Man Up! (2 page)

M
y dad taught me how to swear when I was just seven years old. We were driving home from the dump on a bumpy country road in his old Dodge pickup truck, me sitting on his lap steering while he worked the pedals, sipped a cold Schimdt’s beer, and smoked a Marlboro. It was awesome. I couldn’t have had a better swearing coach. My dad was the quintessential man’s man—a mechanic and an avid hunter with a wonderfully naughty and raucous sense of humor.

“Shit,” my dad muttered under his breath after hitting a bump in the dirt road, knocking the ashes from his lit cigarette onto the floor of the truck.

“Shit,” I repeated, emulating him without thinking. I don’t know why I said it. I just kind of repeated it mindlessly the way my grandmother’s creepy parrots did. Immediately, I realized I had just said one of those bad words that I’d heard in the rap songs coming from my brother’s room. I panicked.

Surprisingly, my dad thought it was hilarious. “Well, look at you,” he chuckled. “Don’t worry, it’s okay. Say it again.”

My eyes widened. Was this some sort of trick? But I decided to risk it. My squeaky voice shouted, “Shit!”

He laughed. I continued. “Shit shit shit shit shit shit!”

I was swearing like a grown-up and it felt fantastic. I don’t know if it was just because of my swearing or the slight buzz he must have had after downing a few cold ones, but my dad was in hysterics. “Great! Now try saying ‘fuck’!”

“Fuck!” God, this was fun.

“What other ones do you know, Rocky?” My dad always called me Rocky, I’m guessing because I must have reminded him of Sylvester Stallone.

I thought for a while. “Well, I know ‘shit.’ And ‘fuck.’ And ‘poop.’…”

“Well, there are a bunch of other good ones, kiddo. I’ll teach you. But you have to promise me that you’ll only say them when you’re with me.”

“Forever?”

“Until you’re older. When you become a man, then you can swear whenever the hell you want.”

My dad must have known that a boy like me—sweet as pie and round as a cupcake—would most likely need some form of self-defense to get through life, so on that day he became my Mr. Miyagi of cussing. And to this day, thanks to him, even though I have the eyebrows and poise of a prize-winning beauty queen, I have the mouth of a road-hardened trucker.

He taught me that there is an art to swearing and, much like a chef mixes ingredients to build flavors, one can combine multiple obscenities for optimum effect. From then on, instead of a limp-fisted attempt at throwing down, I’d escape the wrath of bullies long enough to get away with a clever, “Go fuck yourself, you ball-fucking, shit-wiping, ass-
​cocking
shit-fucker!”

You’d be shocked at how well that works. Much like martial arts or a credit card, however, one must use such unsavory language sparingly so as not to go overboard.

Even with my arsenal of swear words, it wasn’t exactly easy growing up as me in Mount Vernon, Washington, a community too big to be considered a small town, but too small to be considered an actual city. Don’t get me wrong: it’s an absolutely lovely place full of kind-hearted people and an idyllic Main Street with brick sidewalks lining shops that sell charming items like windsocks and shotguns. With bragging rights that include exporting more tulips than Holland (put that in your wooden shoe and smoke it), Mount Vernon is also the hometown of some notable celebrities: actor James Caviezel, better known as Jesus from
The Passion of the Christ,
right-wing political commentator Glenn Beck, and…yours truly. Sing it with me, “One of these things is not like the other…”

Since I moved away in 1998 (about thirty seconds after graduating high school), an Olive Garden and a drive-through Starbucks have been built not far from where my mother still lives in the house where I was raised—a charming three-bedroom, two-bath rambler she and my father bought in 1978, a year before I came sashaying out of her uterus.

My mother worked as a bookkeeper at Mount Vernon High School, the very Mount Vernon High School where I once graced the stage as Henry Higgins in
My Fair Lady
(the lead role!) and sang in Synergy, the student jazz choir (very
Glee
, very ahead of its time). My mother is responsible for the delusional self-confidence that has made my career in the entertainment industry possible. Throughout my childhood, she was effusive with her compliments. Without fail, she would be the first to shower me with praise, always cheering, “You are
amazing
. You did
wonderfully
! You sing
beautifully
!”

