I told myself I was going to talk about my morning at a mega-church, but I’m not ready for that yet. I don’t have enough distance from the traumatic event. Besides, what good am I going to do coming on down on these sad, sad people? They already believe the poorly written lies of a sermoning, bald WASP who makes more money than them. In many ways, so do I. One could say Noam Chomsky is my ‘Pastor Bill.’ Hell, I would look at pictures of Noam Chomsky’s daughter’s wedding the Bahamas while an acoustic version of “How Great Is Our God” is played by a bearded young Christian. I would at least do it without sighing loudly and putting my head in my hands, as I did for the multimedia presentation detailing the happiness of Pastor Bill’s orange gymnast daughters.
My mom leaned over to me and whispered sharply, “Lara.” I guess the face I made caused her to laugh, because as the person whose vagina I came out of, she feels she has the right to laugh at my misery. “That’s gonna be you,” she taunted, shaking with silent giggles. “That will be you someday.”
She was so giggly this visit. I cracked a smile earlier that day when she said “ding-a-ling,” and she erupted all over the lunch table. I hope you really are this giddy, Mom, and not just back on your ‘nerve medicine.’ Avery women have long and rich history with such chemicals. If the Lifetime Channel had cartoons, that would be my mother on I on our respective sedatives. Wacky ladiez. Always crying, always candid–and unfortunately for everyone else, enjoying ourselves immensely.
My mother’s sister had a little taste of the Avery crazy when Mom and I “split” a bottle of wine. She had a glass and a half with dinner, and I the rest. We sat at the counter, watching Barb do the dishes, and suddenly I found myself talking about my future. Whether anyone asked me about my future I do not recall, but I began anyway, pounding on the marble when I spoke of other people my age and their “job searches.”
“It’s poin-less,” I slurred. “You have to be passionate ‘bout what you’re doing.”
“Mmhmm, mmhmm,” my mom replied, her finger drooping at me, “but everything is cheaper in Kansas.”
“Ugh! Mom!” If I wasn’t already sitting, I would have dramatically melted to a sitting position. “You’re not even lisssning!” I welled up.
“Who wants a piece of cake?” Barb said.
“Me,” I said through tears, then, “You’re not even lisssning to me, Mom!”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “I’m just saying, you could save up. Maybe move to Kansas City.”
“I can’t do that!” My mouth was probably stained purple. “I can’t be in that place! I get so depressed Mom. You have no idea.”
Barb put down a piece of cake in front of me. “Let’s go watch Marley and Me.”
“You guys have to support me!” I ate a bite of cake. ”No matter what! You can’t just keep pressuring me to do what you want!”
Mom looked down. She seemed tired. She said, “Okay. What kind of cake is that?”
Then we watched poor, fat Owen Wilson and his stupid dog, but my mom loved it. She sat in a chair in front of me and laughed and laughed.
I can’t believe her daughter is going to graduate from college. Her daughter is going to be an adult.
Occasionally she turned around and said to me, just floored with mirth, “That’s Puppy! That’s just like Puppy!” Puppy is our dog at home. And yes, the dog that played Marley does resemble Puppy.
What the fuck am I going to do with my life?
Filed under: Blogs I Have Written




