|O, how quickly our parents grow up!
||[Oct. 22nd, 2008|09:35 am]
So, last night the Captain and I were headed back from a lovely evening packing up the pirate camp and filling the car to the very BRIM with filthy, dusty, dirty pirate paraphenilia. And really looking forward to getting home and having to find a place for it within the house. |
I had called my mother on the way out to the site, just doing my daughterly weekly check-in and no one was home -- my parents out gallivanting with the neighbors -- on a weeknight! Now that they're both retired, they can stay out late. On the one hand, it's a joy to be able to call them after 9pm without waking them up. On the other hand, sometimes the window for daughterly checking-in is small and I used to be able to count on them being home at a reasonable hour.
She called back while we were on the way home -- on her cell phone so that she wouldn't use up my minutes. (No, I've tried to explain that it's not like a long-distance call, that whether the call is incoming or outgoing, it's still always my minutes being used as well, but it's useless. She refuses to grasp it. I'd be smug about that, but then someone will bring up algebra or learning to use the features here on LJ and well, that'd be the end of the smug.) At least I've finally taught her that standing in the kitchen, the very center of the house, surrounded by electronic appliances is not the most felicitous place to call, from a clear reception point of view. At least there's that.
And amongst family and other news, she tells me about an e-mail that she was going to forward to me, but was afraid it wouldn't go through, etc. I told her to go ahead and try, but she then proceeded to TELL me about the e-mail, which, from the sound of it, was a link, perhaps to a YouTube video.
I refrained from explaining THAT to her, since in my head, there's always a teenager listening to me talk about stuff like this and I can always picture him or her rolling eyes and sighing as I, the one-eyed man, tries to explain it to the Blind. Because, yes, I remember hearing my parents try to explain a VCR to my grandparents and yes, it WAS excruciating -- the refusal of the grand to get the concept, the lame attempts of the 'rent to explain something they barely grasped. So I try to not relive it if I can, now that I have reached hopelessly obsolete 'rent age myself.
Anyway -- the video. Which I never saw, but will replay in words as my mother told it. (This is some kind of new reverse folk art, isn't it?)
There's a little girl, British (because a Brit accent makes everything funnier to us Yanks), all dressed up, with her hair in a big bow and a starched little pinafore. (I'm sure there were more clothing details, it's my mom, after all) And she's got a shovel and she's digging a hole. A good-sized hole, maybe about the size of a suitcase. And her neighbor leans over the fence or shows up, I dunno, at this point I was trying to work out a cramp I got in my ass from when seconds earlier, the harpoon that was in the back seat came flying up beside me (thankfully, NOT point first) and tangled in my seatbelt and in trying to straighten it out without dropping the phone or story, I pulled something that pulled right the hell back.
Anyway, let's just say the neighbor leans over the fence and watches this precious little darling digging the hole. "What are you digging a hole for?"
"My goldfish died."
"Well, that's a very big hole for a goldfish. Why such a big hole?" he asks the precious little girl.
"Because your fucking cat killed my goldfish."
Which is funny. I'm sure it's funnier when you see it, but hey, I have to work with what I've got. Maybe she'll send me the link...but I'm not holding my breath.
But the important thing: my mother dropped the f-bomb on me. In 45 years, I have never, ever heard my mother use the "f" word, even when quoting someone else who used it.
I must go lie down.