Although she had the best of intentions, she may have been just a bit biased. Mother, I love you, but I’ve seen the VHS tapes of my performances, and although even Helen Keller could see my energetic passion, I was just okay.

If it’s the job of older siblings to torture the younger ones, then my brother Eric—four years my senior—deserves Employee of the Decade. He was a total a-hole to me back then, only ever paying attention to me long enough to steal the remote or maniacally gloat over his Mario Bros. victory. Even the way he beat me up was evil. He would make a fist and extend the knuckle of his middle finger just a bit so it made a pointy spike, ensuring that the bruise on my arm would be a slightly darker purple in the middle. To this day, I rarely wear purple, which is a terrible shame, since it really makes my eyes sparkle.

I kind of hated him growing up, but we get along very well now. In retrospect, I totally understand why he picked on me. After all, until I showed up on the scene, he was the star of the show. And then, all of a sudden, here came this annoying Judy Garland version of a little brother and he was expected to just go along with it?

My brother’s taunting aside, I was very blessed to be a part of a family that embraced my uniqueness. My parents didn’t bat an eye when I performed my rendition of the entire score to
Grease
in a backyard Broadway spectacular or when, instead of asking Santa for a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle for Christmas, I asked for a Cabbage Patch Kid…three years in a row…until I finally got one. His name was Randy, he had curly brown hair, and he was a Libra (just like me).

I was smart enough to know, though, that asking my parents for a Barbie doll was pushing it. So on my eighth birthday, after unwrapping yet
another
GI Joe, I improvised, leading to one of my greatest childhood discoveries: Play-Doh makes a fabulous miniwig in a pinch!

Adorned with perfectly sculpted heads of long, luxurious Play-Doh locks, my brigade of Joes was transformed into a bevy of Janes. With the addition of my one-of-a-kind haute couture toilet paper dresses, I single-handedly created Mount Vernon’s tiniest drag revue ever. Not to brag, but my resourcefulness is rivaled only by
McGyver
(note to self: pitch
McGAYver
as a show idea to Bravo).

Eventually my makeshift, low-budget Barbies didn’t cut it, so in order to afford the real deal, I had to get a job. I entered the workforce the summer before I turned thirteen and haven’t looked back since. I loved working and felt very Christina Applegate in
Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead
. Kids, if you haven’t seen this criminally underrated gem, do Uncle Ross a favor and Netflix it ASAP. You’re welcome in advance.

Because Mount Vernon is a town rich with agriculture, pretty much any kid could get summer employment working in the fields. So, for my very first job, I ended up picking spinach for a local farm alongside half the population of my middle school.

Day after day I would haul my pasty, chubby, prepubescent body out into the fields, separating the male and female spinach plants to prevent pollination. I was like a “crop cockblocker.”

Little known fact: male spinach plants have tiny yellow balls, and if you don’t remove them, they will knock up the girl spinach plants…or something like that. To be honest, I don’t really know—I barely know how it works with
people
—​but they paid me $4.25 per hour to do it, so I didn’t care.

Nearly two months into my career as a teen produce sexologist, my mind ripe with thoughts of a swelling bank account and fantasies of soon-to-be-purchased school clothes and glossy magazines of my very own, I was bitch-slapped by my first dose of outright homophobia.

Here’s how it went down: Halfway through a long day of hunting for veggie testicles, my small group of spinach castrators and I were ready for a break. I stood up to stretch my back for a just a moment, when a shout echoed across the field. It was a phrase I’ll never forget.

“Move your ass, faggot!”

