I simply had to share the horror, though. And the horror is this:
I am rifling through my mother's desk, looking for a lighter, as I plan to go outside and sneak a cigarette behind the garage as though I was fourteen years old out of the desire to be a Positive Role Model for the Siblets, who are all still very impressionable and treat me as though I am a god and they are my creepy and troubling cult, chanting in front of pictures of me and repeating the wisdom that I have handed down to them ("Dude, don't eat that shit, it will give you gas," forever and ever amen). Now, in a desk, most people keep pens. Most people keep paper. Most people keep odds and ends.
My mother, apparently, keeps condoms and lube in her desk. I found this out by opening The Wrong Drawer and finding the offending items. My response was to slam the drawer shut, throw up my hands, shriek "Unclean! Unclean! God, unclean!" as I ran from the room. I still have this full body shudder thing happening as I think of it.
As a dutiful child would, I want my mother to be happy. I want her to be in a good relationship, with someone who will hold her hand, and watch Antiques Roadshow with her, and cuddle with her. This cuddling is to be fully clothed, you understand. Any and all kissing would have to be church appropriate kissing. Behind closed doors, they would discuss art or play chess or simply dissolve into balls of white light. I don't think about it too hard, and with good reason -- which is that she is my mother. Perhaps I'm too sensitive, but "mother" and "condom" belong nowhere near one another in any configuration of words.
The horror, I say, the horror.