Fiddley Gomme - Favorites

Mommies, Dearest

Pete — Sat, 03 Nov 2007 01:28:50 -0400

Donna reminded me the other day that, while I spend a good deal of time bitching about my current problems, I rarely talk about what she feels is a more likely candidate as the root of my problems... my parents. I've mentioned my mother from time-to-time before. Her neglect, her awkward boundary issues and even how she got knocked-up back in the summer of love. So this time, let's give my dad a turn.

My father is what some would call a compulsive groom. A serial marrier. He just can't manage to stay single no matter how hard he tries. He falls into marriages, despite his obvious lack of matrimonial ability, with surprising ease. My brothers and I have run out of ways to address all of our mothers.

First, of course, is Mom. Our biological mother. That one is pretty obvious.

Then there was Elizabeth. We just called her Elizabeth. Because, well... we were still new at the step-mom thing and didn't know how important it would be to distinguish her from the parade of moms that would follow her. Besides, we were all grown and married ourselves by the time Dad married her so it's not like we had to live with her or anything. And since we were introduced to her by way of a phone call telling us they had just celebrated their nuptials on the eighteenth green of the Pebble Beach golf course, we figured there wasn't too much expectation that we would get all huggy-kissy with her.

Somewhere along the way Elizabeth and Dad grew apart... or whatever. And some time later, Iris came along. Iris was German and, as Dad reminded me almost every time I spoke with him, bisexual. They met on the internet and married after she had considerable trouble entering the United States via Canada. I had another new mom. She was, in age, between me and my older brother. It pleased me to no end to eventually think to call her Grandma Iris. We even got the kids to do it too.

One Christmas she brought some holiday treats for the cast of a show I was in. They were made from communion wafers. No shit. My castmates still delight in reminding me that my new mom fed them the flesh of the Savior. "Jesus Christ, these cookies are delicious!"

Surprisingly, that whole deal didn't work out.

Now Dad is with Genie. Genie is now my new new mom and Grandma Iris has become my old new mom. Genie is lovely and a (finally) age-appropriate companion for my father. She has at least two daughters that I've met and, who knows, there might be even more.

So to recap... there's Mom, Elizabeth, my old new mom Grandma Iris, and my new new mom Genie.

I'm just jealous of my older brother. After all, he's the only one who has ever been to any of my dad's weddings. Even if it was while he was in the womb.

UPDATE: I read this post live in February 2008

Mommies, Dearest from Jon Deal on Vimeo.

At Your Cervix

Pete — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 09:26:24 -0400

Because we've decided that five is simply one too many weddings to finance before we're forty-five, Donna has had an intrauterine device entrenched in defense of her fertile-as-the-Tenessee-River-valley uterus for a couple of years. Crammed in her cervix just like God intended. Or wherever it is they jam those things.

Sorry, I haven't had a close look for myself lately to know the specifics. Also, I don't think cram and jam are the exact terms that reproductive medical professionals use for this sort of installation. It does send and receive SMS messages though, so that's cool. At least, I presume that it does based on what our insurance company paid for it. I mean, for nine-hundred bucks, it had better have an IP address and run some flavor of UNIX.

Being the high-tech, bionic fishing lure that it is, the IUD requires some kind of regular maintenance. Lube and oil change, probably. So Friday Donna took it in for its fifty-thousand mile maintenance and to have her airbags safety inspected.

Ever since the first time we had sex after the IUD was implanted, I've complained that I can feel it poking my wiener during the sacred act. So much so that I am often a bit reserved when it comes to... um... fully athletic thrusting. I asked her to ask Dr. Ticklefingers to have a look to make sure the bobber or sinker... or whatever wasn't hanging off of her lady bits into her V-J-J... or whatever.

After her appointment I got a phone call from Donna.

"Hey, Dr. T offers his compliments."

"Oh, Why? for having such a fabulous vagina at my beck and call?"

"No. He says he had a look at the IUD and that it's far enough in my cervix that it would take a pretty impressive tool to find it all the way up there."

