Tales of Wit and Charm…

Let me preface this by saying I absolutely love my mother.  She’s the single most amazing person I know.  She’s kind to strangers.  STRANGERS!  I’m rarely kind to people I know, let alone someone I’ve never met.  As much as I love her, sometimes when I go home to visit I feel like a teenager again.  Which would be fine if I had the ass and thighs to go along with teenage-Sarah.  Currently I don’t, hence the problem.  Here are just a few things she said over the weekend to prove my point:

“Why don’t you clean your room while you’re here.”

“What time will you be home?”

“Here’s money to pay for your dinner and the demolition derby.”

“Put your seat belt on.”

“Are you wearing a helmet when you’re on Carl’s bike?”

“Do you want me to french braid your hair?”

“Do you want money for gas?”

“The dress is short, just wear jeans under it.”

Daisy is very busy in the country reminding my mother that while the twins are very cute, she is the first grandchild. Pugs are never to be forgotten. They remind you they exist by emitting toxic gases from their asses.

As a kid I remember my mom having the most beautiful suitcase in the entire world. I never understood why she kept it in her closet and didn’t use it every single day. As I got older I learned it was her temple bag, and therefore only used when she went to the temple.

After years of coveting the suitcase, she finally parted ways with it and gave it to me last Sunday. It’s 70-licious and I can’t wait to use it! It will make an excellent booty-call bag. It’s the perfect size for a toothbrush, nightie and bottle of vodka.

As I walked to my car to put my new treasure in the trunk, I was planning all the extracurricular activities I could use it for when my mom yelled after me, “Have fun at the temple!”

So that’s where I get my sarcasm—I’ve often wondered.

When my mom called last night I thought either she read her will on the Internet and wanted to call and confirm validity, or she was calling to thank me for her Mothers’ Day gift. While neither were the case, she did laugh over the fact I added my gas receipt to her card. Yes, that’s right, I love my mother $44.12 dollars more than Ben does. Proving once again I am a superior being. As it turns out she wanted to talk about something far more important. My death.

“Thanks for driving down yesterday. I’m upset I forgot to have you, Matt and Ben sign some paperwork.”

“What paperwork? If you’re trying to adopt us out I think you’re too late, we are, after all, adults now.”

“Sweetie, I’ve not gotten rid of you yet, so it’s not likely going to happen, besides I’m counting on you to take care of me when I’m old. I figure you owe me. I want you guys to fill out a living will, so if something were to happen to you I’d know what your wishes were.”

“That’s probably a good idea. Is there somewhere in there I can request male strippers and vodka on my deathbed? But why doesn’t Jeff have to fill anything out? You’re getting rid of him, right?”

“Sarah, please be serious about this.  Jeff has a wife that can legally make his decisions.”

“So let me get this straight, because Matt, Ben and I don’t have spouses you’re punishing us with homework?”

“If you’d rather produce a husband that’s fine too.  I’m emailing you the paperwork tomorrow, so you better hurry and find a man.”

On my last birthday my mom handed me a blank birthday card and said, “Here’s your card sweetie. I didn’t have time to fill it out, so can you? You’re a writer, write yourself something thoughtful and appropriate.”

Last night I found the card in a book. It reads:

Darling Daughter,

Happy Birthday sweetie! You’re by far the best accomplishment of my life. As your gift this year I want to give you the world. However, since I don’t have that authority I’m going to give you everything else.

Consider this my last will and testament. I’m leaving everything your dad and I own to you, and only you. Your brothers are not to inherit anything. I’m forever apologetic that you were forced to grow up alongside such horrible boys. I hope this one act will make up for a childhood of brothers farting and burping on you. I trust this will guarantee forgiveness as well as place me a spot in the heaven place I’m forever talking about, which I imagine is much like a cruise: a good idea at the time, but miserable as fuck.

Catch you on the flip side.

Love your Mommy.

The last time I felt this horrible was when I had kidney stones three years ago and spent Christmas in the ICU. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t all that bad. Midge brought movies and cuddled in bed with me. The pain was somewhat tolerable with a Morphine drip. However, once I started seeing the face of Jesus in the wallpaper I made them take it out. Talk about ruining a good time.

My body has never handled germs of any kind very well. I’m a chronic puker. When I was in high school a doctor accused me of being bulimic when, after a case of Mono, I couldn’t stop throwing up for weeks. My mother in her prime mama bear days got angry with the doctor and reminded him I’ve had a weak stomach since I was a very tiny baby. As a nurse, she was always very involved when I was sick. Perhaps that’s why, at 32, the minute I feel sick I want my mom taking care of me. And if I asked she’d drop everything and drive two hours to get here, just to rub my back or get me a drink of Gatorade. Since it’s my dad’s birthday tomorrow I’m not asking her to drive up. After all, he only has a birthday every four years.

What I thought was a cold is a full-fledged case of the bird flu—self-diagnosed of course. Sure, I get flu symptoms with a minor headache, but this is beyond ridiculous. I can’t even keep a sip of water down. Not to mention, every part of my body hurts, even my eyebrows. Which is all very inconvenient given that I had a math midterm tonight and a Lost party to attend.

I promised my mom if I wasn’t feeling better tomorrow I’d go in and have then hydrate me with an IV, but until then I’m going to lay on the couch, continue to whine, watch trash TV and remind myself over and over what the silver lining of being sick is…

SKINNY JEANS!

Obviously, I’m going to look really good after this “diet” helps me fit back into them.