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22 September 2005

A history paper

is probably what I should be working on right now. But I'm not. Presently, I have the attention span of a gnat, and my 930 deadline for tomorrow morning seems like, well, tomorrow, not today. So really, there's no pressing need. Not until, like, midnight. You know, when I'm really tired and bitchy and cursing the fact that I didn't do the darn thing at *checks the time* 8:54p. But so is life. There's a lot of commas in that paragraph. I think I'll leave them.

I wanted to pass along a story of family craze because I was reminded of it in a blog that I was flipping through - one of the titles of the post was "Love is a Cunt". Which in my humble opinion, is darn accurate. It's a word that encompasses so much - it flaunts itself, beguiles people into saying it's accuracy with fear of public retribution, it's fun to play with and sometimes, well sometimes it just stinks. Ah yes, the smelly reality. For those not so twat friendly, we'll refer to it as the "C U Next Tuesday" word.

Smarts and I have a mom who is 5'1, has the best legs and is full of piss and vinegar. Her name is Cynthia. Now normally I wouldn't share names, but in this case, it is the pivitol point to the whole grand HurAH.

So our mom went crazy a few years back. None of us are entirely certain what exactly it was that went wrong, but let's just say that it fell, without question, under the category of "If Mama Ain't Happy, Ain't Nodboy Happy" category. Dad considered divorce. Mom considered murder - I don't think she was terribly fussy about who she might shoot, but anyways, back to our story.

Mom had a vacuum cleaner - a $1200 electrolux vacuum cleaner to be exact. It was the baby. The Grand Pubah of dirt sucking machines. The Caddy of all household utensils. And we weren't allowed to touch it. I owned two dogs at the time and lived about ten minutes away. I was 27 years old. I was gainefully employed and paid my own damn rent on my own damn house. "Mom, can I borrow your vacuum to go through my house with?". "No, but you can take the broom". Thank you. Thank you very much.

One Saturday, amid dad wanting a divorce and mom looking at murder, I walk into their house, through the back door and into the kitchen. Dad's pouring water through the coffee maker and into a new pot. So I asked the obvious (because I'm good at it). "So dad - what happened to the coffee pot?" Trully, it was in all innocence. "Ask your mother." came the reply. So mom came down stairs and I asked her. "So mom - what happened to the coffee pot?" And then she starts to giggle. Dad looked disgusted, mom started to giggle harder, and I just looked confused. "Well" she says "I picked up a plate and I was aiming for the window. But I got too much hook on it".

This was the first moment that I had ever, really, seen my parents as people. As honest-to-goodness-can't-get-much-more-down-to-earth-than-this people. She's still giggling. "I needed to throw something" she said. Of course. It made perfect sense. And the only other thought I had was IF WE HAD OF ACTED THIS WAY WHEN WE WERE KIDS YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN SO PISSED!!! But I still understood. Sometimes you just need to throw things. In fact, at one point (back in the shiney white days), I kept an arsenol of really ugly mugs - just for chucking purposes. If you're a supressor, they help. You really do feel better.

So that was fine. Mom broke the coffee pot. Then dad turns to me and says "Ask her about the vacuum cleaner". Oh dear. This was something different.

Mom starts giggling again. Which is always a better sign than any possible alternatives. Provided she doesn't have a gun. So she goes to the covetous closet and brings out the Baby.

Sans wheels.

If you've ever seen a vacuum cleaner limp along on a broken wheel, it's pretty funny. It went from Caddy to Gimp in the exact number of seconds it took HER TO TURF IT DOWN THE STAIRS. Notice the emphasis on HER actions. It was like fine wine or the perfect dessert. It just left a good taste in your mouth to know that she had nothin' on you.

Let's skip ahead.

Another evening I was coming in through the back door and into the kitchen. I actually question whether or not my hand did indeed touch the doorknob, because dad was right there. "LOOK!" He said. He reminded me a bit of a kid on Christmas morning. "I knew it!". He stuck an envelope in my face.

My mom works for the province and therefore gets some very official mail. This very official male was addressed to "CUNTHIA Blahblahblah"

"YOU SEE!!" this is dad again "I told you!!"

A point had been proven. A case had been solved. I actually think that may have been the turn-around moment. When I can't remember the access to my university account - she's my skill testing question. It just makes me laugh.

Welcome to my gene pool.


Kiki said...

I love the Cunthia story. I still call her that (not to her face) all of the time. It's so cute.

Ms Dare2dv8 said...

It's really endearing in one of those really, really back-handed ways, eh? :)

Smarts said...

ahhh, but have you heard the mona-big-c u next tuesday story?

glad you procrastinated on your essay;)

Potor said...

When I was younger my mother was very angry at me for something I’d done. She threw a plate at the floor and it, of course, broke. Then she started screaming at me because it was my fault the plate had broke. It was a Corningware plate, and those aren’t supposed to break.

Gotta love moms.

Ms Dare2dv8 said...

The Mona Story is even worse because she used THE WORD in CONTEXT!!!



And as far as corningware goes - they're a really turkey to clean up. Why'd you go and break it Potor??? WHY??!!!