I was all set to write a cute story about my mom and her poncho while we were down in Florida.
We were shopping at the outlet mall when it began raining. Hard. Like raining cats and dogs. We were on our way out of the outlet anyway when the rain began pouring down, but our car, naturally, was outside in the monsoon.
My mom starts rummaging through her purse. “I have a poncho in here.”
“Of course you do,” I replied.
I felt like a petulant teenager as I tried to dodge this plastic poncho which she was steadfastly determined to get me to wear. “Just put it on your head!” she insisted. “At least your head will stay dry!”
Seriously! Who carries a poncho in her purse? She will vigorously defend herself until the end, saying she had heard on the news it was supposed to rain and she had this from some other event so decided to tuck it into her purse, and wasn’t I lucky that she had it with her?
That’s my mother, folks. Sweet little lady with a poncho in her purse, always ready for a storm. Also a sweet little lady with a gun and a concealed carry permit, but that’s a story for another day. Then came yesterday when IT happened.
I was telling her that Rock Star shared with me she thought her dad had gotten fat.
“Must be all of Harley’s great homemade cooking,” I snarked to my mom.
As you might recall I was grilled on the witness stand during our divorce trial about my shortcomings as a wife, and one of those shortcomings was my failure to provide a five course home-cooked meal every evening. Apparently, Harley is feeding him a little too well.
My mom looks me in the eye and says, I swear to God, “Must be all that pussy he’s been eating.”
My mouth fell open. I’m pretty sure I blushed. I was beyond shocked.
She then proceeds to take it one step further. “Or is that low cal?”
MOTHER! I had to walk away.
I have been traumatized, people. Traumatized, I tell you! I am not sure I have the wherewithal to go on. You may never hear the story of CF and graduation now. I am off to stuff my ears with cotton.