One time when I was maybe 12 or 13 my mom came into my room where I was making stationery with my perfect friend Lisa. We were drawing turquoise triangles on graph paper and highlighting them with a peach marker. I'm pretty sure we were inspired by something we had seen on "The Facts of Life," you know, the later episodes where the girls owned an 80's novelty store called Over Our Heads and George Clooney was the foppish carpenter, not yet cute. So my mom comes in and apropos of nothing says she is going to show us how to take off our underwear without removing our shorts. Okay, maybe it had to do with summer camp, she was showing us how to disrobe at summer camp without getting completely naked. But I never quite understood why I would need to remove my underpants while leaving on a perfectly good pair of Dolphin shorts at camp or anywhere else. But she stood there anyway and pulled the band of her underwear down over one knee and then the other side and voila! Commando Mama. The nib on my turquoise marker nearly dried out as I froze in horror. I suppose I am lucky she was wearing any underwear at all. I once told my mom that she is one of the great eccentrics, like Truman Capote except maybe without the bestselling novels and movies made about her. But it's not too late. Phillip Seymour Hoffman could still play her if he slimmed down a bit. Because my mother does need her own blog. She needs to teach the world how to take off its underwear while still wearing shorts. She needs to live out loud. And me. Well, I just had nothing really to say today. My panties are on, not even in a bunch and I am quite fine with that.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Blog From the Edge
I just got a phone call from my mother asking why I haven't posted yet today. She says my readers are waiting for me, that they are getting impatient with the ol' Refresh button. Which means that she is getting antsy, that she is sitting at her desk drinking a lukewarm Orange Fanta straight from the can, bored. I love my mom, you all know I do. And I hear you when you say that she needs her own blog because I think she does, too. She is a storyteller, a cross between the Southern Gothic of Faulkner and the insanity of Ab Fab. The thing is this blog has been a slight source of mother-daughter ire. I have had to censor some of her comments and ask that she maybe not comment on every. single. post. Which makes her ask me which posts she can comment on. When is it okay? Now? This one? Can I comment here? What about now? One time when I was maybe 12 or 13 my mom came into my room where I was making stationery with my perfect friend Lisa. We were drawing turquoise triangles on graph paper and highlighting them with a peach marker. I'm pretty sure we were inspired by something we had seen on "The Facts of Life," you know, the later episodes where the girls owned an 80's novelty store called Over Our Heads and George Clooney was the foppish carpenter, not yet cute. So my mom comes in and apropos of nothing says she is going to show us how to take off our underwear without removing our shorts. Okay, maybe it had to do with summer camp, she was showing us how to disrobe at summer camp without getting completely naked. But I never quite understood why I would need to remove my underpants while leaving on a perfectly good pair of Dolphin shorts at camp or anywhere else. But she stood there anyway and pulled the band of her underwear down over one knee and then the other side and voila! Commando Mama. The nib on my turquoise marker nearly dried out as I froze in horror. I suppose I am lucky she was wearing any underwear at all. I once told my mom that she is one of the great eccentrics, like Truman Capote except maybe without the bestselling novels and movies made about her. But it's not too late. Phillip Seymour Hoffman could still play her if he slimmed down a bit. Because my mother does need her own blog. She needs to teach the world how to take off its underwear while still wearing shorts. She needs to live out loud. And me. Well, I just had nothing really to say today. My panties are on, not even in a bunch and I am quite fine with that.
One time when I was maybe 12 or 13 my mom came into my room where I was making stationery with my perfect friend Lisa. We were drawing turquoise triangles on graph paper and highlighting them with a peach marker. I'm pretty sure we were inspired by something we had seen on "The Facts of Life," you know, the later episodes where the girls owned an 80's novelty store called Over Our Heads and George Clooney was the foppish carpenter, not yet cute. So my mom comes in and apropos of nothing says she is going to show us how to take off our underwear without removing our shorts. Okay, maybe it had to do with summer camp, she was showing us how to disrobe at summer camp without getting completely naked. But I never quite understood why I would need to remove my underpants while leaving on a perfectly good pair of Dolphin shorts at camp or anywhere else. But she stood there anyway and pulled the band of her underwear down over one knee and then the other side and voila! Commando Mama. The nib on my turquoise marker nearly dried out as I froze in horror. I suppose I am lucky she was wearing any underwear at all. I once told my mom that she is one of the great eccentrics, like Truman Capote except maybe without the bestselling novels and movies made about her. But it's not too late. Phillip Seymour Hoffman could still play her if he slimmed down a bit. Because my mother does need her own blog. She needs to teach the world how to take off its underwear while still wearing shorts. She needs to live out loud. And me. Well, I just had nothing really to say today. My panties are on, not even in a bunch and I am quite fine with that.
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3 comments:
It is rather interesting for me to read this blog. Thank you for it. I like such topics and anything that is connected to them. I would like to read more soon.
Hello. And Bye.
hm... thanks for thoughts :)
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