Life Lesson #17: Like Mother, Like Daughter.
My mom bought me legit ‘dirty sex’ underwear.
When she gave them to me on Sunday, a souvenir from my parent’s recent cut-short trip to London (thanks to their youngest, as you may recall), I thought, hmm, these are pretty. Oh, and the right size. Perfect.
By the time I got back into Manhattan, I was thinking, wait a second. These are not just pretty, they’re kind of dirty. I’m talking black, sheer, with some red flowery design.
A raised eyebrow and giggle from Madonna confirmed my thought process.
This is underwear made to be seen, taken off, and then thrown haphazardly into a corner of the room.
This is underwear made for sex.
Which leads me to conclude my mom believes one of two things about me.
Option 1: I am in the need of some booty. Stat.
Option 2: I am a slut. Period.
Either way, I’ve got to admit, I’m a little perturbed.
Let’s go with Option 1. There are a few reasons why she might come to this conclusion. I’m going to go with the fact that I rarely mention guys, besides my friends she most likely knows, as the main reason she might believe I get no action.
The truth is, as close and she and I are, I refuse to tell her if I met/am dating/slept with/broke up/am plotting revenge/hope to get in bed/never want to see someone again. Because she has this nasty little habit where she‘ll ask about them all the time. And when she can tell it’s getting on my nerves, she’ll drop it for two months. Then, out of the blue:
“So, how’s [insert name here]?”
“What?”
“I asked you how [insert name here] is doing.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“Oh, don’t give me that. You were dating him for Christ’s sake!”
“You’re crazy.”
That’s how it usually goes. Half the time, I can’t even figure out how the woman even knows a name to begin with. I’m assuming it’s her stealth-like mom hearing and/or snooping skills. During the holidays, she must have overheard me tell H.F.T. about going out with some guy I met recently. A few nights later on the phone:
“So, how are things going with [insert name here]?”
"What?"
“Oh you know, the man you went out to dinner with the other night! What does he do again?”
“What do you mean ‘what does he do again‘? I never told you in the first place!”
“Well how am I supposed to know anything then if you never tell me these things?”
“What? You’re crazy.”
She’s a big fan of that line. I think she first started using it when she finally found out I broke up with my ex-boyfriend of almost four years a good month after the actual breakup (which I guess kind of gives her the right to feel that way, but still). Not because I was too upset or embarrassed to tell her. I just didn’t want to bother to go into the details. And then have to answer a bazillion questions that have nothing to do with anything.
So ever since then, mum’s the word.
Another part of it may be that when she asks how my weekend was or what I did the night before, it often includes something I did with my friends. Whether or not it ended with said friends, I keep that to myself. And so, she probably assumes I do little more than dinner with the girls, happy hour with the coworkers, and afternoon strolls with Liberace.
Take this past weekend.
Version told to mom: Thursday night Yankees game with Madonna and Goose, Friday night bartending, Saturday night out with the usual crew, Sunday afternoon grabbing a ride with a friend who drove me to Westchester.
Actual version: Thursday night Yankees game with Madonna and Goose followed by a late night at a local bar in which too many shots were washed down with some quality, high school-reminiscent making out. Friday night, bartending with a guy I just met who now has my number so we can ‘hang out’ the next time he’s in the city and/or call me this summer for some free surfing lessons. Saturday night (which actually started late afternoon, but that’s neither here nor there) that ended with the guy from Thursday night driving me to my parent’s house on Sunday.
This selective story telling, however, might actually be only fooling myself. Hence, Option 2: mom thinks her daughter’s got a bit of a problem.
You see, my mom’s no fool. She was a dancing queen of the seventies. The woman was engaged three times before my dad. She was a fan of Studio 54. Her friends still joke how she only took off her four-inch heels when she broke her ankle (presumably dancing at Studio 54). She still gets hit on by most men, regardless of age, when going about her usual day. I know a few of my friends who’d like to get her in bed.
So for me to assume the woman thinks Option 1 is more than likely naïve of me. She prides herself in how well she raised her daughter, which probably means in more than the being-polite-to-strangers and making-sure-to-brush-at-least-twice-a-day sort of ways.
Oh, and let’s be honest here. When I got dropped off on Sunday, my dad was in the driveway after having just cruised round the ‘hood on his Fat Boy.
“Hi Dad! How are you?”
“Hey Penny. Good. Great day. Who was that?”
“My friend.”
“You’re crazy.”
Life Lesson # 17: My mom gave me dirty sex underwear because she’s no fool. We may not talk about these things and actually hearing about what an average weekend includes might send her into cardiac arrest, but she knows.
And if I reap free gifts because of it, well then that’s great.
