In 2009, I flew to Arizona to celebrate my grandmother's birthday. A, as I'll call her, had suffered strokes earlier in the year and I hadn't seen her in awhile so, thinking this was my last chance, I flew my ass to the hot ass area known as Phoenix.
For the most part, it was fine. A is fucking awesome, so much so in fact, that I'd like to act like that is why I call her A. But really, the name my brothers and I call her starts with A. So, yeah, she's rad. My mom, brothers, dog, and I lived with her and her husband when we were little for a school year. Later in life I realized that I liked my tuna sandwiches made with just mayo and left laying around for a few hours because that is how it was when A made them. Even when my little family found our own place, A's was a great place to go. She taught me to sew, let me polish her silver (which is much funner when you are little), and just paid me the time of day.
So yeah, flying out to celebrate her birthday was rad. In fact, my whole visit was petty good until the actual day of A's birthday. That day, a friend of my mother's hit on me. HARD. It was not just petty flirting. He was talking to me very inappropriately and, in the end, rubbed an ice cube on my chest. I was so uncomfortable that, after she drove him home, I told my mom about it.
OK, that doesn't sound bad but let me put it in perspective. I was in my late 20's and I felt so bad that I told my MOM about it! My mother and I are not close. I don't tell her things about life or boys or anything. This was fucking hard.
Mom took it well. She told me she would talk to him and, eventually, she did. He didn't remember a thing. But he was ashamed of himself.
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