I turned around to see my crew boss staring right at me, with a look of obvious contempt. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, but to me he was just a grown-up authority figure shouting what I still consider one of the worst words anyone could ever use. Sure, I’d heard that word before, but now that I was almost in my teens, I knew what it meant. I just stood there, dumbfounded. And then again, “Did you hear me, Ross? Move your ass, faggot!”

I’d like to say I took a “glamorous pause,” but in truth, I was paralyzed, frozen in the hot sun. I didn’t understand. I mean, he couldn’t possibly be talking to me.
Me?
Not to the boy whose mother calls him, “Momma’s most perfectest little angel face.”

It was the first time in my twelve young years that I really felt the force field of my parents’ love being shattered by the very real hatred and bigotry that exists in the world. I had absolutely no clue how to react.

I don’t even remember that guy’s name (let’s just call him “Homer Phobe”), but I’ll never forget his face. In fact, every once in a while I have a daydream about picking him out of a lineup like they do on reruns of
Law and Order: Special Victims Unit
. He steps toward the one-way mirror that protects my anonymity and Mariska Hargitay instructs him to repeat the phrase, “Move your ass, faggot.”

I nod sheepishly, recognizing the subtleties in his hostile tone. “That’s him.”

He’s then grilled by Christopher Meloni in a
very
dramatic prison cell scene. Next, after a commercial break, the jury erupts in spontaneous applause as I walk through the courtroom doors and take the stand to testify against him. My lawyer, Ryan Gosling (don’t ask, it’s my fantasy), and I masterfully recount the disturbing details and bring the truth to light. And as the jurors deliver their guilty verdict, my once-hardened assailant sheds his gruff exterior for the first time, comes to his senses, and silently mouths the words,
I’m sorry.

Holding back tears with my head held high, I bravely commit an act of true empathy by looking Homer Phobe directly in the eye and slowly—
very
slowly—whispering, “I…Forgive…You,” while Christopher Meloni nods in approval and Ryan Gosling gives me a lingering, victorious bear hug.

I’d like to say I handled it with that much class in real life, but I didn’t. At all.

In actuality, I obsessed about what he had said for the rest of the workday. I didn’t even enjoy my lunch, which is saying a lot because lunch was, and still is, my very favorite part of the day (well, tied with breakfast, dinner, and dessert). I was afraid, confused, and angry, but most of all, even at that age, I knew I just couldn’t let it go.

When the whistle finally blew at the end of our shift, we did the usual routine—boarded the rented school buses and departed from the fields. I sat about five rows behind my bigoted crew boss, Homer Phobe, and stared directly at the back of his hateful head. My anxiety grew as each kid before me was dropped off in front of his or her home. When we reached my house, I clutched my yellow rubber boots with my sweaty palm and nervously trudged down the stairs of the bus. Just as the accordion door began to close behind me, I whipped around and slapped my hand against it, holding it ajar.

Before the bus driver could even ask me what I was doing, I lifted my shaking twelve-year-old hand, pointed my index finger at Homer Phobe and stated loudly, for all to hear, in a manner that would make my father beam with pride, “THAT FUCKING ASSHOLE CALLED ME A FAGGOT AND I’M NOT GONNA STAND FOR THIS SHIT! I QUIT!”

Without waiting a single second for Mr. Phobe’s response, I let the bus door slam shut and ran for my ever-lovin’ life.

As I burst through the front door of my house, my mom looked up from reading the paper and asked, “How was work, honey?”

Running past her into my bedroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Except for the smudge of dirt on my cheek, I looked the same as I did when I had left that
morning
—​my round, freckled face darkened by the summer sun. But the change inside me was already evident. For the very first time in my life, I had made the decision to man up.

Smiling at my own reflection, I yelled back to my mother, “Spinach season is over.”

I couldn’t wait to tell my dad.

M
y romantic history with women is surprisingly vast. In my younger days, I was what my dad called a major “pussy magnet.” But, when you think about it, my gift to attract the ladies is one of nature's cruelest jokes. Why give someone like
me
that power? That's like giving a butterfly a hammer. Sure, hammers are cool, but what in the hell is a butterfly supposed to do with it?

