When It's Okay to Use the F Word

I got two emails from Mom today. The first's subject was, "When It's Okay to use the 'F' Word." The second subject was "Grave/Parade".

As if that isn't insane enough ....

However, my dear people, there is more. (With Mommy, there is always more.)

So, the F Word email is full of several semi-humorous, pseudo-well-photoshopped images. See example below:



Funny. (ish) Right? I think she's trying to tell me that it's okay that I said "fuck" when she and I were having the long-distance intervention the other night. Super. She's being funny. Good sign.

Then we move on to the second email I get from her, a mere 12 minutes after the "F Word" email.

Subject: "Grave/Parade"

Did some work out at Mama's grave yesterday and thought you might like to see the flowers...Also one photo of V.
She played her flute in the Homecoming Parade last Friday. Not a good photo but I did video also. Love you! Mom





This is my email from her. With her name at the bottom in one of those automatic signatures.
What, may I ask, dear readers ... What message is my mother trying to convey to me?

I have decided to respond. But only to the "When It's Okay to Use the F Word" email.

Dear Mom,
Your message didn't come through completely. There's one photo missing.

Feet Fit for Royalty

Okay, so it’s totally that time again, where both my fingers and my toes are in desperate need of some pampering. I am in the habit of trying to convince myself that I can wait three weeks before I need a new manicure/pedicure. I can not. Now I know this might seem strange to you dear readers, (and Nat that means you because I realize you’re the only one who reads this), who probably do not include a manicure/pedicure as one of your living expenses, though some of you should. Not to name names, HC, but I know you need a pedicure more than you need a TV. I haven’t seen you in forever but I would bet money that your feet are hideous.

The point is I’ve spent the better part of the morning attempting to determine where The Princess and I will be getting our pedicures done tomorrow. Yes, I’m at work, but I can multi-task people. You might have noticed I didn’t say mani/pedi, mainly because I hate how it sounds. I also hate FroYo (frozen yogurt, retarded yes?). Mani/pedi is a nails on the chalk board word to me, and I hate it. But let me tell you something, I understand why they invented it, typing, saying, and reading manicure/pedicure a million times is annoying. Well too bad, you must suffer with me or offer me an alternative that doesn’t sound like my name is Blair and I live on Park Ave, okay?

Wait, what was I talking about? Oh, yes, so The Princess (she insists on the capital t, I know, I know) and I are IMing about where we are going to go. You know I want the ideal place, affordable luxury. You know the one where I’m treated like the royalty I am but that won’t make me feel guilty for spending all my money on my feet. I’m sort of a poor royal you know, the kind you here about in US Weekly. Well, The Princess apparently does not have time for these decisions today; in fact she somehow thinks her little breakthrough/melt down with her mother entitles her to leave such important decisions up to me. And I quote, “listen. i'm still reeling from mom and my wine hangover. i can't talk you through your manicure/pedicure drama.” (All, please note even when The Princess is not being helpful she still uses manicure/pedicure.)

Let’s not dismiss the importance of this decision though, because ultimately this is my appearance. And I’m nothing if I’m not shallow. As I told the girl from the Gay Rights organization who was asking me for a donation as I left Barnes and Noble, “I would make a donation but I just spent all my money on fashion magazines. I know. I’m shallow.”

Shout out to Mary

Holy shit people. Your Princess is shot.

This time it's so bad that I had to have an emergency phone therapy session with HRH on my walk to the train this morning.

Here's what happened:

Yesterday I left work and went to the gym where I unceremoniously recovered my blue gym bag from the then vacated locker. (That poor alleged pot head. What must she have thought?) So cardio then home. On the walk to the bus, HRH and I stop to buy wine. (This plays a big part in the rest of my story.)

At home I reunite with my current obsession ... Wii. Just as I finish up with my daily "Strength, Stamina & Balance" test, I get a text from my sister A.

Mama is going to call u on my phone after 9, so b ready! I asked her
2 please call u and fill u in. I will call u later.

Crap.

Now I spend 30 minutes playing Wii, drinking the aforementioned wine, and anxiously watching the clock tick closer and closer to 9:00.

Item 1 -- I've been terrified of my mother my whole life. Irrationally so as will be evidenced by a future HRH posting.

Item 2 -- I've been in therapy for almost two years and virtually every conversation Mary and I have had has been about my mother.

Item 3 -- My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer a couple of years ago and went through extensive chemotherapy and radiation. Mary and I have identified this fact as being, among many other things, an inconvenient hindrance to my emotional healing process.

