The “Mother”Lode

A continuation of my “Murphy’s Law” Summer experiences…

I got strep throat on my birthday… Though this should not come as a surprise… This is in fact the 6th tonsil infection I’ve had in the past 12 months. It’s predictable. I don’t get enough sleep, I have a little too much fun, and 2-3 days later POW, I have tonsils the size of golf balls. For reasons unbeknownst to me, my tonsils are constantly trying to ruin my fun. I’m not sure why they care so much how late I stay up, how many beers I drink etc, but my tonsils are bound and determined to serve as my conscience on crack. Hind sight is so much more poignant when your glands are swelling shut…

I know, I know, I should learn from my mistakes… but that is not the theme of this post…. I’m mostly bringing up the strep to set the tone… I was, as you can imagine, thrilled about my tonsil’s little outburst. It’s rough when you are constantly disgruntled at your tonsils… I suppose the feeling is mutual, which is why my resistance is so low, but come on, to get strep on your birthday? Ok, Ok, I might have stayed out late the night before… I may have had a bit to drink… did I mention it was my brother’s wedding? I was feeling no guilt about kicking up my heels and celebrating the nuptials and my birthday in one fell swoop, but my tonsils of course had other plans. To sum up, I was peeved, I was ill, and overall not in the highest spirits.

I found myself, two days after the wedding, the day after my birthday, once again doing laundry at my parent’s house (why do all these stories start with the laundry?) I was also making myself some chicken noodle soup in attempts to appease my raging tonsils. My mother, out of the kindness of her heart was sorting my laundry while I was in the kitchen chopping celery. No, I didn’t ask her to sort it, but I think she was feeling some sort of empty nest syndrome after my brother’s wedding & she wanted to feel needed. As I was in the throes of my illness I didn’t complain. Sometimes you just want your mom to take care of you. As I diced the vegetables and browned the chicken, I heard a startled noise in the next room, but didn’t think much of it. I figured she had discovered some of lacy underwear that I purchased after my wardrobe malfunction…. If only.

Moments later my mother steps into the kitchen holding my “personal massager.”

If you could will yourself to stop living, I would have died in that moment. Pass me the cyanide capsule, beam me up Scotty, let me be at any moment in time besides this one. My face was ashen, and mentally all I could think was “no,no,no,no,no, this is not happening” clearly my brain waves were not as strong as I needed them to be.

“I’m not even sure I want to ask what this is!” she exclaimed, wielding the vibrator around the kitchen… “Well then don’t ask!” I screamed! Of course I couldn’t think of one logical explanation… I could have said anything from gag gift, to bachelorette party favor, but instead all I could do was yell at her not to ask.

Up to this point, I had been living under the code “don’t ask don’t tell” when it came to any matters relating to sex and, thus far, it had been working out pretty well. They didn’t ask, I didn’t tell, and I thought we had an understanding of how the system worked. But as they say, all good things must come to an end, and this ended with a bang. There was my mother in full on confrontation mode waving a sex toy around the kitchen. Did I mention that my dad was sitting at the counter working on a Sudoku puzzle? Insert “F my life” here.

There is a list of things you hope one or both of your parents never discover in your laundry basket. On a scale of one to ten I would say a vibrator ranks somewhere around a 6. Yes, there are hundreds, probably millions of things I would rather be discovered in my clothes hamper: tubes of chap stick, loose change, business cards, push-up bras, the list is endless. Certainly if given the choice, a vibrator wouldn’t make the top nine-billion, but out of the top ten worse things to be discovered, I think it ranks about midway. I can think far worse things to discover than a vibrator, and in retrospect, I guess I can be thankful the situation wasn’t a more incriminating one.

“Where did it even come from?!?” she asked a few minutes later. Clearly the dread, embarrassment and note of finality in my voice had not come across as clearly as I had hoped. “MOM!” was all I could muster. Again, another opportunity to explain it away, and my creativity had been shut down, so much for thinking on my feet. All I could do was chop the celery and wish I was dead.

Fact: There are not many things in this world that are more of a turn off than the mental image of your mother wielding your vibrator around the kitchen.

What I’m still trying to figure out is what possessed her to bring it out into the kitchen? Did the shock value of the discovery completely trump her sense of tact? Whatever happened to discretion? Granted, it wouldn’t have been as mentally scarring, but it still would have been just a poignant had she left it on top of my laundry. I would have much preferred a silent gesture of “look what I found” rather than the “I just want to curl up in a dark cave in the fetal position for the rest of eternity” situation. And what possessed her to brandish it around in front of my father? And why, would a confrontation be beneficial for anyone? Maybe if I was a 13 year old, living at home a discussion would have been justified, but as it is, I’m an independent, self sufficient, single, twenty-four-year-old woman! Why do we need to discuss what it is or where it came from? If the situations were reversed (and I hope to god they never will be) I certainly would not feel compelled to confront my mother (or anyone for that matter).

Needless to say, I am now extremely diligent in sorting my own laundry… I still haven’t figured out how, or why it was in my hamper in the first place… probably the result of a mad cleaning of my apartment…

Thankfully, the situation hasn’t been brought up since, but the potential is lingering. Though I like to pretend it was a figment of my imagination, I know I’m not that lucky. I’m waiting for that perfect awkward moment, driving to coffee, or on our way to the mall, when she thinks enough time has passed to broach the subject. I hope it doesn’t happen until I’m 45…