Still, I tried. Why? Because even though, deep down, I always knew I liked boys, dating girls was just what I thought was expected of me. I felt the same way about having to take algebra, even though I was certain I'd never use the Pythagorean Theorem when I grew up. But, sometimes the most important part of learning who you are is discovering who you aren't.

My first girlfriend was in fifth grade. Her name was Becky and she was one of the popular girls, which I assumed would immediately increase my social status by leaps and bounds on the playground. Plus, I liked her mom a lot because she had the same hairstyle as the mom on
Picket Fences
. I've always trusted a woman with a sensible bob.

Becky and I started going out the same day my friend Tara began dating this boy named Caleb. Just two preteen couples, trying to make a go of it in this crazy world…

In elementary school, “going out” meant that you spent recess together, stood next to each other in line for lunch, and shared a seat on the bus, so it was just about the right level of commitment for a ten-year-old me.

Becky asked me to be her boyfriend as we boarded the bus for a field trip to Wild Waves Water Park, an annual event at my elementary school and the one day every year that I dreaded the most. As an adult, I'm
still
not comfortable enough with my body to take my shirt off in front of strangers, but when you're ten years old and have man boobs that could fill a bikini top better than most of your prepubescent female classmates, water parks are your absolute worst nightmare. I usually spent the entire field trip making excuses to not remove my shirt. “Naw, I'm cool. You guys go ahead,” I'd tell my friends while walking toward a pay phone. “I've gotta make a quick call.”

Then I'd listen to the dial tone for twenty minutes or so while nervously planning my next move. I know what you must be thinking: if I didn't want to take my shirt off, why didn't I just go on the water slides with a T-shirt on?
Because the only thing more lame than being the guy with man boobs is being that guy who wears a T-shirt in a swimming pool.
It's like trying to cover a blemish with a neon green Band-Aid. I might as well have used an entire decade's allowance to hire a skywriter to scribble
Ross Mathews has man boobs!
high above the water park for all my normal-chested classmates to see.

But Becky, for some reason, didn't seem to mind my physical deformities, probably because she had one of her own: her hair was an absolute mess. It had always bugged me, even before we were boyfriend and girlfriend. For some reason I'll never understand, her mother—the same mother whose own hairstyle gave me such joy—gave Becky a perm and put in waaaay too much gel, so she always looked like she had a ball of uncooked Top Ramen noodles on her head.

Despite our flagrant flaws, I agreed to commit to Becky as my one and only true love. I was thrilled. I was in a full-fledged, real relationship! Just like the people on TV—
very
Uncle Jesse and Aunt Becky on
Full House
.

Of course, I understood that being in a mature relationship wouldn't be easy. Going forward, compromise would be essential. I knew that if she wanted the red crayon, she could have it… just as soon as I was done with it. And if there was only one empty swing left on the playground, she could push me until the end of recess. That's how compromise works.

Unfortunately, Becky and I never made it to that stage of our relationship. On the very same day our romance began, it came to a sudden and screeching halt. During the bus ride home, her swimsuit still damp from Wild Waves fun, things got…complicated. After huddling with her friends in the seat next to ours, my main squeeze Becky turned to me and declared, “I'm breaking up with you. You're going out with Tara now.”

Her declaration hit me like a ton of Legos. “What?” I stammered. “I am? But I thought Tara just started going out with Caleb.”

“They
were
going out, but I just traded you for him. Go sit next to your new girlfriend.”

What a nasty bitch, right? She
traded
me?!? What am I, a lousy homemade bologna sandwich you try to swap for a store-bought Jell-O chocolate puddin' snack?

In hindsight, I wish I would've told her to take her crunchy hair and get bent, but I didn't. I just went along with it, which was totally unfair because my new girlfriend Tara wore tan corduroys and smelled like Thousand Island dressing. Luckily for me, though, my new relationship with Tara was even shorter than my previous one with Becky. Not two minutes after I sat down next to her, both of us glaring at our exes-turned-happy-couple, Tara added insult to injury when she huffed, “This isn't working. I think we should see other people.”