"Pff... figures. I guess this is the cross I bear. The thick and lengthy cross I bear."

"Uh oh..."

"What?"

"You're going to blog about this, aren't you?"

"Umm... maybe."

Bench Warmers

Pete — Tue, 17 Apr 2007 18:20:02 -0400

I don't need random freaks stalking my children, it's bad enough the Primary President drops by from time-to-time. To keep the creeps at bay, I don't post pictures of my children. I think I may have found a loophole though.

Turning their backs on me already.

The Bishop's Daughter

Pete — Wed, 07 Mar 2007 16:28:01 -0500

Back in 1969, my grandfather was a Bishop in the Monument Park Stake on the very exclusive, very Mormon, east bench of Salt Lake City, Utah. This was at a time where there were only, believe it or not, eight stakes in the Salt Lake valley. In other words, everybody knew the family. They were high-profile and well-respected. To this day, I often meet people whom I've never met who know my grandfather and refer to him as "Bishop".

My mother was 19 at the time. My father, just a bit older. Of course, they weren't my mom and dad then. They were just two crazy kids in love... in love with sex. As a result, late in 1969, my older brother was conceived. There was just one thing missing... the ring.

Yep, my brother is a bastard. Well, except that in February 1970, my parents were rushed into an ill-fated marriage in order to save face for my mother's family among their friends, ward members, and colleagues. To this day, when my dad hears the word shotgun, he ducks.

I had no idea about any of this until, in the fifth grade, I was writing a report on my family for a school assignment.

"Mom, when is your wedding anniversary?"

"Feb. 5, 1970"

"1970? That's not right... Erik was born in August of 1970. That's only... 6 months."

-long, awkward pause-

"Yeah. We were married in 1970."

I was a math prodigy and this equation wasn't that difficult. Suddenly, so much of the life around me made sense. No wonder my dad felt trapped in our family. He was. No wonder my mother acted as if she were married to a man she didn't love. She was.

This memory came flooding back a few nights ago when I was quizzing Megan about her MSN Messenger buddy list.

"Who's on your list?"

"A bunch of friends."

"Did you meet them all in real life before you knew them online?"

"Yes, dad. They are all my friends."

"I don't know punkyprincess96. Who is she?"

"Dad, she's fine. She's the Bishop's daughter. It's not like she's going to get into any trouble."

UPDATE: I read this post live in February 2008

The Bishop's Daughter from Jon Deal on Vimeo.

Guh-lossary

Pete — Thu, 16 Nov 2006 11:50:00 -0500

As the parents of four daughters (pick yourselves up, you heard me right... try to keep the karma comments to a minimum) Donna and I decided early on that we would need a less clinical term when referring to... ahem... a girl's... umm... junk. I mean, I'm fairly certain you can't even say the word "vagina" within 100 feet of an open diaper in Utah. Something to do with the Utah Clean Mouth Act or whatever.

My sister-in-law (who I would just as soon karate-chop in the throat as talk to) uses the term "Vahgeegee". I think that might actually be a character from the Book of Mormon, so we opted against that. Plus, you sound like a french interior decorator when you say it.

We instead opted for "ToTo" (Hurry boy she's waiting there for you...). I still feel like an idiot saying it but it seems better than sounding like my high school health teacher for some reason.

A friend of Donna's is less cutesy. She says, with strong emphasis on the first syllable... "GUH -(pause... wait for it...)- gyna". She says it as often as possible and, trust me, it never, never, ever fails to be funny. So funny, in fact, that I regularly substitute the "G" with other consonants to create new, vulgar and hilarious words.

Here they all are, in alphabetical order. A handy GUH-lossary of vulgar words that rhyme with vagina, along with their definitions and useful sample sentences for you to use in everyday conversation.

Buh-gyna : A bum in a sexual context.
You don't sit on your buh-gyna, you get fucked in it.

