Triple Post Sunday. Or, 2 Nuts In A Sack
A while ago I posted a little something that illustrated how David will most likely turn into his father. Not just the good characteristics, like being really good with money, having an extensive knowledge of obscure sports facts, and an even more extensive collection of hawaiian shirts, but also the more questionable characteristics. Namely, this
This week it became apparent that I am turning into this woman sooner than I had expected. And not in the good way, where I could make a gourmet meal out of an olive, a chicken bone, six pennies and a bottle of mustard. Not in the way where I could mother four children while bringing home the bacon while accumulating an enviable collection of loud scarves. Not in the way where I could tolerate my husband howling, "where is my dinner?!?!" while walking a mentally retarded dog and slapping my sass-box teenage daughter. No, not in any of those ways.
Instead, I've begun to follow my mother's proud tradition of losing shit. Ever wonder why my mother has an endless stream of new glasses? Ever ponder over why she is wearing prescription sunglasses in the mall? She has no idea where her glasses go. They'll surface nine years later tucked behind a washing machine or under the seat of a car. It's not just glasses that she loses, but keys and papers and also her mind. This is a woman who took a full 2 years to recognize the sound of her own cell phone ringing in her purse.
Somewhere in the course of the past week I lost my wallet. I put the date of the disappearance as Monday, since that was the last time I made a purchase with my debit card. When did I notice the wallet was missing? Thursday. Thursday. I have no idea where it could have gone, since there were no charges made on any of my cards. I only know that somewhere between buying an avocado and walking to my apartment, the wallet disappeared and I took no notice.
If I start to drive erratically and listen to Jazz & Traffic radio while creating beaded crafts and oil paintings and cooking Sunday dinners for 12 people, we'll have conclusive evidence that I have indeed become my mother.
Jill keeps making me read your blog because I think, secretly, she wishes she had your life (except the part about how that would mean she was dating her little brother). I think it's more the New York thing. Somehow, getting stuck marrying me and having four kids in Minneapolis got in the way of her New York dreams. For now. I mean, she's only 35 and she's still got her looks, so she could probably still make a big splash in the Big Apple. My only concern is that her newfound obsessive reading of your blog (content hint: more slams of David) is going to result in her moving in with you or something. And I don't even know where she keeps the baby formula so that would not be good.
I'd like you to know that I just read this post aloud to dad, while laughing so hard that tears were streaming down my face. Oh, and as I was typing this mom came over and said, "I don't have loud scarves, do I?!" I replied, "Uh..."
You could do so much worse than turn into your mother. Although, I did see the entry on her blog titled "Where do you think you're going in that get-up". When I read that entry, I felt like I saw my own future, and was a little afraid.
the skirts, they are versatile: they look good on your clothesline, on your body, and on the floor.
oh, gasp.