They weren’t supposed to leave until tomorrow, but that Mom o’ mine is like a horse. No, she doesn’t have disturbingly large nostrils and front teeth…much. Once she smells the barn there’s just no keeping her away.
Also, I may or may not have worn them the fuck out. Mom’s seventy year old knees do not take kindly to having three flights of stairs between them and any potential outing. All her aches coupled with the gray mist that rained out our planned boat trip around Manhattan apparently smells just like barn. And so they are Virginia bound at this very moment.
Speaking of Virginia, saunter over to Craftastrophe and check out the commemorative plate I found to celebrate their long drive back to their home state. You’ll want to move fast. I’m quite sure these plates sell faster than the hot cakes that you can’t serve on them.
These conversations can’t possibly be as funny to the rest of the world as they are to my sick ass. Yet I still insist on sharing them, don’t I? Poor Mom thinks all my notes are safe in the bottom of her suitcase and rapidly barreling down Interstate 81, never to be recounted on the Interwebz. Too bad her husband ratted her out and showed me where she stashed them. (Yay Dad!) And with that, here’s a few snippets of conversation from the weekend.
Mom: There’s nothing better than ice cream.
Mom: I don’t have it every night anymore…
Mom: I was really drunk on wine once. That brother Chuck of mine told me to drink a glass of milk. I thought I would vomit my head off.
Rocco: How old were you? Sixty?
Me: I can’t believe that cat just jumps right in your lap, especially since you hate cats so much.
Thom: Then she shows me her probing end.
Rocco: Lick your finger first.
Thom: I’m sure not going to lick it after.
Mom: She was actually biting me a little this morning.
Thom: Did you put peanut butter on your hoo hoo?
Now I’m going to go hide under my comforter and mope for the rest of today. I’ll leave you with the perfect song for the day.