Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to see my stuff again, it's just that it's all a bit insecure after the separation. Especially my bed. Every time I try to get anything done, my bed is like, "DON'T go! Don't leave me again. Pretty pleeeeease! Just five more minutes."
My bed is not easy to say no to either because it's so firm. Yet gentle. It doesn't give me any attitude like some beds I know. In fact, don't think I'm easy breezy, but we've been sleeping together every night since it arrived.
You still respect me, right? FTR, I am totally committed to my bed till death do us part (even though I sleep around occasionally.)
But enuff about my stuff! Let's talk about my mom.
Today my mom came over to bring me some tomatoes from her garden and to tell me that TAMNIT, she is finally going to follow her dream!!!
"I'm listening," I said. And I was.
"I want to live in a trailer," she announced.
Me, I dream about world peace, and that one day all Utah Mormons will be able to make eye contact at church, but my mom dreams of living . . . in a trailer. And not in a trailer down by the river. She wants to live in a trailer PARK.
Oh, excuse me--an RV PARK!
In short, my mom wants to be trailer trash.
This is not news to me. She's been trying to get us to give her our blessing and agree to be trailer trash spawn for years.
It just so happens that my sister has a vacant trailer for my mom to move into. (btw, if anyone ever needs to make their dreams come true, (or a cool place to live), I can totally hook you up with my sister.)
(And if you need a pedicure I can hook you up with her hub.)
So my mom and I went to my sister's so we could check out her trailer, and I am pretty sure that trailer is charmed because we sat in it for two straight hours just talking and laughing and talking some more before my sister finally broke into her daughter's piggy bank and took us to Zupas for some lobster bisque and chocolate covered strawberries.
Not only does my sister know how to make dreams come true and pay for lobster bisque with $1 bills, she remembers every hee-hee-larious thing that ever happened to us when we were kids.
I'm seriously going to have to start a series of trailer trash stories for your reading pleasure.
Story #1 will be about our guinea pig named Popeye?
And fo' real, the reason it was named Popeye had nothing to do with spinach or olive oil and everything to do with the time our dog squeezed it's face until it's eye balls popped right out of it's head. I kid not. My mom had only $10 to her name but she declared that no guinea pig of hers would have to go through life with it's eyeballs dangling by a thread so she rushed him to the vet who promptly popped Popeye's little eyeballs back into their little sockets.
And here's the tear jerker. He only charged $10!
How's that for a trailer trash?
There's plenty more where that came from, baby!