective and clannish. Instead of welcoming the poor hapless boy du jour into the fold, my parents and two older brothers have been known to do the freeze-out, which includes suspicion, lack of eye contact, and formality that rivals the Queen of England. I once had a boyfriend (labeled “The Small Maltese” by my father) who threw up from fear and dread before one of our family functions. He didn’t last very long.

Sometimes I wonder why I bother, and ultimately, it’s because I know that when my family is good, they are very, very good - funny, eccentric, warm-hearted, interesting, and full of hospitality and high spirits. They are an essential part of my identity, and I am not only tied to them by blood and geography, but by love. I am fortunate enough to like being with them; they enhance my life, making it rounder and fuller and more interesting. And they love me ferociously, which is perhaps the source of all of my problems.

My father, a bowtied English professor with a bushy mustache and an irrational love of tap dance, is a particularly tough nut to crack. Because his world exists somewhere between 1066 and 1898, he distrusts creative facial hair, unconventional hair styles, coconut, and men who show their shirtsleeves when there are ladies in the room. When in public, he often operates under a nom de guerre to avoid the impertinence of being asked his first name by someone to whom he has not been formally introduced. Pity the poor fool at Pizzeria Uno who cheerfully shouted into the microphone when our table was ready, “GHENGIS KHAN, PARTY OF FIVE! G. KHAN, PARTY OF FIVE.”

My mother exists at the epicenter of our family; she is the coordinator, the galvanizer, the tastemaker, the motivator. Without her, our family would be dreary and bare, without magic and excitement and beauty. My mother’s secret hope in life is that I will have many adventures while still retaining my chastity, and that I will marry a man who wears khakis and mixes a good gin martini.

Enter Fauxhawk with his creative hair, cargo pants, scruffy beard, cigarette addiction, and unusual love of seltzer as an alcohol substitute. Though he is a handsome, creative, well-read, witty devil, Fauxhawk is Satan's spawn as far as my parents are concerned. But despite the forces working against him, Fauxhawk has gamely – and bravely – set about to melt the giant glacier that separates him from my parents.

Phase 1: Kicks off with an inauspicious start. On the way to our first family dinner since getting back together, Fauxhawk is so full dread that walking with him is like dragging a basset hound to the vet to be euthanized. Exacerbating the situation is the absence of nicotine coursing through Fauxhawk's veins, which makes him feel as though his best friend has died. “It’s going to be okay!” I coo, realizing that I am full of shit and dreading it just as much as Fauxhawk. “I just want them to like me,” Fauxhawk says miserably. Despite being (mostly) ignored by my parents, brothers, nieces and nephew, Fauxhawk soldiers on. When we return Fauxhawk's place, he collapses in a heap from nervous exhaustion.

Phase 2: Weekend with my parents by the sea. Fauxhawk rakes leaves for two hours, brings an excellent present, and agrees with everything my parents say. My father makes eye contact twice, which is a personal record.



Phase 3: Dinner with parents, cousin and two freakshow family friends. The freakshow friends are so disreputable that my parents invite them together so they can “get it over with” and require our presence to create a human body shield. I am reluctant to bring Fauxhawk to this event, realizing that he might have second thoughts about me after witnessing this circus act. My cousin suggests doing shots before the guests arrive, which I decline, since there is not enough Jaegermeister on earth to get me through this evening, which includes spontaneous operatic outbursts, discussion of Jesus’ foot odor problem, incomprehensible Scottish folk tunes, and a discourse on eighteenth century French pornography. "I like your family," Fauxhawk says sweetly. I am skeptical, thinking he is still in suck-up mode.

The next day, my mother calls.

“Thanks for a lovely evening,” I say weakly.
“Oh my God. Thank you for coming,” my mom said. “And thank Fauxhawk. We needed him.”

Is that the sound of icicles dripping, of glaciers melting?
This is one meltdown I can handle.

If winter comes can spring be far behind?



Above images by Richard May