Last night was one of the most terrifying of my life.
Ok... not THAT terrifying... I've had too many of those to make that big of a deal here, but the fear did momentarily paralyze me.
What happened?
D was a forgetful exhibitionist... that's what.
Last night I was supposed to hang out with her and a couple of friends, but around five in the afternoon I became sick, so I opted out of the girls' night (that'll teach me to go mental on some chocolate donut holes... I STILL feel like going outside and having a truck run over my stomach).
I did, however, agree to help D select her wardrobe and all that girly shit.
Since I was feeling sorry for myself and moping all over the house with my sugar-induced intestinal armageddon, D had to look for me each time she had to show me her outfit.
She was rocking a red minidress with some textured stockings when she found me complaining to Mom in the kitchen.
Me: WHY do I have such a weakness for chocolate, Mom?! I'm such an idiot!
Mom: Chocolate is so gross. So gross.
(can you believe that?! How. The. Fuck?!)
D: Look! Is this outfit stupid?
Me: Unless that outfit's name is AnoMALIE...
D opens up her leather coat. I notice the red minidress clings a little too tightly to her belly.
Me: Uhh... try... uh... picking up your pantyhose so it can... uh... push back... suck in your... because... the dress is kinda... clinging to your... bellybutton...
Now, whenever I have to readjust anything, I try doing it as inconspicuously as possible. It's that Mormon past life of mine... the Mennonite. I'm just never comfortable showing more than my ankles and elbows.
But my sister... that kid... she'll strip down anywhere. She has a runway model complex or some shit.
What does D do, right there next to the fridge... in full view of both me and Mom? She hikes up the dress to her bellybutton and starts tugging on the pantyhose.
What's so wrong with that? Mom and I are both girls, right?
Well, D has tattoos. Many of them. But in hidden places...
Sadly... one of the "hidden places" was not so hidden the moment she hiked up her dress.
The visible tattoo was this giant black-and-red rose (which wasn't the problem) with the words "Every Rose Has Its Thorns" written around it (bingo!), which is located on her left hip... which usually gets covered by her underwear... just not at that moment.
Once I noticed the visible writing on that dipshit's hip, I looked over at Mom, to see if she was looking.
Please... please, please, please... sweet Lord Jesus Christ, all-mighty savior, please, please PLEASE don't let my m-ahhh-mmmm...
I lost all feeling in my feet, arms, and head the moment I saw Mom's eyes glued to my dumbass sister's hip.
FUCK MY ASS! IT'S ABOUT TO GO DOWN! OUR WORLD IS OVER! THANKS A LOT, YOU FUCKING RETARD!
Still... with visions of my obituary running in tomorrow's paper, I maintained my calm demeanor.
I coughed a few times... and when I noticed the imbecile--better known as my sister-- wasn't catching on, I sternly said
JUST. GO. TO YOUR ROOM. AND CHANGE. CHANGE.
D froze.
I looked at Mom. Mom opened her mouth.
Herewegoherewegoherewego....
Mom took a deep breath... then closed her mouth... then exhaled.
D slowly lowered her mini dress, turned around without making eye-contact, and slipped into the hallway.
I stood frozen-- like what I imagine a soldier feels when ambushed, enemy holding the cold barrel of a gun against the back of his head.
Mom didn't make a move. She didn't look at me.
We're going to die. We're all just going to fucking die. Fuck.
From her room, and out of Mom's sight, D started miming at me.
D: Did she see?! DID SHE SEE?!
Should I speak? Should I shake me head? Mom's going to sense me shaking my head and know we're talking... she'll know I'm in on it. Fuck me. Fuckmefuckmefuckme. WHAT DO I DO?!
I nodded.
Me: Take it off. Take it off. Take it off! It looks FUCKING TERRIBLE, D!
I then started rambling. I can't say what the fuck came out of my mouth, because I swear I was having an out-of-body experience. I don't remember ANY of my nervous smalltalk.
The rest of the night I expected Mom to make her move. I expected the ax to drop.
I woke up this morning, still jumpy and ready to get slaughtered in some way.
But it never came.
I also checked up on Mom, making sure she didn't suffer a stroke from the pent-up rage.
But no... she has been very nice and relaxed, watching her Sabado Gigante and DVRed novelas.
That woman saw the tattoo.
That tattoo stirred something in her.
That woman is going to exact revenge.
This waiting game is fucking killing me... which is probably that woman's game plan.
Mexican moms are NO JOKE.
And while I don't have a single centimeter of ink on my body... I'm guilty by association. She knows I know this.
I'm fucked.
Ok... not THAT terrifying... I've had too many of those to make that big of a deal here, but the fear did momentarily paralyze me.
What happened?
D was a forgetful exhibitionist... that's what.
