A ‘Brief’ History of Timmy, Part I

In all my time at Open Diary, whether it’s Original Formula or the Twenty Dollah Billz Club, I don’t think I’ve ever done a definite overview of my life. You know how some people start their diaries by giving their life story? You know, lots of information that you’ll NEVER EVER NEED. I kind of skipped over that. I tend to keep myself cloaked in mystery, and will probably continue to be that way. I have no obligation to make any sense, whatsoever. I may give anecdotes about certain important things in my life, every now and then, but I’ve never.. oh hell, on with the entry.

Let’s start even before I was even conceived. My mom’s side of the family, when she was growing up, was probably your average white middle-class family. My grandpa served in Dubya Dubya Two. He always talks about he was a “cook in the Navy”, bringing glamour to an otherwise mundane job. My Grandma has mentioned that he was a gunner, at one time, but he’s never, ever mentioned that. At least not when I’m around. My Grandma never finished High School. She dropped out and got a job to help out with her family. She talks about this job she had at an ice cream shop. Kids would only have a nickel or dime, and she’d give them a heaping scoop of ice cream. (I’m sure that a dime was worth something back then.) She never took Algebra. And guess who keeps score during Pinochle games. *smiles* Kids these days don’t know their arithmetic.

My dad’s side? Well, understand one thing: My dad was born in India. When my Grandparents got married, I think my Grandma was only 11. My Grandpa was 16 or 17. I’m not kidding. That’s arranged marriages for you. My Grandpa went out and got his ass educated. I couldn’t tell you when, but he got his PhD in Chemistry at McGill University. What did Grandma do while Grandpa was out working and being educated? Raising kids. My dad is one of four kids. (Small family by Indian standards. I mean, Indians typically have HUGE families.) My dad has an older sister, whom I’ve never met. My dad is the eldest son, and as such, he has the biggest penis. He has a younger brother, Eshwar, whom is the black sheep of the family. And a younger sister, my Aunt Gita. There is a noticable age gap between Gita and my dad. Gita and my sister look SO much alike, it’s almost like they’re sisters.

My mom has two older brothers, Dave and Jim. Um. Stuff. I’m drawing a blank on my mom’s life. I know she went to county college, but whoop de do. My dad came to the US when he was 16. Amusingly, Eshwar has more of an accent than him. I mean, my dad has NO Indian accent. Believe me, my grandparents have thick accents, I know what it sounds like. If you heard my dad on the phone, you’d think he was your average white dude. My dad went to Nam. He has referred to his service as a “summer camp.” Which, amuses the hell out of me. (Part of this is because he wasn’t on the “razor’s edge”, he was in artillery.) He has said that being in the army was one of the best experiences of his life. My dad is also a registered Democrat. Whereas my mom’s side is pretty much NRA Republican. My dad has a Masters in Electrical Engineering, whatever that means.

My mom and dad met in a bar. Almost anti-climatic. My mom thought he was cuban, he had a mustache at the time. My dad would later grow a beard but um, I’m SO glad he outgrew that. (And shaved that shit off.) I think my mom married my dad to be rebellious. “Oh no, he’s.. INDIAN!” But, in a way, I see how my dad and my mom’s dad are very alike. Stubborn, annoying, insensitive, lazy, arrogent at times. Kind of like me. *laughs*

I couldn’t tell you when my parents were married (They DID get married), but my sister Wendi was born in 1979. Wendi would later tell me how they lived in an apartment or something with a big red door. The three of them would later move to this big red house in Wharton, NJ. That would be my first home. Mom has a miscarriage the year before me. A year later, in 1983, she was pregnant with me.

Wendi and Dad were outside playing when Mom went into labor. Being the sensitive guy he is, Dad said that he had to take a shower first, apparently covered in mud. Wendi wanted me to be a girl. Unfortunately for her, I have a penis. When I was in the nursery, Wendi was shown which one was me. She noticed the blue tag, or whatever it is that signifies that I have a penis. She pointed to one with a pink tag. Wendi wanted a little sister. *laughs* My mom tossed around average names like Steve and Brian, until she settled on the magnificient name of “Timothy.” Thanks, Mom.

Walking, I don’t know. I was a late talker, I believe, I didn’t start talking until I was two. And when I did start talking, I was loud and didn’t shut up. My mom used to let me loose in the grocery store with coupons, fetching things and bringing it back to the cart. She always knew where I was, because of my big mouth. Still, I was a shy boy. I was a goodie-goodie. A momma’s boy. Back in the day, I loved my momma. *laughs* Not that I don’t know, I’m just not as open anymore. I was the type of kid that wanted to be good. You know how the teacher in 1st grade always said to “be quiet”? I took that seriously.

In 1987, we left that big red house and moved into what was my home for 15 years. In the house kitty-corner to me, I met a boy named Brian. He was my friend? I guess. I remember being a possessive friend. I wouldn’t let him borrow my shit. *laughs* Anyway, being the curious six-year-olds we were, we ended up naked in my room, exploring each other’s bodies. Nothing sexual about it. We were both circumcised. And I had a bigger penis than him. Hey, it was an innocent observation. And so a life of comparing genitalia begins…

We had a light blue wagon. Apparently, I had a thing for unbuckling my seat belt. This one time, my mom was reaching back to put my seat belt back on and.. BAM. Hit a tree. Since then, I’ve been almost obsessive compulsive about buckling my seat belt. I used to ride my dad for not doing his. I used to leave my car door open so I could buckle my seat belt, first.

It wasn’t long after moving that we got… The Van. AKA Momma Cherry. I remember inviting Brian over to show him The Van. I can still remember being short enough to walk around in the van. I remember road trips to Mom’s parents in Upstate New York. (AKA: The Farm) We once drove to Minnesota to see Dad’s parents. (Get that straight, they haven’t moved from those respective places.)