Women—am I right?

I was left emotionally scarred and for years refused to get close to any woman other than Little Debbie or Debbie Gibson. It wasn't until I entered the seventh grade and turned thirteen that I met the girl of my dreams, a fabulous young lady so full of verve and panache that one couldn't help but compare her to a young Liza Minnelli. She simply had to be mine!

Maria was a spicy senorita whose last name, ironically enough, was the same as my favorite brand of salsa. She had silky-smooth dark hair, big brown eyes, and ruby red lips. She was dainty and delicate, resembling one of Marie Osmond's signature collectible porcelain dolls from QVC. That is, until your eyes strayed from her angelic face and down to her prematurely large breasts. Seriously, this fourteen-year-old girl had the jugs of a middle-aged cocktail waitress.

Despite her Double D-lightful endowments, we started dating immediately. This consisted mainly of talking on the telephone for hours each and every night, about anything and everything—from drama in our middle school to drama in the Middle East. On the weekends, we would go to the movies together, holding hands in the dark and reaching various make-out milestones while watching classics like
Aladdin
(our first kiss),
The Bodyguard
(our first under-the-sweater action) and the Elizabeth Perkins existential gem,
Indian Summer
(during which we engaged in something I would later learn from my older brother was affectionately referred to as “finger banging”).

No, your eyes are not deceiving you. I did indeed take a “hands-on” approach with precious Maria. You may be surprised to learn that I was particularly adept at manual stimulation. I was so talented, in fact, that Maria and I were kicked out of
Indian Summer
because of her audible pleasure. Yeah, I'm
that
good! I wish I knew how to share my technique with you all, but I just can't put my finger on it.

It's a well-known fact that girls mature faster than boys. And when you consider that Maria was a full year older than me, you essentially have the equivalent of Samantha from
Sex and the City
dating Doogie Howser. Yep, Maria was a fourteen-year-old cougar and, like her feline namesake, she was hungry for raw meat. My raw meat. And by “raw meat,” I mean my wiener.

She was downright insatiable, and I was on 24/7 crotch watch, constantly swatting her hand away from my private area and finding increasingly creative excuses not to go any further. “Oh Maria, I so very much wish I could do that with you,” I'd try to cover, as my panicked voice built in both speed and pitch. “But I simply must leave right this very moment, because it's Thursday and Thursday is the day I read the latest issue of
Reader's Digest
to the lonely old senior citizens at the retirement center and I have to grab some hot tea with honey because they love it when I do the voices, but I've had this tickle in my throat all day and I really don't want to let them down because they're so very old and frail and I'm all they have in this horrible world and they could die at any moment. So, as flattered as I am, Maria, by your incessant clawing at
that
area, I've really got to
get the fuck outta here!!!
  ”

Apart from lying to her sexually frustrated face to avoid any physical contact beyond my fancy fingerwork, I was an absolute perfect boyfriend. I was so attentive to my number one gal, in fact, that every single night I called KBRC, Mount Vernon's local AM radio station, and requested our song.

I'd turn up the volume and hug my radio when I finally heard the DJ croon, “There's nothing sweeter than puppy love, is there? This one goes out from Rossy-Wossy to his little burrito of love, Maria. Here's Whitney Houston with ‘I Will Always Love You'…”

Maria was cruelly ripped from my life when her family decided to leave our small town for the bright lights of Las Vegas. Suddenly our song went from “I Will Always Love You” to Roxette's “It Must Have Been Love.” God, teen love can be painful.