Lately I've been having these intense dreams about confronting my mother. We have a lot of issues, Mommy and I, and the confrontation conversation has been a long time coming. Well, dear people, it finally happened last night.

I drilled her on which drugs she's currently taking, what is going on with her doctors and her health, I told her I thought she was clinically depressed and needed professional help. I brought up her issues with my sister and how she blames her for all of her troubles. Mom says her life can't get better until she deals with A who is 32 & living at home with Mom and her daughter V (11) who is legally her sister because Mom adopted her years ago in a huge dramatic story that will surely be posted sometime in the future.

I tell my mother that she is in control of her life and that her current situation is the result of decisions she made for her life. I discuss my life openly regarding my domestic partner, Erica, the new home we're buying, the fact that my family is so separate from my life because Mom doesn't want me to be out to them.

I mean, this goes on and on for over an hour. I used the word "fuck."

By the time we lose the connection due to a dead cell battery on her end, I am exhausted and drunk. So, when she calls back, I just don't answer.

Flash forward to this morning. I am panic-stricken. I listen to her message -- "Thanks for the conversation. I love you. Don't worry abut calling me back." Phew. Then I start remembering the things I said to her. The way I said them. The fact that I called her out about her smoking, which she vehemently denied. The fact that A is going to be furious with me because I am sure I started several fights between her and Mom. And, you know what people?

I don't fucking care. The longer the day goes on and the more I think about everything, I realize that this is huge for me. I can't wait to get to Mary on Tuesday and tell her the good news. I have never been more open or honest or genuine with my mother in my life. Therapy works. I am growing. I had my first adult conversation with my mother ... at 36.

So yes, therapy works. Know what else works? Wine.

The Princess is a Pea Brain

HRH here. Now let me just say, the Princess certainly got my day off to a good start. Really, I mean it serves her right for not only throwing her crap into my locker, but for believing that said locker number belongs to her. Hello cheap ass, if you want a permanent locker I suggest you pay for one.

Frankly, it was all brilliant, and I plan on tracking down the guy who answered the phone this morning and making him my new gym bff. I also can't help but think about the reaction of the person whose locker it really was. I mean the locker room is a weird place for Candid Camera. And with a combo number that suggest heavy usage of pot, I can't help but wonder if it involved a few, "is this my locker. i swear this is my locker." moments.

In my defense, the combination to my lock is my birth date.

Can't wait to get to the gym and see how this one works out. Honestly, I think the Princess is just going to great lengths to get out of doing cardio with me. Last night she didn't bring any sneakers. Coincidence, I don't think so.

Is 420 Everyone's Favorite Number?

Princess here. I made a real moron move this morning which inspired my friend HRH (Her Royal Highness, for those of you not in the know), and I to start a blog. We felt that others might enjoy reading about our frequent and consistent dumbass moves. HRH and I are very entertained by ourselves, so maybe you will find us equally entertaining.

So, here's what I did. Each morning I go to Equinox in Brooklyn to drop my gym stuff off. This serves a dual purpose. 1 - I don't have to schlep my stuff to the office with me, and 2 - having my stuff at the gym forces me to return later in the evening no matter how I'm feeling. And, once I'm at the gym, I might as well work out.

Right? It's like I'm tricking myself into being motivated. Like when you set your clock ahead by 5 minutes.

Anyway. This morning when I get to the locker room, I notice that HRH has already claimed my favorite locker. Of course, I know her combination, so I open the locker, throw my bag in, close it up and head to work.

At work I send HRH an IM ... "Who said you could take my locker?" HRH replies, "Pardon?" This turns into a 5 minute conversation involving a lot of, "Seriously? That wasn't your stuff?" "Yes, seriously. My stuff is next to me." "Shit. Shit. Shit. I love that bag."

I call the gym and sheepishly tell the guy at the reception desk what I've done. He replies, "Thanks for that story. I needed it. What's your name?"

So, now, I am certain that this guy is spreading my story all over the gym and has probably flagged my membership so that when I sign in from now on, all Equinox employees will giggle at my stupidity.

But, here's the thing. HRH has a unique lock. It's not the standard 2 or 3 locks you see in the gym. And the combination is chosen and set by the owner of the lock. What is the likelihood of someone having the same exact lock with the same exact combination -- not to mention that it was on my favorite locker? Seriously people.

For the woman who found an adorable blue gym bag in her locker today, I am sorry. I suggest you change your combination to something that is not used by every potheaded gym rat on the planet. Also, please do not steal my blue bag.

For the gym guy, thank you for holding your laughter until you got off the phone.