My Fellow Inebriates,
We spotted our first Moobs of 2013 yesterday, their jouncing thinly concealed under the reflective “X” of a shirtless garbage collector.
The day was radiant—cornflower-blue skies and 9°C—not spring but hinting strongly of it, and crocuses corroborating. Those Man Boobs had probably been confined all winter and were now having their day in the sun.
Despite the obvious joyfulness of the scene, my mother narrowed her eyes as the garbage collector pitched our can across the next-door neighbor’s driveway and then ran off after his truck, his moobs a riot of springtime delight.
“It’s begun,” she said.
“I know, isn’t it spectacular? If I weren’t covered with fur, I could shake my moobs like that. All six of them. Really, it calls for a toast.”
She looked at her watch. “It’s 7:45 a.m.”
My Fellow Inebriates,
Five-year-old Miss V was so delighted to receive a heart-shaped Kinder Egg box this morning that she threw a fit about not being allowed to eat the chocolate before school. Mum figured V’s class had a sugar frenzy planned in lieu of lunch and was therefore disinclined to deposit V at kindergarten prematurely overloaded with sugar. The kid was already up until 9:30 last night (“I can’t sleep, I tried for a whole minute”) and was already exhibiting hair-trigger temper.
This is exactly the type of unreasonably controlling parental crap Mum pulls on me. When I asked whether we could make raspberry martinis this morning, she didn’t even answer.
It had taken me considerable courage to visit Martha Stewart’s website for this recipe, she being the second most terrifying entity I know.
Fluffy still wins.
Stealing onto her webpage is equivalent to nudging open the door of a haunted house. What a freaky ice queen Martha is, and my mum should realize it—if Martha ever saw Mum attempting to cook lemon bars she’d probably put a pickaxe in her head.
What is society’s problem with booze for breakfast? Is it related to Mum’s problem with Kinder Eggs before 9 a.m.? Why has Mum never, for example, popped the cork on some Chardonnay before walking the kids down the hill to school? What would happen?
“Dude,” she says. “Get some brain cells.”
Just for that, V and I are dedicating a special Valentine to our mother. (This photo has cracked V up since she was four; she requests it often.)
We don’t really mean it. At least I don’t.