The other day my kid said something that warmed the black, icy cockles of my heart. And really, who couldn’t use more heated heart cockles?
She said, “Yup, that’s us, we put the ass into class.”
I was so proud. What mother wouldn’t be? Well, perhaps mine. In fact, there’s a pretty good chance when those words were leaving her granddaughter’s lips, Mom’s ashes began to spin so fast that if anyone was watching, they’d have thought…tornado?
I can see it now.
“What the hell? How in the world did a tornado form on the side of a mountain?”
“That’s just Gab’s mom.”
“Oh, that makes sense.”
The hubby says that you can take the girl out of the trailer, but you can’t take the trailer out of the girl. It’s a good thing too. Otherwise my kid may have had too much influence from her grandmother. Wash your hands. Sit up straight. Use a fork. Act like a lady. Don’t let the dog lick your ear.
That there is some messed up stuff.
You know what else is messed up? The whole getting presentable thing. Back in my day, all that was required to get ready to go out on the town was a clean pair of jeans and new shoelaces for your hiking boots. Now, holy crap on a cracker, there is some weird assed shit the kids are doing. For example, my daughter has long, straight, blonde hair. First, she blow dries it, for approximately seventy-two hours…upside down. Then she takes this boogity-clamp thing, which heats up to approximately the sun, and straightens her hair. Did I mention that she has straight hair? Then she takes another implement that looks like a medieval torture device, twists her hair and locks it in, then she immediately undoes it and shakes it out. Apparently you have to do this four thousand times before there is even a slim possibility of it turning out right. (To me, it looks exactly the same every…single…time.)
Once the hair is complete, the outfit has to be assembled. This consists of taking every single thing out of your closet, including old Halloween costumes and your wedding dress, then trying it all on…in multiple combinations. This step can take anywhere from seven to seven thousand hours. And for some reason, you must tilt your head to the side while you pirouette in front of a full length mirror. Checking out your hind quarters way more than the front. Personally, I don’t care what my ass looks like, I can’t see it.
Then there is the makeup. Apparently, it has to be applied in such a way that it looks like you aren’t wearing any. (For those of you who are wondering, I have that look down pat. And it requires zero actual makeup.)
Hubby: Good gawd! Can we just go already!!!
Daughter: I think I like that other shirt better, it goes with these pants. Mom, your dog is licking my ear.
I blame my mom. I’m sure this might come as a surprise to many people, but you see, I was never what you would call, feminine. My poor mother, she really did give it the good ole college try. She used to pick out the frilliest, puffiest, most floatiest ensembles, then hold them high while advancing toward me in a menacing way. “Look—look honey,” she would say. “Isn’t it pretty? Everyone’s wearing one.”
“What the hell is it?”
“You don’t know what this is? Oh, it’s just a casual mini with a sheath underlay, Peter Pan collar and flounce sleeves. You’ll look stunning in it.”
“More like stunned. I’m not putting that on. MOM…step away from the change room.!”
This scenario occurred in many, many different variations through the years.
“What about a…”
So you can imagine my surprise when I ended up with a kid who would not only try these outfits on, but like them. And buy them.
And sometimes I can see a familiar menacing look on her face.
“Mom, you’d look really good in a high-waisted, chemise, cummerbund with a kilt.”
“No. Don’t you have your own house now?”
“Look! That woman has a Birken Bag.”
“What the hell…never mind…I don’t want to know.”