Shari has said to me before that she lives in constant dire fear of what I will tweet, Facebook, or blog about next. She will say something funny or blonde and I will just happen to be typing on my phone, and the next instant she’ll shriek and exclaim, “DON’T tweet that!”
Sorry Mom, it comes with the territory.
For instance: I went to eat with them at Slim Chickens this past weekend. I think it was karmic retribution for making Megan be a third wheel a few weekends ago because I was president of third wheeldom on Friday night.
Dinner conversation somehow meandered to my age.
Dad: I wish you were 21.
Taylor: Me and you both. But why do you wish this?
Dad: you could come to the bar with me tomorrow night and watch this show blahblahblahblahmojomen?blahblahblah (I’m an excellent listener)
Taylor: yeah, no. I think I’d decline even if I was 21.
Shari: do you have a fake ID?
I’m sorry, what? Did my mom just question the legality of my identification?
Taylor: uhhhh do you think I’d tell you if I did…?
(I don’t, by the way. I’m a year away. It’s a patience principle. And maybe a lack of money principle. But mainly patience. Yeah.)
But the true gem of the night was Shari’s comment on her workplace. She and Paul were discussing her job description in the kitchen and I tuned in for just this precious tidbit, “I don’t personally put tubes up anyone’s butt.” I vacated the premises immediately. (she will kill me if I don’t explain her, so essentially they were talking about procedures for different approaches to attacking cancer. Can I still sleep at your house, mom?)
With all the topic ammunition they provide me with, A Very Lucky Girl could write for centuries.