Klingon Ho!

I don't write much about my mother, first for mortal fear of offending her, and second, from a dislike of supplying her with even more ammunition against me, but lately it's occured to me that since she doesn't read anything I write anyway, I'm probably in the clear.

My mother thinks I should learn Klingon. No, wait: let me rephrase that: my mother thinks I should move back home (because what's more attractive than a woman who is almost 50 who lives with her parents?) so that I can enroll in the local state college in a night class in Klingon. The point is not to learn Klingon, mind you, or to expand my glorious knowledge of linguistics, or to exercise my brain cells to prevent further deterioration. No: my mother wants me to take Klingon so I can Meet a Man.

Her reasoning: smart people learn Klingon. Smart nerdy men who don't have girlfriends learn Klingon. If I'm lucky, one of those smart nerdy virgins will simply not notice my age and be so thrilled to be in the proximity of my rapidly waning estrogen that he won't notice anything except my tatas, and be content. In other words, if he's over 18, my mother reasons, he's game.

There are some problems with this whole line of thinking. First of all, I know several people who are fluent in Klingon, including a Catholic priest with a Ph. D in linguistics, and trust me, he ain't interested. I also have several married male friends who are fine husbands and good fathers who speak Latin and Klingon and yes, even Esperanto, and guess what, they're not interested either. (Two way street, that.) On the flip side of the coin, I know several incredibly socially awkward young men who think they can speak Klingon, but who are far more likely to shout "Q'apla!" (sorry, didn't know where to put accent mark) and call it a day before they race home and squeeze themselves into the XXL vinyl authentic Klingon battle dress they ordered at Comic Con (damn those Klingon sizes! Pass me the talc!) 

I once knew one of those man boys: at 24 he worked as a fry cook at McDonald's, where he had flipped patties for 7 years without once making it off the fry line into counter service, or even drive-through. He wore the same vinyl coat (looks almost like real leather!) year in and year out, summer or winter: in fact, he wore it under his regulation McDonald's uniform but as the line leader was afraid of him nothing was said. It was not fear perhaps so much as an olfactory sense kicking in: in order to correct his behavior she would have had to get close enough to him to say something as delicate as "Take off that fucking piece of crap!" As I recall, when McDonald's stopped giving its workers free food, he decided to dine solely off those things which were free, namely condiments, and he began to feast on exquisite lunches of pickles, mustard, and ketchup, which didn't help the odor problem any.

As I related all this to my mother, her eyes glazed over, and she stared thoughtfully into the distance. Suddenly her eyes focused, and she glared at me. "Does he have a car?" she asked. "Yes," I replied, "It's a 70's model El Camino."  "Don't be such a snob. He can still take you places," she snapped. Hmm. Let's see. He's 24. I'm 47. Yes, there are so many places a couple in love can go, particularly when neither are thin and one is --how shall I put this?-- stinky.