And so, thank you mom. May you never, ever read this blog.
When she gave them to me on Sunday, a souvenir from my parent’s recent cut-short trip to London (thanks to their youngest, as you may recall), I thought, hmm, these are pretty. Oh, and the right size. Perfect.
By the time I got back into Manhattan, I was thinking, wait a second. These are not just pretty, they’re kind of dirty. I’m talking black, sheer, with some red flowery design.
A raised eyebrow and giggle from Madonna confirmed my thought process.This is underwear made to be seen, taken off, and then thrown haphazardly into a corner of the room.
This is underwear made for sex.
Which leads me to conclude my mom believes one of two things about me.
Option 1: I am in the need of some booty. Stat.
Option 2: I am a slut. Period.
Either way, I’ve got to admit, I’m a little perturbed.
Let’s go with Option 1. There are a few reasons why she might come to this conclusion. I’m going to go with the fact that I rarely mention guys, besides my friends she most likely knows, as the main reason she might believe I get no action.
The truth is, as close and she and I are, I refuse to tell her if I met/am dating/slept with/broke up/am plotting revenge/hope to get in bed/never want to see someone again. Because she has this nasty little habit where she‘ll ask about them all the time. And when she can tell it’s getting on my nerves, she’ll drop it for two months. Then, out of the blue:
“So, how’s [insert name here]?”
“What?”
“I asked you how [insert name here] is doing.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“Oh, don’t give me that. You were dating him for Christ’s sake!”
“You’re crazy.”
That’s how it usually goes. Half the time, I can’t even figure out how the woman even knows a name to begin with. I’m assuming it’s her stealth-like mom hearing and/or snooping skills. During the holidays, she must have overheard me tell H.F.T. about going out with some guy I met recently. A few nights later on the phone:
“So, how are things going with [insert name here]?”
"What?"
“Oh you know, the man you went out to dinner with the other night! What does he do again?”
“What do you mean ‘what does he do again‘? I never told you in the first place!”
“Well how am I supposed to know anything then if you never tell me these things?”
“What? You’re crazy.”
She’s a big fan of that line. I think she first started using it when she finally found out I broke up with my ex-boyfriend of almost four years a good month after the actual breakup (which I guess kind of gives her the right to feel that way, but still). Not because I was too upset or embarrassed to tell her. I just didn’t want to bother to go into the details. And then have to answer a bazillion questions that have nothing to do with anything.
So ever since then, mum’s the word.
Another part of it may be that when she asks how my weekend was or what I did the night before, it often includes something I did with my friends. Whether or not it ended with said friends, I keep that to myself. And so, she probably assumes I do little more than dinner with the girls, happy hour with the coworkers, and afternoon strolls with Liberace.
Take this past weekend.
Version told to mom: Thursday night Yankees game with Madonna and Goose, Friday night bartending, Saturday night out with the usual crew, Sunday afternoon grabbing a ride with a friend who drove me to Westchester.
Actual version: Thursday night Yankees game with Madonna and Goose followed by a late night at a local bar in which too many shots were washed down with some quality, high school-reminiscent making out. Friday night, bartending with a guy I just met who now has my number so we can ‘hang out’ the next time he’s in the city and/or call me this summer for some free surfing lessons. Saturday night (which actually started late afternoon, but that’s neither here nor there) that ended with the guy from Thursday night driving me to my parent’s house on Sunday.
This selective story telling, however, might actually be only fooling myself. Hence, Option 2: mom thinks her daughter’s got a bit of a problem.
You see, my mom’s no fool. She was a dancing queen of the seventies. The woman was engaged three times before my dad. She was a fan of Studio 54. Her friends still joke how she only took off her four-inch heels when she broke her ankle (presumably dancing at Studio 54). She still gets hit on by most men, regardless of age, when going about her usual day. I know a few of my friends who’d like to get her in bed.
So for me to assume the woman thinks Option 1 is more than likely naïve of me. She prides herself in how well she raised her daughter, which probably means in more than the being-polite-to-strangers and making-sure-to-brush-at-least-twice-a-day sort of ways.
Oh, and let’s be honest here. When I got dropped off on Sunday, my dad was in the driveway after having just cruised round the ‘hood on his Fat Boy.
“Hi Dad! How are you?”
“Hey Penny. Good. Great day. Who was that?”
“My friend.”
“You’re crazy.”
Life Lesson # 17: My mom gave me dirty sex underwear because she’s no fool. We may not talk about these things and actually hearing about what an average weekend includes might send her into cardiac arrest, but she knows.
And if I reap free gifts because of it, well then that’s great.
And so, thank you mom. May you never, ever read this blog.
posted by Penny at 1:19 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home