Return Of The G-Unit

My Mother is back in town after a month in Italy.

And while she still repeats the mantra "Do what ever you want, I'm not bothering you," she will usually follow that up with "So what are you doing tonight? Tomorrow? Maybe I could swing by the office, meet you for lunch? Howsabout tomorrow at 5am, we have a quick breakfast and catch a movie before work?..." By this point it's usually too late, as I've hung myself from the rafters in my bedroom, Shawshank Redempy stizz.

Not actually true -- I managed to squeeze in a Mommy-Daughter outing yesterday. We went shopping. This could have been a successful shopping venture but everytime I turned around she was gone - I felt like I was babysitting a freekin' 3 year old. And so, I spent 95% of my time searching up & down the aisles only to find her standing in the center of the "Coordinates" section applying her lipstick. This happened no less than 3 times during some key shopping moments. The Daughter then must become the Mother, chiding her for such behavior, then feeling guilty, offering her a piece of gum, and secretly wishing she had never given birth to this 50-year-old menace.

Then we headed back to my parents house so I could get first dibs on the gifts she brought back. I sat on her bed for half an hour and watched her rummage through 400 different plastic bags while talking to herself “No, that’s not for you.” …”What the hell is this?” … “Who went through these already??….”

After a questionable assortment of accessories were laid out on her bed … I was forced to wonder .. Did my mother just meet me? Is she suffering from glaucoma and unable to actually see me and the kind of clothes I wear? Unlike my little sister, I don't fall for the "All the girls are wearing them ... " line (Jessica = floral peddle pushers, that's all I'm sayin').

Let's put it this way - I had the opportunity to choose from an assortment of colorful “scarfs”, a belt made of 100% rhinestones, and a glittery gold “top” that's so "titty-licious" it could only draw the conclusion that my mom wants to start pimpin' me out.

Apparently, I need to work on my gratitude because her response to my disinterest in her selections was: “Well, if you don’t like it, I’ll give it to someone for Christmas!! Somebody with taste will appreciate it!”

Touche.