Anyone who is married to me knows that I have a keen ability to fight over anything. Food, bad driving, not tucking the sheets in properly – you name it, I’ve picked a fight about it. And coincidentally enough, my mother has this same ability. (Shocking!)
She calls me yesterday in a huff.
“Your father is driving me crazy.”
This isn’t anything new.
“Oh really? How come?” I say, only half paying attention. I’ve grown accustomed to my mother calling me to vent.
“We need bull penises and he refuses to get off his ass and go get them!”
“Excuse me?” She has my attention now. “Did you just say you’re fighting over bull penises?”
“Yes, he won’t go pick them up!”
(Very obscure. I am impressed.)
“I’ve been asking him for three days now and we still don’t have any!” she complains.
At this point I am beyond stumped.
“What on earth are you going to do with bull penises? Surely to God you’re not going to eat them,” I say.
With my mother, you really never know. When my sister and I were kids she served us curried lamb testicles thinking it would help us to become more cultured. To this day we avoid anything curried and certainly all forms of lamb. The attempt to make us cultured failed too, as we both learned only recently that Africa is a continent not a country.
“No, no,” she tells me as if I am being crazy. “They’re for the dog. They’re called bully sticks. Ceasar Millan recommends them for chewing on and I have to give him something. He’s already destroyed three pairs of shoes and a pair of my good reading glasses.”
I ask her why she doesn’t go get the bully sticks herself, but she tells me that’s beside the point. My father should help out more: do more dishes, pick up his dirty laundry, and “buy the damn penises," she explains.
I hang up the phone and the fear sinks in. I really am like my mother.
The Meditative Mom