Wanderlush

By David Robert

When David, a self-proclaimed anxiety-ridden introvert, convinces himself hes dying of cancer, he invites his delightfully unpredictable, Xanax-popping, chardonnay-swilling mother on a series of international good-bye vacations. By doing so, he unwittingly opens a Pandoras Box of hilarious and humiliating events that will test just how far they are willing to go to get a laugh.

David knows the trips will be anything but boring because he and his mom have been causing a scene for as long as he can remember. He describes her as a cross between Bea Arthur and Karen Walker from Will and Grace, and she is notorious for bending the rules.

But nothing can prepare him for escapades that include digging his mom out of a rain gutter in Costa Rica and being dragged across the Arabian Desert by a psychotic camel named Forrest Hump. As the vacations unfold, David discovers that although he and his mom are having the time of their life, she is ready to share a secret that will change everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Aug 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781458217394

David Robert

David Robert lives in Providence, Rhode Island, with his partner Pete, and their Jack Russell terrier, Sophie.

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Copyright © 2014 David Robert.

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of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-1741-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1740-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1739-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014948572

Abbott Press rev. date: 08/08/2014

Contents

Chapter 1    Newton’s Law Of Motion

Portugal (2002)

Chapter 2    Hard Candy

Chapter 3    Pair Of Teeth By The Dashboard Lights

Chapter 4    Smoldering Credit Card Plastic

Chapter 5    Not So Silent Hill

Chapter 6    Twelve Inch A Slave

Chapter 7    The Lavender Yeti

Chapter 8    Badass Sea Bass

Costa Rica (2004)

Chapter 9    Three Powdered Doughnuts

Chapter 10    Xena: Warrior Princess

Chapter 11    Crouching Grandma, Hidden Dragon

Chapter 12    Knock, Knock! Hoo-Hoo’s There?

Chapter 13    To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before

Chapter 14    Awergic Weaction

France (2006)

Chapter 15    Penis De Milo

Chapter 16    Davide Antoinette

United Arab Emirates (2010)

Chapter 17    Just The Tip

Chapter 18    Prison Bitch

Chapter 19    Run, Forrest, Run!

Chapter 20    Screaming Children

Chapter 21    Give Me An I. Give Me A B. Give Me An S.

Chapter 22    There’s No L In Chardonnay

Chapter 23    All The Single Ladies

Chapter 24    The Silver Lining

Afterward

This book is dedicated to my sisters, Kelly and Lisa,

my partner, Pete, and my mom, who graciously

allowed me to have fun at their expense.

CHAPTER 1

Newton’s Law of Motion

"D avid?"

The shrill of the nurse’s voice woke me from a daydream. I had worn myself out after an hour of nervously waiting to see my gastroenterologist, whom I fully expected would confirm my suspicion that I’d be dead from ass cancer before the end of the month. I had no legitimate reason to suspect I was dying of cancer, other than the fact that I suffered from severe hypochondria and I had previously failed on separate occasions to convince my family and friends that I was dying of lupus, mad cow disease, Radon poisoning, and Ebola. Besides, my health insurance covered colonoscopies in full after age thirty, so what did I have to lose? Thirty seconds after walking into my doctor’s office, I received my diagnosis: irritable bowel syndrome. I am convinced irritable bowel syndrome is the catch-all diagnosis that gastroenterologists dish out to patients who confess to having a nutty mother.

Damn it! I shouted.

I thought you’d be relieved, my doctor said.

I was relieved to learn I wasn’t dying, even though I knew the odds of it happening were infinitesimally small. I just wish I had known before I called my mother and offered to take her on a series of good-bye vacations before my being sent off to hospice, where a small group of dedicated volunteers would keep vigil at my bedside and read excerpts from Chicken Soup for the Terminally Ill. It’s shocking what you’ll do and say when you think you’re dying of ass cancer. After my mother reassured me that it was more plausible I would die at the hands of Pete, my partner of ten years, once he’s finally had enough of my histrionics, she accepted my invitation. What the hell was I thinking?

I describe my mother as a cross between Bea Arthur and Karen Walker from Will and Grace. She is notorious for bending the rules but more so for nursing a hefty glass of chardonnay all day. If my mother were a product, her tagline would be Proudly raising hell since 1945. She’s also the person my family turns to for honest feedback. Coincidentally, the feedback becomes more honest as the wine in her glass diminishes.

I often wondered how the universe brought the two of us together. The answer, surprisingly, is Newton’s Law of Motion. Anyone who has taken a basic physics class is familiar with the theory, which in part explains that for every action there is an equal but opposite reaction. I tend to think of the theory as the science behind why people like me are born to mothers like mine. On the morning of June 21, 1970, when my mother sauntered into the local hospital, hurled her pregnant body onto the first available gurney, lit a Virginia Slims 100, and yelled, Let’s get this over with. I have a pinochle tournament tonight (the action), she sealed her fate by giving the universe permission to deliver someone like me into the world (the reaction).

Several years passed before my mother got a taste of the equal reaction part of the theory. Some children are fortunate enough to inherit large sums of money from their mother, while others acquire an uncanny ability to spell words like phenobarbital before age six or master the clarinet before they are fully potty trained. I got anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorder. While my childhood friends played whiffle ball and tag in the field down the street from my house, I hid under my bed, waiting for the Cold War to end. No wonder I was the target of bullies from shortly after birth through my late thirties.

