#MyMotherMadeMeDrink – October 9, 2016

Visit mom for the holiday weekend…

Dare I say it? She was actually quite…good.

Cussing Donald Trump. Cussing the “old men” who live in her building. Speaking her knowledge on Residential Schools on Indigenous Peoples Day weekend.

We even found something to agree on: Rob and Chyna is fucking ridiculous and sad reflection of pop culture tastes/societal values.

Look, go ahead and judge. We were trying to avoid the televised debates and that was our option.

My mother’s shade moment:
Me: (referring to Chyna while defending her against Rob) But she’s the mother of his child…

Mom: you actually want to call her a “mother”?! Just because she’s having a baby doesn’t make her a mother…and who gets acrylic nails while pregnant? Isn’t that toxic? 

I actually thought that I would get away scott free this weekend. But no.

You know how you have that hidden insecurity? The one that you’re not sure is a “thing”, because you don’t think about it too much, but if you did, it would probably bother you?

Mine is my hair. Specifically the colour of my hair.

I’m lucky to have my family’s “never age” gene. I’m #teamlightskint but I have just enough Black to not crack. However, my hair did not get the memo. I started to go grey at 24. Sometimes I like they grey because I can point to it when I’m getting carded at the liquor store.

(and if you’re reading this blog, you can tell I go to the liquor store)

But other times, I feel like it makes me look…TIRED. Not old. But haggard. Washed out.

Over the last month (since I turned 40), I’ve wondered what to do with the colour. I chopped my hair in August and LOVE the cut. But it also shows off EVERY GREY HAIR I HAVE.

To myself, in the mirror, I thought, “okay…let’s live with it a bit and see…”

Notice how mothers always seem to know WHAT that one little thing that is bothering you is?

TEN MINUTES AFTER ARRIVING AT MY MOTHER’S.

Her: “GAWD your hair is GREY! What colour IS it exactly? Is it Black? Grey? Red? Brown?”

Me: har har har…

This morning. Get out of the shower and see my reflection.

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I hear my mother’s voice echoing though my head.

So…

My hair is now “Dark Golden Brown”

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#mymothermademedrink

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Dinner For One…

Okay.

I get it.

What I’m happy about is that I “got it” a lot quicker than the last time.

I wanted a date. You wanted to fuck.

Now. These things aren’t mutually exclusive. Just because I wanted a date (first), it didn’t mean that you weren’t going to get fucked. But I can see how you might think that. But to forget that you had made plans for a date? While still remembering that you wanted to fuck me?

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We didn’t even get started, so I can’t even be mad…

(or even bitter) 

I AM annoyed. I wasn’t sure why at first. So I slept on it.

But I woke up. Annoyed. Thought about it some more.

Then it hit me.

It was the, “I have a lot on my plate” line.

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Cue up Sunshine Anderson, because I’ve heard that all before…

I get having a lot on one’s plate. I do. I really do.

But I’m not parsley, luv.

I’m the fucking steak.

The main course that you can’t wait to dive into. The one you make reservations for. The one you wait to be cooked to perfection. The one you’ll stand in line for when you can’t make a reservation.

I’m not drive thru.

So. Just like that (poof), you are gone.

Nope. I’m not interested in seeing the dessert menu.

I’mma just order some takeout.

xoxo

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