Saturday, May 2, 2009
They So Owe Me, Dontcha Think?
Every year, Mother's Day comes and goes and a big deal is not made. I don't expect anything and my family has picked up on this sentiment. I get this attitude from my mother who has gone through most of her life expecting not much either. Frankly, The Big R was never one to make a big deal out of birthdays or the made up Hallmark Holidays. Let's just say celebration is not hardwired into my family.
Anyway, it's been one of those mornings where the Spawn wander in and out of the room as I try to do six things at once (with the book The Myth of Multitasking sitting ironically right next to me) and MathMan pays bills and reconciles the bank statement. We've recently changed the way we handle the bills, with both of us taking an active role. It's working well because now we're both much more aware of what's coming in and what's going out. Nevertheless, bill paying and bank statements tend to make the "adults" in this house rather peevish. Wandering and commenting Spawn don't read the body language very well. It all adds up to some snippishness, as you will see in a moment.
But what does this have to do with the approaching Mother's Day? Very little actually. Except I know that MathMan reads this blog and I've decided that this year things must be different. I'm going to have some mighty high expectations for what I'd prefer to call The Day to Worship the Woman Who Can't Cough, Laugh or Do a Jumping Jack without Peeing Herself Because Her Nether Regions Were Wrecked in the Pushing of Three People into the World.
I realize that's a pretty long name for a holiday title, but, hey, it's accurate.
I'll be reminding MathMan daily that NEXT SUNDAY is DWWWCCLDJJWPHBHNRWWPTPW, otherwise known as Mothers' Day. Not that I'm his mother, mind you, but since he thought it would be a bright idea to mix his DNA with mine and make me a mother, well then, I reserve the right to believe that he is somehow responsible for leading the fruit of his loins in making NEXT SUNDAY a very special day indeed.
Cut flowers are fine. I'm not really a corsage kind of gal. I'd be much pleased to be taken out, stuffed with food from some champagne brunch and poured into bed smelling of mimosas and slurringly singing the chorus from Wind Beneath My Wings. That would be fine. I could also use a video camera for Commute Chat, my own car and a couple of new bras. Given those options, I'm sure I know which items I'm likely to receive. MathMan will be very disappointed, though, to learn from the women staffing Victoria's Secret that they do not, in fact, carry bras in the DD range.
So now you know my plan. If I were being sneaky, I'd call it a plot, but I'm not keeping any secrets on this one. I want cheddar and I don't mean cheese. I've earned it. I mean, look how loving and cooing and kind I am to my family........
MathMan: What was that you called me? Crispy? Crinkly?
Me: What are you? A french fry? Prickly. I called you prickly. It has the word prick in it, how can you not remember that?
Me: You have a couple of typos in your Facebook status.
The Dancer: Do not!
Me: Do too! Look (show her the mistakes)
The Dancer: Well, that's nothing compared to the typos Daddy makes
Me: You're kidding, right? We're using Daddy's typing skills as the standard now?
Me to MathMan: You spelled prickly wrong.
The Dancer to MathMan: Doesn't she drive you crazy?
MathMan: No. I'm not a good speller. I'm glad your mother tells me when I have typos. There's no malice intended.
The Dancer just looks at him incredulously.
MathMan: Although the way your mother just laughed might make you wonder about that whole malice theory.
MathMan: You better get ready to go.
Garbo: It won't take me very long.
Me: That's right, she's quick because she doesn't change her panties.
Garbo: I do too. I changed my panties the other day.
Me: What do you have on your foot?
Garbo: Plastic wrap. My foot was kind of cold.
Me: Does that help?
Garbo: Not really.
Garbo: I have a lot of back fat?
Me: How do you have back fat?
Garbo: Maybe that's not back fat, that's my butt cheek.
Garbo: The Dancer isn't a genius like I'm going to be.
Me: I think you're either a genius or not. There's no going to be about it.
Garbo: I'm already a genius for my age. Oh wait. I'm not a genius. I only get As and Bs. And the penmenship award.