Cuh-gyna : Your cousin's vagina.
I guess Jenny had too much to drink at our aunt's wedding because all my brothers told me about her cuh-gyna. Of course, I already knew about it.

Duh-gyna : An obvious or conspicuous vagina.
I didn't know where to put my hands next, then it was obvious... her duh-gyna.

Fuh-gyna : A romantic vagina.
After the candlelit dinner we took a carriage ride through the park. It was then I proposed to her and softly stroked her fuh-gyna.

Guh-gyna : A vagina.

Huh-gyna : A vagina out of context.
So our teacher just started talking about her huh-gyna right there in class. We were all pretty confused.

Juh-gyna : Kosher vagina.
My rabbi says that juh-gyna is the only meat the Tora allows us to pork.

Kuh-gyna : The martial art dealing with protection of the vagina.
When I reached up her skirt she used her kuh-gyna moves to block my arm. Now I am an expert in "whacks on, whacks off".

Luh-gyna : A French vagina.
When I was a student in Paris I scored a lot of Luh-gyna.

Muh-gyna : One's own vagina.
I like it when he puts his mouth on muh-gyna.

Nuh-gyna : An unavailable vagina.
Sometimes when she's mad at me she doesn't let me near her nuh-gyna.

Puh-gyna : A penis.
Once, when I was drunk, I accidentally put my puh-gyna in her buh-gyna.

Quh-gyna : An inflated vagina.
After we do it doggy-style she sometimes has to fart from her Quh-gyna.

Ruh-gyna : A Canadian vagina. Also, the capital of the Canadian province of Saskatchewan. Not to be confused with Saskatoon, or animated Eskimo porn.
Gloria Ruh-gyna.

Suh-gyna : More than a little, but not a lot of vagina.
We dated on and off. I managed to get suh-gyna and a couple of BJ's.

Tuh-gyna : (plural) Identical vaginas.
Teri and Tonya Borden were some fine tuh-gyna.

Vuh-gyna : Antiquated medical term for the guh-gyna.
The handsome doctor used his speculum to gaze deep into her vuh-gyna.

Wuh-gyna : A Russian vagina.
Now that last westiges of communism gone, is safe for American to cruise St. Petersburg for wuh-gyna.

Xuh-gyna : A Chinese vagina.
If the child is born with a xuh-gyna, they will probably sell it to rich, sterile Americans.

Yuh-gyna : Object form of someone else's vagina.
Did you really let that loser finger yuh-gyna at the party?

Zuh-gyna : A German vagina.
Get into ze Volkswagen, take off zuh panties unt let me see zuh-gyna.

Night School

Pete — Wed, 15 Nov 2006 10:47:03 -0500

Sometime around midnight Donna and I heard a voice from the doorway of our bedroom, "Mom... Dad... hey..."

It was our twelve-year-old daughter, Megan. We hadn't noticed her come into the room as I had been busy under the covers gently, yet firmly pressure testing Donna's bartholin's glands and she was preoccupied moaning and begging me to, and I quote, "hurry up and stick it in [her]". One thing we were certain of is that Megan had been standing there a little longer than any of us would have liked.

"Get the hell out of here!" I instantly reacted.

"And close the door behind you!" followed Donna, catching her breath.

I have no idea how much our little girl knows about S. E. X. I have a suspicion that it is more than I want to believe, FAR more than Donna would like to believe but still a healthy distance from complete. This is as it should be, she's twelve. We know we can't stop her from finding out more than we could imagine being comfortable with but we had at least hoped she would have picked up most of the details from... well...I don't know... somewhere other than the open doorway of our bedroom.

This morning, when I asked Megan about what happened, she played dumb. "I don't even remember going to your room last night, daddy."

"I just want you to know that I'm not mad at you and you didn't do anything wrong."

"Whatever, Dad. Can you correct my math?"

Ah, at least I managed to successfully teach her denial... or at least lying. Either way, she's well-equiped and I was happy to have the subject changed.

