As I grow up, I seem to find there are a lot of particularities that I’ve never noticed about with my culture. Funny thing it is when my father’s old friend visits, or matter of fact, anybody visits, my mother has this way of oh, not so bragging.
Got to say it’s a bit shamefulless.
This time around she just came back from Thailand/China, after a recent trip to Mexico, where I call wrinkle villages, so she looks like…absolute crap. Not even bashing. Just a bit. See, my mother’s a short woman, and short women, apparently can get away with a lot. Or at least this burnt out bopping potato can. Our guest did not even notice her mocha appearance, until I made humor of it of course (see I didn’t make fun, I’m still nice) What this miraculous woman pulls is the intense level of upgraded (hopefully pretended) stupidity, unparalleled sense of babbling – PLUS your legitimate attention, and the occasional glimpse of not so innocent.
The first step of being your’s truly is turning on all the lights even though it is bright day light outside whenever a new guest arrives. Obviously, one must meticulously grade whether or not the ceilings were given to you by the courtesy of the builders, or reconstructed from the previous bored housewife. Do I care? I hardly am allowed to turn on the lights on a yearly bases, when have I ever been given the tour of our ‘grand villa’? Matter of fact, walking into any person’s house, I sure would not be given the descriptions of the indents of my kitchen cupboards.
A perfectly good piece of Duck laying around, and you’ve got her sweating in this blasted summer heat, then mopping with her nose in the floor. It’s Cinderella all over again.
After the high above, which yes, my mother even goes to the ostentation of showing my room. Thanks for that. Skipping my sister’s of course, that just somehow fell out of her head with uncharted coincidence. And nobody seems to take notice. Of course, one must get back to their feet on the ground. Way to the ground. Your legitimate feet level. We’d be there crawling on all fours and admiring the few extra inches, with the jarring debate of contractor vs constructor, for the linings of the wall. Moldings they were? What a hideous name.
Despite the good charade, I’m quite sure the petite woman just had no idea what their guest was going to say next.
“It’s definitely added on; this is such a nice house.”
“Oh is it?! I didn’t even know! I just walked into the house and said oh my goodness, I’ve got to live here!” Guffaws madly.
Somehow it sounded like that bride show my cousin used to watch. People just always find the dress, and all the rest of us single, bitter hoes represented ladies nick name them with exasperation. “Why are these people famous. Hell, I could pull a fast one on her any day.” – I know, you just keep gunning down those smart remarks while lounging on your couch. The exception being, this woman does her part so well that you can’t even call her out on it for being a phony. Her laugh is just that good.
I hadn’t found this out until late the other night, but while this supposedly prime of life-ee clocked out at 11pm on a Friday night, her mother was able to maintain the concentration and interest of the poor fellow from Toronto until 4 in the morning.
He told me she had quite some things to say about herself.
Tell me mam, what do you have to say for yourself.
The following day, zoning out in the car, I just couldn’t get it out of my head how this woman was able to repeatedly repeat her repetitions and not get bashed across the head for it.
“I said I wouldn’t do that. (Right?) So I told her I wouldn’t do it. Then she asked me, and I said I wouldn’t do it. I mean, I told her I wouldn’t do it.(Right?)”
And she wasn’t even going for emphasis, this is just her regular speech during story time. Then of course, she guffaws.
Just nobody seems to take notice.
On our guest’s last night here, my mother sat us down and had a nice chat. Serving us all assortments of dried and salted sea food she got from China – which were gross looking and questionable, but good.
When the topic came up of my future plans, I went ahead and announced my approximately 5 year plan from now for education and lifestyle-wise. I said after I graduate next year my mother is splitting with my sister and I, where I will possibly live alone. No, I’m crazy. I’m obviously kidding she says. She would never do that they say. The Duck vehemently resembles a bobble head. All in vain.
It’s like quacking at the wind.
So in theory, if I were just a foot shorter, I’d be able to convince my guests that I have actually never marveled at my ceiling before. Like no short person has. Had I been 8 shades darker, I would’ve been the glory of jokes in which would lead to my infamous story times. Had my hair been 4 inches shorter, I could pass off my bashful jokes of moving out to be actual jokes, then guffaw madly; and so the thunder will be mine.
But nope, the Duck was overlooked in the line of genes, so I guess she’s just stuck with this. Picking the wrong side when trying to reach the adjacent station. Twice. The sore side kick to the not so bragging hostess, handing her all the lines.
