In an email to my mom last night I mentioned picking a friend up at the airport as a possible reason I might be busy on Saturday afternoon. Today she called me to ask if my friend would want to come over too. She has a knack for picking out the juicy bits of seemingly neutral information. I am not one to discuss my love life with my mom, but now she knows his name, age, and city of origin. She likes that his name is so easy to spell. I try to make it easier for her by only dating guys with three letter names. She also told me that from 64, 33 and 26 are pretty much the same age. We're young people. Good point mom.

I think she's finally over the understanding I'm gay phase, and has moved on to being happy that I have someone to pick up at the airport. I think it may be a little soon to bring him over to the parents, though I surprise myself by liking the idea. I have already introduced them in my mind, and I'm sure I will field questions about his pierced up ears and his radical job. But they will also recognize he's from their smarty-pants liberal Bay Area world. They will like that he swims, that he grew up in the Elmwood, that he went to Cal and graduated.

If my parents and Ari's parents were on Friendster, they would surely connect in at least nineteen ways, if they haven't actually met already. My mom, after she gets over the metal in his ears, will adore him like I do. My dad may not be able to get past Critical Resistance (being a long time poo-pooer of radicals, having taught at Urban since 1968), and will not be swayed by his good looks. But he will see the quality, and he will see me livelier than I've been in years, and maybe give him the benefit of the doubt.

But let's not rush it.