But, alas, life goes on, and soon I was ready to love again. I briefly dated a girl named Danni who had perfect eyebrows and lived in the trailer park behind my middle school. Her parents had a
Kama Sutra
book we secretly flipped through before making out. We found the exotically erotic images arousing, confusing, and intriguing at the same time, much like how I feel now while watching the Food Network. I ran into Danni recently at Wilsons Leather the last time I visited my hometown. She was the proud mother of three great kids and two still-amazing eyebrows.

My most serious relationship with a woman was in high school. We got to know each other in those steamy hotbeds of sordid teen romance known as Drama Class, Jazz Choir, and Debate Club. Carrie was gorgeous: Long strawberry-blonde hair, milky-white skin, adorable freckles, and an ample bosom.

She was assigned the job as my official dresser throughout my award-worthy portrayal of Henry Higgins in the Mount Vernon High School production of
My Fair Lady
, helping me in and out of my costumes (which is
almost
as sensual as it sounds). Once Carrie saw me in my polka-dot boxer shorts and top hat during intermission, she was hooked. So was I. After all, much like Barbra Streisand, she was a triple threat: smart, funny, and talented. In a show-biz minute we became the very best of friends, spending nearly every waking moment together. Eventually, we shared the ultimate bonding experience between a man and a woman: a makeover!

Although I adored Carrie's long flowing hair, it was undeniably dry and suffering from unfortunate split ends. It simply wasn't an accurate reflection of her bouncy, lustrous personality. Frankly, she deserved better hair, and I was just the man who could help! So, not unlike the
My Fair Lady
character I so magically portrayed onstage, I convinced my very own real-life Eliza Doolittle to cut that unsightly haystack into a sleek, sophisticated bob.

I offered reassuring looks and approving nods as she sat in the pleather chair of the beauty salon conveniently located in the strip mall between Thrifty Foods and Little Caesar's Pizza. As I describe this, please imagine the song “Pretty Woman” playing over alternating shots of scissors snipping and long strands of bone-dry, beige hair floating down to the linoleum floor. When the skilled-but-affordable stylist finally swiveled Carrie around to face me and whipped the protective black nylon smock from her alabaster neck, I was in love. Her new 'do looked so healthy and strong! There, staring up at me was the stunningly perfect combination of Posh and Ginger Spice!! I squealed with delight, clapping my hands and enthusiastically jumping up and down while screaming,
“So pretty!!!”

Talk about turned on. Her new look knocked me for such a loop that we made out that night. A lot.

In hindsight, and now with some life experience under my belt, making out with a girl is much like making out with a guy—except softer and much less enjoyable. It's not that I wasn't into it, per se, but I approached it more like a lab experiment than a hormone-fueled sexcapade. It was as if I were studying rocks instead of getting my rocks off. Lighting a Bunsen burner as opposed to burning with desire. I was merely trying to pass the class, not trying to tap that ass.

(Honesty moment: The previous paragraph contains absolutely everything I know about both women
and
science.)

My special friendship with Carrie quickly progressed, and before I knew it, we were officially boyfriend and girlfriend. I found committed relationships in high school to be very different than when I had gone out with girls in grade school. Back then, simply sitting on the bus and holding hands was enough to satisfy my partner. But in the eleventh grade, the stakes were much higher. I knew what was coming and I was terrified.

It happened at her house. Allow me to set the scene: it was just the two of us, lying on her bed, watching the ultimate aphrodisiac of animated movies, the film that no doubt has led many innocent teens to carelessly fling themselves into the fiery pit of passion:
The Lion King
.

I was somewhat taken aback when, during the most dramatic scene in the movie, the one in which Simba's father is (spoiler alert!) brutally killed, Carrie got up and left the room. I thought about hitting Pause on the VCR when I heard the shower go on in the adjacent bathroom. I wasn't overly concerned. After all, Carrie and I had watched this movie like seven times together before, so it's not like she was missing anything. Besides, that scene always made me feel dirty, too. She probably couldn't bear to watch that heart-wrenching moment yet again.
I hope she takes her time in there,
I thought to myself,
you know—loofah, exfoliate, deep-condition…