Oh, Ralphie, How I Understand...

Part I

Confession: When I was ten I flipped my mom off behind her back.

I'm not even sure she knew this before reading it on this blog, but when she sent me to my room at ten years of age ("Hello! I'm practically an ADULT!  DOUBLE-DIGITS, woman!"), I remember feeling so angry I couldn't control myself and when I got around the corner, I shoved that finger up into the air so hard I am surprised now that it didn't come flying off.  Sometimes when I'm driving I wish I could recapture that anger and give someone else the good flipping-off they deserve, but I am not sure I have ever.been.so.angry.  (Which, now that I'm a teacher, I can see is probably not quite normal for a ten-year old, but whatever...)

Immediately afterwards I drew my arm in and had to hold back tears.  My mother loved me, and here I was doing the absolute worst thing one human being could do to another.  (I wasn't dramatic at all.)  I felt such a wave of shame and guilt that I went to my room quickly and quietly and waited there until she  came to get me.

Since that wave of shame overcame me so many years ago, I have not thought it was appropriate to cuss in front of my mother.  I had been using curse words since I was nine (thanks to my awesome cousin who is three years my senior!), and- apparently- gestures since I was ten, but I never wanted my mom to hear me.  It always amazed me how some friends would nonchalantly talk to their parents just like they would talk to their drinking buddy.

This strange quirk really came to a head when I was trying on prom dresses at JC Penny ('cause I'm classy).  I don't know why, but my wayward mother was not able to make it with me to the store, so I called her when I found a dress I loved.  As I shoved myself and the large, pouffy dress into the small fitting room, I was describing the dress to my mother and marveling at the cheap price.  Always the optimist, though, my last remark was that the "fudging dress probably wouldn't fit me!"

Only I didn't say fudge.




Without thinking, I immediately hung up on my mother, staring at myself in the mirror- mouth agape, eyes wide open, and face about THIS COLOR.  

It's been nearly a decade since that incident, and I've grown quite a bit more comfortable using vulgar language around my mother, but she doesn't usually get to witness the sailor side of me like she did last week.

Last Sunday, I was iChatting it up with the old lady.  I won't tell you what we discussed for nearly two hours, because it's ridiculous, but in order to further aid the conversation I needed to grab a magazine on top of one of our bookcases.  I was sitting on the living room floor, as was the computer, and this enabled my mother- although it was not my explicit intention- to watch as a wooden picture frame tumbled from eight feet into the air and landed- ever so distinctly- on a pointed corner on my FOOT.

I am no mathematician, but I am a bettin' woman, and I BET that the odds of something 7"x9" landing not on the front, or on the back, not even on one of the FOUR long sides, but on a point, are pretty slim.

Oh the string of expletives that came running out of my mouth, as though there were a fire in there.  As I looked down and saw blood pooling underneath my unbroken skin, the rapid fire of curse words flew with further intensity.

When I looked back over at the computer- at my mother-  I could only see her laughing.

Ha-ha-freaking-ha.

Part II- the part about my poor, poor foot- is on its way.