Tag Archive | Mom

Summer Lovin’

Earbuds firmly stuck in her ears, my mom dances around the lawn, backlit against the sinking sun. Her weights are in her hands, swinging dangerously near to her head everytime she raises her arms. She’s supposedly working out, and as she launches into the chorus of Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl, I can practically see her happiness gauge filling up. Cooper, the always hungry 10-year-old pup, pads around behind her, hoping he’ll get some kind of reward for his loyalty, not realizing that she has no idea he’s even there.

She’s oblivious to anything but her music, he’s oblivious to anything but his stomach. Together they make the perfect pair, spinning around until their shadows blur in the oncoming nighttime. Smiling, I shut my window on the enchanted scene, closing yet another perfect summer day.

Live long and prosper \V/
Yours sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

 

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DANGER WILL ROBINSON *faints in horror*

panicMy parents have discovered that I have a blog [shudders uncontrollably]. What will happen to the world? What will happen to the Mostly Confused Teenager? What am I to do? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

And so I sit here, at my computer, desperately wringing my hands, wondering how in Holy Hell they found out. Did someone tell them? Did I leave the page open without meaning too? Why, o lordly cookie, why? I saw that they knew when I was standing next to my Dad’s computer looking at pictures of Mets’ rookies in dresses (please, don’t ask) when my eyes inadvertently widened and a wave of ice washed over me as the pink background of my own special hiding place appeared in his most visited sites. I stared in horror as I realized that this was practically the end of the world for me. Well, not really, but nearly.

I held out a month and a half without them knowing. That’s not very good is it? I’d like to point out that there are some things on The Mostly Confused Teenager that are inappropriate enough that I would never say them in front of my parents.  I mean as far as I know, no parent would want to read a piece their daughter wrote about erectile dysfunction. And might I also mention that I swear, say weird things and swoon over boys on here. This blog contains my secrets, it’s a place where I can say whatever the f*ck I want without repercussions. Well, within reason (I’m sure that if I wrote that koalas are sweeter than pandas some of you would come forward and yell at me). Now, just writing the word “f*ck”, even though I’m hiding a letter, makes me feel all guilty, knowing that my parents are going to read it.

So what am I supposed to do? Suggestions are greatly appreciated, because here I’m at a loss here. Should I ask them to respect my privacy? I don’t think they’d go for that, since apparently they can already be qualified as snoops. Or hey, here’s a wild idea! Mama, Daddy, since you now know the secret identity of a certain CT, why don’t you say something?

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Very Panicked Mostly Confused Teenager.

PS: this is a very celebratory 50th post isn’t it?

An Ode to Mom

Dear Mom,

How do you put up with me? Now I know I can imagine your answer, it would be something like “love is blind”, which I would find both sweet and insulting at the same time.  You have a way with words that I envy terribly, and I hope someday I can be half as good a writer as you are. You can use your power to make someone happy or make them roll around on the floor sobbing. Not that, like, I would ever roll around on the floor crying my sorry eyes out. I’m more the type of person who drowns their sorrows in cookies. You know that.

You supply unconditional love and support to our family, and even when you’re mad because I’m constantly checking the score of the game instead of doing my homework I know that you’re only yelling because you want what’s best for me, and the Mets are definitely not that. Then again, you married Daddy; so you should have foreseen what you were getting yourself into. And although I yell back that the Mets are more important to me than homework, until they make the playoffs, they’re not. You’re right, you’re always right.

Every night when I’m in bed you come in and say the magic words, the words that one day I will repeat to my children, the words that are engraved in my mind and that I will never ever forget: “goodnight my sweet girl, may the gilgas dance and chomp in your dreams. I love you. See ya later alligator [I answer “in a while crocodile”],  in a while crocodile [I reiterate by saying “see ya later alligator”]. I love you”. Since we’ve been saying those words every night since I was a little girl you might think that the words are trivial and superficial to me now, but no. To me, those few sentences are the most important in the world. What’ll I do when I go off to college? Tape a note to the wall with those words? Nah, that doesn’t work. I guess I’ll just be the girl who calls her parents every day before she goes to lunch. Whaaaat, lunch? Yeah, the time difference sucks.

Yesterday was your birthday. Well, by the time this gets posted it will have been two days ago. You asked for a floor cleaning machine. A floor cleaning machine? Really? Who asks for that for their birthday? It was pointed out to me that it really is perpetrating the stereotype that all women want to do is clean (THAT’S NOT TRUE BY THE WAY). Well, amongst much laughter, we gave it to you. My dad said that it was the saddest birthday present he’d ever given. But then again, I guess that just another of your weird quirks. We’ve agreed to name the machine Mega Maid, like in Spaceballs. Yes, you have contaminated us with your weirdness.

I love that even though you work as a freelance editor for semiconductor companies you know nothing about technology. Your iPhone is a mystery to you, and you will never understand why Siri doesn’t function in a crowded, noisy place. And yes Mom, you do look like a crazy person, talking to your phone all by yourself. Since you’ve discovered emojis every text message you send is accompagnied by a thousand hearts of different colors, which is both terribly embarrassing and adorably lovable at the same time. I love that your ears have never been subjected to Justin Bieber and that you don’t know who Ryan Gosling is. I hate that you’re a Red Sox fan. Sorry.

I don’t know what I’d do without you. What if, all that time ago, you hadn’t made it past the operation table? What if we’d cried tears of sadness and despair instead of tears of joy? I can’t even bear to think about it. Today I worry about your worsening attention deficit, your memory loss, your eyesight. I worry because you’re my mom. I don’t ever want anything bad to happen to you.

I love you.

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

An Exhausted Birthday Cake

See, I’m so tired that even the title of this post doesn’t make any sense!

The 22nd was my mom’s… um… 29th birthday, so I spent all day making her a special cake. Oh who is she kidding she’s 53. I got up at 9 am (9 frickin’ am! Not my usual vacation hour) to go shopping, realized that I was in trouble when I started having cramps in the supermarket (is that considered TMI for a blog? God, I’m so tired it doesn’t even matter) and tried to get through my mother’s special day without acting too much like the bitch I felt like. I think I did alright. Then again that may be the champagne speaking. I don’t like champagne very much, I quite prefer bubbly apple juice. Humpf.

ANYWAYS since she absolutely wanted something lemony I made a two-layer lemon/hazelnut spongecake with a sweet lemon filling and the best buttercream (was it lemon flavored? Do you even need to ask?) I have ever tasted, even though it was a pain in my butt to make.

Here it is, and please excuse the lamo elmo blogging tonight.

Come on CT, you can’t attach the pictures with your eyes closed. Ugh.

Sleep long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.