Last night I was supposed to hang out with her and a couple of friends, but around five in the afternoon I became sick, so I opted out of the girls' night (that'll teach me to go mental on some chocolate donut holes... I STILL feel like going outside and having a truck run over my stomach).
I did, however, agree to help D select her wardrobe and all that girly shit.
Since I was feeling sorry for myself and moping all over the house with my sugar-induced intestinal armageddon, D had to look for me each time she had to show me her outfit.
She was rocking a red minidress with some textured stockings when she found me complaining to Mom in the kitchen.
Me: WHY do I have such a weakness for chocolate, Mom?! I'm such an idiot!
Mom: Chocolate is so gross. So gross.
(can you believe that?! How. The. Fuck?!)
D: Look! Is this outfit stupid?
Me: Unless that outfit's name is AnoMALIE...
D opens up her leather coat. I notice the red minidress clings a little too tightly to her belly.
Me: Uhh... try... uh... picking up your pantyhose so it can... uh... push back... suck in your... because... the dress is kinda... clinging to your... bellybutton...
Now, whenever I have to readjust anything, I try doing it as inconspicuously as possible. It's that Mormon past life of mine... the Mennonite. I'm just never comfortable showing more than my ankles and elbows.
But my sister... that kid... she'll strip down anywhere. She has a runway model complex or some shit.
What does D do, right there next to the fridge... in full view of both me and Mom? She hikes up the dress to her bellybutton and starts tugging on the pantyhose.
What's so wrong with that? Mom and I are both girls, right?
Well, D has tattoos. Many of them. But in hidden places...
Sadly... one of the "hidden places" was not so hidden the moment she hiked up her dress.
The visible tattoo was this giant black-and-red rose (which wasn't the problem) with the words "Every Rose Has Its Thorns" written around it (bingo!), which is located on her left hip... which usually gets covered by her underwear... just not at that moment.
Once I noticed the visible writing on that dipshit's hip, I looked over at Mom, to see if she was looking.
Please... please, please, please... sweet Lord Jesus Christ, all-mighty savior, please, please PLEASE don't let my m-ahhh-mmmm...
I lost all feeling in my feet, arms, and head the moment I saw Mom's eyes glued to my dumbass sister's hip.
FUCK MY ASS! IT'S ABOUT TO GO DOWN! OUR WORLD IS OVER! THANKS A LOT, YOU FUCKING RETARD!
Still... with visions of my obituary running in tomorrow's paper, I maintained my calm demeanor.
I coughed a few times... and when I noticed the imbecile--better known as my sister-- wasn't catching on, I sternly said
JUST. GO. TO YOUR ROOM. AND CHANGE. CHANGE.
D froze.
I looked at Mom. Mom opened her mouth.
Herewegoherewegoherewego....
Mom took a deep breath... then closed her mouth... then exhaled.
D slowly lowered her mini dress, turned around without making eye-contact, and slipped into the hallway.
I stood frozen-- like what I imagine a soldier feels when ambushed, enemy holding the cold barrel of a gun against the back of his head.
Mom didn't make a move. She didn't look at me.
We're going to die. We're all just going to fucking die. Fuck.
From her room, and out of Mom's sight, D started miming at me.
D: Did she see?! DID SHE SEE?!
Should I speak? Should I shake me head? Mom's going to sense me shaking my head and know we're talking... she'll know I'm in on it. Fuck me. Fuckmefuckmefuckme. WHAT DO I DO?!
I nodded.
Me: Take it off. Take it off. Take it off! It looks FUCKING TERRIBLE, D!
I then started rambling. I can't say what the fuck came out of my mouth, because I swear I was having an out-of-body experience. I don't remember ANY of my nervous smalltalk.
The rest of the night I expected Mom to make her move. I expected the ax to drop.
I woke up this morning, still jumpy and ready to get slaughtered in some way.
But it never came.
I also checked up on Mom, making sure she didn't suffer a stroke from the pent-up rage.
But no... she has been very nice and relaxed, watching her Sabado Gigante and DVRed novelas.
That woman saw the tattoo.
That tattoo stirred something in her.
That woman is going to exact revenge.
This waiting game is fucking killing me... which is probably that woman's game plan.
Mexican moms are NO JOKE.
And while I don't have a single centimeter of ink on my body... I'm guilty by association. She knows I know this.
I'm fucked.
3 comments:
OH SHIT! D: This is going to get...bad.
fireworks... mushroom clouds... shit's gonna hit the fan and I'm looking for a decent bomb shelter :S
Make up. Make up. Cover it up.. Tell D to buy a temporary tattoo, put it on her leg, and conspicuously rub it off while visible to your mom to plant the idea the other might be fake. I know it's childish and stupid, but I'm pulling at straws.
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