In May I took a trip to the midwest for over two weeks.
My mother and sister live in Kentucky and were just six hours away, so I went for just a day. Miraculously, my mother never fails to outdo herself.
After spending time with the children I sat at the dining room table with her. Her failings aside, there is never a time I don’t feel guilty for being a relatively horrible daughter.
For instance, she filled my trunk up with Christmas gifts. I did not give her one. I felt better after opening a few boxes, specifically one with a t-shirt that displayed a very large pink pig and the words “Road Hog.” You may ask, “WTF?” And I will tell you I have no idea.
So I asked her on Facebook, “Mom, what’s the deal with the t-shirt?”
Her reply: “Oh, I was going to give that to your nephew, but I thought you’d be the one who’d have the nerve to wear it!”
I did not follow up and ask, “Why would I want to?”
Second box: Gigantic automatic air freshener with 3 refills.
While I was at Mom’s house I observed my sister nearly get shot in the eye with a ridiculously powerful burst of spray from a similar model. Since my mother has five dogs she has MORE THAN A DOZEN of these things on at all times in her home. They make me gag in combination with the nasty ass smell she’s attempting to disguise.
Are we sensing a theme here? (1) Pig shirt, (2) air fresheners.
My daughter got a donut maker and a separate cupcake maker. My mother, always one to promote obesity and overeating.
Rachel’s comment was, “Wow! Grandma plays favorites! I love her!” She also got a Kindle Fire.
I then proceeded to open two hardcover books I did not care to read, but it was nice of her to send them (?)
My husband got a $100 gift card to Home Depot. Nice!
I got a Christmas ornament made out of some kind of recycled metal and
a set of sheets intended for people who sweat a lot.
Now that I’ve thought about it I no longer feel guilty whatsoever.
* * * * *
Anyway, back to the subject at hand . . .
We were sitting at the dining room table and I asked my mother if she’d ever had the rather dark mole on her face looked at by a dermatologist. She said, “I’ve been planning on going because I have this other thing” . . .
As she continues speaking she lifts her shirt and then her bra along with her right breast.
She shows me the skin underneath, not at my request.
I am face to face with something the size of a small pancake, grayish and mottled in color. It appears to be molding around the edges, cracked and bloody in places.
She continues: “I have this other thing here that needs to be looked at, I’ve been treating it with
And then she kind of crinkles up her nose and says:
“It smells bad.”
I gag on the words, “Oh my God, Mom! What is it?”
In a downplayed tone of voice: “Oh, I don’t know. I had it once before and they cut it off.”
I ask in amazement and disgust, “You didn’t ask what it was?!”
My sister thinks it’s from all that sweating under those large boobs with no air flow. Moist and murky.
* * * * *
I hate being such a big complaining pussy, but are you fucking kidding me?
Tell me about forgiveness and God and your belief in honoring thy parents when your mother has a mushroom under her right tit.