Rolling the Fat

My pregnant friend, Mer, just sent me a text of herself at the OBGYN’s office.  I texted her back that she needed to go study the poster of cervixes on the wall since the last giant one was going to be hers soon.  She responded that there was also a plastic model of a vagina.  I told her she should take a picture with it for the baby book.  Taking advantage of this rare photo opportunity, she took a selfie with the plastic vag right as her doctor was walking in.  Annnnnnd this is precisely why twelve-year-olds should not have babies.  Annnnyway....

A few nights ago I convinced my seven-year-old to give me a backrub because she has strong, Icelandic bodybuilder, man hands.  I was like, “Oh my God, you seriously give the best massages.”  She said, “You wanna know what my secret is?”  “Sure.”  “It’s called Rolling-The-Fat.  By the way mom, you owe me $40.”  Mike snickered and I momentarily considered starving myself or maybe becoming addicted to laxatives but then I figured screw it, haters gonna hate, “$35 but you need to focus.”  Apparently, my mother had thoughtfully taught her this technique the last time she babysat.

My mom cleans houses and I never used to see her until I started paying her to come do mine.  When I pointed this out to her, she said, “Yeah, well you never come over to see me, did you think about that?”  Hi.  You have never offered to pay me to visit.  So twice a month I pay my mother (in cash) to clean my house and spend the day with me so we can get to know one another.  

Because I am deeply cognizant of other’s feelings, I always spend the day before she is scheduled to clean, pre-cleaning my house so she does not realize what a shitty housewife she raised and become overwrought with guilt.  You do not need to feel sorry for me though because my sacrifices have caused our relationship to blossom.   Occasionally, I like to tell her she “missed a spot” and she will tell me to “fuck-off” but I know this is just typical mother/daughter repertoire.  

Last week when my mom was over, Mike came home feeling jovial because he loves my mom since she always sides with him and says things like, “Poor Mike.”  He flopped down on the couch and patted the cushion for Dick Dog to come sit next to him.  I have warned Dick Dog on countless occasions to never, ever trust admissions of affection from Mike since he hates all dogs, even seeing eye ones.

I watched in utter disdain as Dick Dog became pathetically excited over Mike’s unexpected kindness and peed on him.  Predictably, Mike freaked out like he has never had a golden shower before and yelled at Dick Dog.  My daughters and I stared at Mike in absolute disgust.  I snapped, “Really Mike, really?  You know Dick Dog is sensitive and we must speak in monotone voices to not overstimulate his bladder.”  “I can’t believe you just did that Dad.  You should apologize.”  “Yeah Daaaad, you should be ashamed of yourself, not cool.”  Mike stood there looking at us in disbelief like we were the assholes and stomped upstairs to take a shower.

My daughter then said, “We should just throw a bunch of dad’s clothes out on the lawn so the dog learns how to pee outside.”  I tilted my head in acknowledgement of her ingenuity.  Not an altogether unfortunate idea... I followed Mike upstairs.

Mike:  “I am not talking to you for four days.” (In a pissy tone)

Me:  “You promise?  But out of curiosity, why only four?”  

Mike:  “Well I started to say it is either me or the dog but I realized I didn’t have anywhere to go tonight and four days just came out.”

And then we both started laughing super duper hard.  I have often wondered if Mike feels more like a squatter in our house but I don’t want to give him any attestation that his arguments might have relevance.    

Okay well, I have to go now.  Have a glorious week, smoochies.  XO