Don’t get me wrong; my mother is the absolute sweetest woman you will ever meet. She’d give someone the shirt off her back, and she often has done so at dinner parties and other functions where this would be considered, at the very least, inappropriate. That’s why I love her. And she is fiercely protective. On the rare occasions when I allowed the bullying to affect me, my mother would attempt to comfort me by saying, Remember, dear, you are the sperm that beat the others in the race. So the next time those kids bully you, turn around and run like hell.

I give my mother a lot of credit for having four children. The concept of raising a child was foreign to Pete and me. We weren’t opposed to the idea of having a child; we simply couldn’t find anyone with an adequate answer to our question, Who the hell is going to feed and clothe it for the first eighteen years? We liked the idea of having children; we just didn’t want any of the responsibility and drama. Pete and I continue to leave open the opportunity that the proverbial stork might swoop in late on a Thursday night after American Idol and drop off at our doorstep a healthy, self-sufficient, and neutered eighteen-year-old who planned to leave for university, on a full scholarship, the following Tuesday.

I’ll admit that although I was the third child, it took some time for my mom to warm up to me. I don’t think she was fully prepared for a child who could go toe to toe with her so early. At age ten I learned an important lesson regarding the depth of my mother’s humor and just how far she was willing to go to pay me back for the continuous stress I placed her under.

One weekend day I caught a few minutes of the Jerry Lewis telethon, which was a wildly popular annual televised fundraiser that comedian Jerry Lewis hosted. In that telethon Jerry interviewed children who were battling illness, showed clips of their story, and periodically appealed to the viewing audience to give to Jerry’s kids. This signature phrase became part of America’s lexicon. So given that my own father’s name was Jerry, I devised a plan to canvas my neighborhood collecting money for none other than Jerry’s kids. I just neglected to tell my neighbors that it wasn’t Jerry Lewis’s kids I was collecting money for but rather my father’s kids, and more precisely me.

Well, I thought I had hit the jackpot until my mother found a large stash of candy in my bedroom and questioned how I had gotten it. I had no choice but to confess. My mother was not pleased, and she felt I owed each neighbor a face-to-face apology. I was embarrassed, to say the least, to be forced to retrace my steps to return the money I had collected. My mother walked me to each house and made me knock on the front door and apologize. The first visit didn’t go so well, because my apology fell well short of my mother’s expectations.

"I’m sorry, Mrs. Johnson. Even though I still feel strongly that I technically didn’t lie, the collection tin should have clearly been labeled with Jerry Robert’s kids. I apologize for the confusion, and to set things right I’m returning your donation."

My mother leaned on my shoulder and pushed me against Mrs. Johnson. I was immediately overpowered by the scent of patchouli and secondhand smoke. Is that all, David? I should have shut my mouth then, but I couldn’t help myself. Before my mother could whip me off Mrs. Johnson’s front steps, I was off and running.

Oh, yes, thank you, Mother, I added as I looked up at Mrs. Johnson. I’d like to take this opportunity to ask if you would be interested in rolling your donation into a fund to help the homeless. This is a fund that is dear to my heart as I have a strong suspicion I’ll be homeless by the end of the day.

Anger radiated from my mother’s face, but to her credit I thought she closed the conversation with a brilliant display of control. She stepped in front of me and added, It’s becoming clearer to us that a serious mistake was made at the hospital, and with your permission I’d like to use your donation to help set up a fund to get my real son back. She used that line at nearly every house, and we walked away with over seventy percent of the original donations. I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or impressed, but either way I felt it was time well spent together. Little did I know that my mother planned to use that fund to send me to Saturday Catholic school. My mother always gets even.

Side note: I don’t know what my mother was thinking by putting me in Catholic school, especially when she had shared with my father on more than one occasion that if I was ever to step into a confession booth it would likely require an intervention from the Vatican. In my opinion, she was asking for trouble.

Not long after my walk of shame through the neighborhood, each student in my Catholic school class (yes, she actually followed through on her threat) was asked to design a product that would make Jesus more relevant to young people. Having recently come off the Jerry Lewis stunt, I felt my innovative juices rising to an all-time high. I nearly jumped out of my khakis on the way home from class. I saw this assignment as a clear opportunity to shine.

I quickly designed a few product prototypes, most notably bubblegum-flavored communion wafers and Father May I, the board game. Even I thought the latter was a bit tasteless, so I eventually landed on Rice Christies. The tagline was Put a little snap, crackle, and Pope into your morning. I thought the product was genius and that it had a solid chance to eventually go to market. For the week leading up to my presentation I had vivid daydreams of every child in America waking up to a big bowl of Jesus.

Unfortunately, the nun who taught the class didn’t share my enthusiasm. I didn’t know this at the time, but apparently Catholic school is not the ideal place for children with an overactive imagination. I don’t recall exactly what the nun, who my friends and I referred to as The Sister of Darkness, told my mother, but it was something along the lines of, I would strongly suggest your son divert some of his sinful energy into prayer, because he’s going to need it. Again, I should have kept my mouth shut, but I had to add my two cents.

This was my mother’s idea, I cried as my teacher looked at me with disapproving eyes.

My mother’s jaw dropped. David? Don’t lie near a church! She used the word near because technically we

Reviews for Wanderlush

[lg4154 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I won my copy thru LibraryThing and thought it was really cute. I adored the author's sense of humor and chuckled out loud while reading this book. My only problem with it that it was too short and I wanted more. I would love to read more by this author and would recommend this book to anybody who wants to read a quaint pick-me up adventure.