Between a Rack and a Hard Place

Pete — Thu, 24 Aug 2006 12:18:41 -0400

A few nights ago I noticed while flipping through the on-screen cable guide that The History Channel was to air a 2-hour show, The Egyptian Book of the Dead. It was to air that night at ten o'clock. I was giddy.

I am not particularly interested in Egyptian antiquities specifically, though all aspects of history are of interest to me. In this case I hoped that by innocently tuning in and watching that Donna would happen to recognize a few of the more-than-coincidental similarities between the Book of the Dead papyrus and the published-as-Mormon-scripture, Book of Abraham Facsimiles. And while I hold no false illusion that exposure to this information would cause her to once and for all shed her Pioneer Birth Control^tm I did hope that a dose of objectivity might prep her mind for the truth of the matter at a later date.

The truth of course being that the papyrus Joseph Smith claimed had been written by Abraham, even "by his own hand, upon papyrus", was nothing more than the most common burial document in all of ancient Egypt. A document that since the time of Joseph Smith has been correctly translated and which has nothing whatsoever to do with Abraham, Christianity, Mormonism, the pre-mortal existence, or any of that other nonsense.

I settled into bed right at ten. I could hear Donna brushing her teeth in the bathroom.

"Hey, this show is starting, you wanna come watch?"

"I'll be right there", she called back.

"More that 25,000 in tact copies of the Book of the Dead have been unearthed in Egypt", began the narrator as images nearly identical to the published BOA Facsimiles flashed on the screen. "Thanks to the Rosetta Stone, we can know with accuracy exactly what the ancient Egyptians believed about the afterlife. The spells they took with them and their superstitions about what await them if unprepared." This was perfect.

Donna entered the bedroom. I deduced that her garments now lay in a pile in the closet as she approached me wearing a fabulous new piece of lingerie. She had a look on her face that told me she meant business. Monkey business.

"Shit", I said comically, "I was really looking forward to this show."

I was telling the truth but I said so thick with sarcasm. I would never lead her to believe that television was more important that gettin' our thang on. It wasn't. I knew however that this opportunity was lost. For the next little while we would be violating the counsel of Mormon prophets by practicing impure and unnatural acts. After that, she would be fast asleep.

I quickly asked myself the question I always asked when faced with a dilemma, "What would Joseph Smith do?" That made the decision clear in my mind. I switched off the TV, closed my eyes, and imagined angels with flaming phallus threatening my eternal salvation.

A healthy-but-not-rediculous amount of time later we were basking in the warmth of afterglow. Donna switched the TV back on and watched for a few minutes. There was still some time left in the program maybe she would get some exposure after all.

"BYU has a copy of the Book of the Dead in it's collection", I mused. "A really famous copy."

"Oh", Donna feigned interest. She was fading fast.

"Yeah. Joseph Smith owned it."

"Humph", was her response.

I left it at that. The next morning I pulled my copy of "By his own hand upon papyrus" out of my nightstand and left it sitting innocently next to the bed. Maybe she'll take notice, maybe she won't. I've learned not to push these things.

Hey, at least I got laid.

Is This So Wrong?

Pete — Wed, 16 Aug 2006 10:25:08 -0400

Sally Field is hot. She always has been. Gidget, The Flying Nun (What is it about nuns that is SO hot?), Smokey and the Bandit, the braless Norma Rae, Sybil ("I want to be YOUR little girl!"). Hot, hot, hot. Who cares if she's older than my mother? She's hot.

Now, I find myself once again predictably aroused by her in an ad for an osteoporosis medicine. She keeps talking about how she told her girlfriend how hard it makes your bones. It then cuts to a shot of her eating a piece of fruit with her eyes closed in slow motion.

And then, as if I weren't aroused enough, she says the name of the product, "Boniva". Gawd, could it get any better than this? "Boniva", she says again matronly. This is some great advertising.

As a 32 year old man I'm not exactly the target demographic for osteoporosis medicine. Even still, you bet your brittle hump I'm going to ask my gynecologist about it the first chance I get.