Pixie Dust Redemption

We all have our parental issues and I’ve probably overshared on here about my issues with my mom. In case you’ve missed it, the short version is her Jesus doesn’t so much like the fact that her womb produced homosexual offspring. Having recently been around nearly all of her family at the funeral of her mother, my amazing grandmother, I’ve even confirmed that the gay runs on her side. She also refuses to see the humor in that, believing that my “lifestyle” is somehow of my own choosing.


During our initial conversations after my coming out, she searched for answers as to how I could have arrived at the conclusion that I’m gay. She tried to blame teachers, my psychotic father, my liberal Baptist college, my semester abroad or some of my friends. After none of those quite panned out, I finally tried to convince her that it was actually Disney’s fault. Yep, that’s right; blame the mouse. Ok, not so much the mouse, but Tinkerbell. She’s the one that done it.

You see, Tinkerbell and I had an altercation once. I was on a band trip to DisneyWorld when I was 14. The trip was really fraught with disaster after calamity. Just prior to the trip I dislocated my knee cap, which left me trying to hobble around Disney and Universal on crutches. Once we landed, the first hurricane of the season blew in and once we got back home, our plane caught on fire. And while all of these things certainly helped to shape my fairly overall poor impression of Florida, I think it was my run-in with Tinkerbell that’s left the longest lasting mark.

Prior to arriving at the Magic Kingdom we were given instructions to meet beside the castle at the end of the day so we could be counted and herded back on the bus. A friend and I had spent the day together and being the good nerds we were (shout out to all the band AND academic team kids) we showed up early. However, after waiting a few minutes no one else from our group was in sight. After a few more minutes passed, the park was about to start the closing fireworks and still none of our group was anywhere to be found.

If you’ve been to DisneyWorld, you know that part of the daily closing ceremony is for a metallic, robotic Tinkerbell to fly out of the castle. She flits about the park sprinkling pixie dust and then flies back into the castle just in time for the fireworks to start. Prior to this occasion, I had never been to DisneyWorld and wasn’t familiar with my fairy friend or her usual route. So, in an attempt to find some of our group, I decided I would stand on a bench (bum knee and all) and see if I could see over the crowd to find people. It was about the time that I stood up completely and the crowd came into focus that I felt it. WHOMP!!! I felt a hard thud against the side of my head. I turned to see what had just attacked me and then felt it again. WHOMP!!! This time the impact was right in the center of my forehead. I had the good sense to duck before round three started, realizing that each impact was propelling my forward bound assailant backwards. I then looked up to see Tinkerbell flying off and realized I was covered in her sparkly pixie dust.

Yes, kids. I was attacked by a metal (cuz yes, Miss Tinkerbell packs a punch), robotic Tinkerbell as she flew on fishing wire in The Happiest Place on Earth. It’s at this moment that I like to imagine I was confirmed as a gay. Sort of a christening, if you will. As you might imagine, my mom isn’t convinced by this explanation either.

However, a couple of times in the past few months she seems to be making a new kind of peace with me. She wanted me to bring my boyfriend to the funeral and was upset with me when I didn’t. She even talked to me about wanting to spend more time with him and get to know him. Just last night, she talked to me about not wanting to upset what family we have now that the great glue that held us together has passed away.

It’s with all of this in mind that I decided to take my mom to DisneyWorld for her 60th birthday next month. She’s never flown, been to Florida or seen the ocean, so I’m packing lots of firsts into one weekend. But, I’m hoping to take a moment somewhere near the scene of the crime to grab my mom’s hand and press the reset button. Maybe we can get a little sprinkling of pixie dust, take a breath of Florida air and let the past fall away.

I don’t have any delusion that she’s going to join PFLAG, but I do hope that our weekend together will give us a chance to just be mom and son for once without all of the other baggage. Then, we can start from there. Since I didn’t sue the mouse over my head injury and emotional distress, I think he at least owes me that much.

Christmas Phrase

I couldn’t quite figure out how to work this story into the earlier post, but I had to share the story.

My grandmother might just be my hero. It’s not uncommon to hear people refer to 80 year old women as “pistols” or “spitfires,” but I’m sure that these words were truly only meant to describe her. As an octogenarian, she stays up to 3am to watch Jerry Springer. This is where she learned the word “dominatrix.” I then had to witness her teach it to my mother just about a year ago. She also makes sure she is up by 11 to watch “The Price is Right” and take her mornin’ medicine.

She grew up in a coal mining camp in Harlan County and certainly knows the meaning of hard times. However, she’s the most upbeat and constantly positive person I know. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard her say anything terribly negative, including when my grandfather, her husband of 50 years, died.

She’s as unique as her name. Her name is Vittidene. She goes by Vitt for short. I’ve been told any number of stories about where her name came from and I’m not sure that I completely believe any of them. All I know is that when she ended up having a surprise twin sister (because, c’mon this was 1930), having already decided upon Vittidene, they named her younger twin Zittidene.

I tell this much about my wonderful grandmother to tell you the story of her Christmas phrase. Vitt is prone to throwing around the 4 letter word. One of our favorite family stories is of her calling her only son a “son of a bitch” and his response of, “you would know; you’re my mom”. Her word selection is usually limited to a “dammit” or “well, hell far.” You'll have to use your Southeast Kentucky accent to get that means “fire”. She will always refer to the wasps that appear in the summer as “little bastards” when they start trying to get in her hummingbird feeder. Vitt will never drop an f-bomb. In 30 years, I’ve never heard it. Though this year, Vitt has decided her Christmas phrase is “fuck it”.

This all started when she got frustrated with my aunt. My aunt keeps a deep freeze at my grandmother’s house. She’d called two nights in a row and asked Vitt to get some items out for her to come by and pick up. However, being maybe 5 feet tall, 80 years old and unable to handle cold very well, rummaging shoulder deep in a freezer while on her tippy-toes was not her idea of a fun evening. Apparently, it wasn’t terribly productive either.

She informed me that she had stacked a few things she’d already sorted through on one side of the freezer. She’d been digging around for over 10 minutes and getting more and more frustrated the more she dug. She was cold. My aunt should really be doing this herself. Why did she need to keep so much damned shit anyway? Then, the previously sorted stack fell over, spilling everything she’d already looked through and scattering it across the deep freeze. It was then that she yelled, “Fuck it! Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it!” In her telling and my uncle’s eyewitness account, she stood there shouting that phrase for the better part of a minute. My uncle, both shocked and amused looked on while the search for a certain Schwan’s frozen food item came to a halt. 

When my grandmother was telling me this story, she concluded it with “I’ve decided that’s my Christmas phrase. Fuck it. If I feel like bein’ good, I might say frig it.” And I have to say, I kind of like that as a Christmas phrase. There’s something kind of liberating about saying “fuck it” to the Christmas mess. Yes, I’ll participate and go to the parties and hang out with the family. I’ll even enjoy it. But, the second I feel frustrated by little arguments, traffic or oddly shaped presents I can’t wrap, I’m saying “fuck it” and not letting it get to me. It’s Christmas and we’re supposed to be happy and enjoying the most wonderful time of the year. Plus, as a wise woman recently told me, “it’s been too damned cold outside to have to spend your time inside digging through a friggin’ deep freeze”. 

Again, Merry Christmas. 

Love,

Jupe