A funny, quite conducive to anecdote-ing thing happened to my mother and me last Sunday. Actually, it happened to Mom first and not with me simultaneously. This should be funny later.
It began a typical Sunday, Mom sleeping in until the decadently gluttonous hour of 7:04 A.M. and me talking myself out of bed, arm twisted, around 9:45. Upon arrival to the overstuffed second hand armchair in our living room (Mom calls it a ‘den’ and I am like, not everyone grew up in the North, Mom. It’s a living room to anyone you would ask here. Sheez, you confuse my friends with that ‘den’ business, they never know where to sit!..Anyway, I digress).
So ANYWAY, when I am in the chair in the living room before 10, I feel like a very attentive daughter, going out of my way to be awake at the same time as Mom and visually accessible to her, something I feel gives me Consideration Points with her. So mostly I assume when I get up early, Mom is going to give me some latitude on, say, unloading the dishwasher or making me get dressed and go to the grocery store while I am still in my underthings. She knows I am a slow starter in the morning, but the effort I put forth by getting up earlier than I would have were she not home shows that, God help me, I do try.
That being said, I was understandably perturbed when she called for me from her bathroom. Hey Dev, you gotta come ‘ere. She said it in a way that said, ‘I am your mother, get up and come here,’ but also in a way that said, ‘You won’t want to miss this.’ But she didn’t say the latter with enough mustered gumption to indicate giddiness, so I didn’t feel the curious excitement that may have better prepared me for what I was about to see in a high cupboard in my Mom’s bathroom.
What we had found rhymed with ‘vertigo(s)’ and, coincidentally, dredged up the same nauseated, up-too-high feeling. Oh…wow! I said. OH NO, there’s a DOUBLE-SIDED ONE! Aw no, what does that mean?! Yes. Stowing away in my mom’s high bathroom cabinet, all this time, was one battery-operated neon orange dildo and one obsidian black double-sided dildo (almost two feel in length, I hypothesize). In the four years that my mother has lived here, she has never once checked that cabinet. Can you imagine?
Here’s my thinking on this: 1) Does one not, at some point, say to themselves, Hey, didn’t we (I say ‘we’ because, really) used to have an 18 inch double-sided black stallion dildo? I swear we bought that. I mean, it must be four years now since I’ve seen it…but I remember, now, thinking that this is something I wouldn’t normally buy but that that was the beauty, that I was treating myself because I had just come from that self-motivation seminar in Tahoe and was determined to undertake my interests no matter their level of unorthodoxy. It doubled as a confidence builder! Hm. (Oh well?)
So, really, how could you leave it?
Second: If I had the gumption and enough bleach to sterilize the entire emo generation, I would probably brandish those dildos as really gross, interesting-but-affective-nonetheless weapons. Just think about it: you are a petty crook who breaks into houses and takes nominal things. So, you case this house and you see that only a single woman lives there so you decided to do her place. You break in and somehow, miraculously the dog hasn’t heard you so you start going for the electronics and as you cross into the kitchen, something phwapps you on the head, right behind the ear. There’s no mistaking that dense rubbery heaviness, everyone knows it instinctually…did I mention it is slick and gooey? Yeah. How gross would that be?! I mean, really think about it. My neurons react in such a way that I would feel the object and it’s moistness and register the force and size of it and deduce, to my chagrin, that it was in fact a double-sided slippery dildo, and I would commence throwing up into my pantyhose mask.
That’s fucked up but affective. So, those are our options at the present moment. Mom says she doesn’t even want to throw it away in our garbage cans. I can’t say that I blame her, those garbage men aren’t trained to handle things like this. Plus, I don’t need dildos spilling onto the street from our garbage bags as the neighborhood looks on and thinks, ‘I thought they were mother and daughter’. An even worse successive thought is, ‘They are.’
That is my tale of satire for the moment, but life doesn’t hand you better gems than that. The world deserves to know. And if I can make even one parochial churchgoer blush, than that is all I could ever have hoped to attain.
Also, I’m pretty sure the dildos are still up there in the cupboard. We haven’t come up with a solid plan of action yet and I don’t think it takes mentioning that this situation is not something to be underestimated because…ew.
As ever,
Trippy Miss
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