It's Tuesday and I haven't posted for a week - what the hell is up with that? And why haven't I talked about Chuck Norris in ages? Questions for the universe to answer because I'm too lazy to figure out on my own.
Now that I've broken the awkward silence - or at least the awkward silence in my head, let's get this party started.
You know the silence I speak of - the "omg I haven't posted in, like, forever and what if my next post is really lame and everyone is like, omg, what the hell happened and why would she think I want to read this post". Oh you know the post anxiety I speak of, I know you do.
Anyhow - some words of wisdom: Chuck Norris does not age. Every birthday, it's just another year added to his existence, which sucks for you.
Moving right along: I discovered my daughter has been channelling Margaret White a la Carrie, and she is doing it very well.
For instance, I did a mud mask some weeks back, in a lame attempt at purification of the motherbumper skin which has been particularly bumpy of late, and the reaction from Gigi was loud and unmistakeably negative. She started screaming at me that it was wrong to put mud on my face
Wait, that's not me with the mud mask, that's Christopher Hitchens. It's the bandanna that gave it away - all mine are black. And my chest hair is more luscious.
Anyhow, she starts screaming at me that mud on my face is BAAAAAAAAD and that I need to take it off - RIGHT.NOW! It got so bad, my smoke dropped into my morning mug of Tennessee walking water while being chased around by Gigi and I spent the rest of the day draining ashes out my precious mommy juice. Talk about sacrifices in parenting.
Then a few days later, I was out on the balcony painting my foot talons black and she started scolding me on how WRONG it is to paint my toenails. At this point I figured she had been talking to my mom who is a supporter of only the traditional lady-like spectrum of nail colours (cotton candy through cherries in the snow).
If you could have seen the look on Gigi's face during her inspection of my pedicure prowess. It was the same look my mom gives me after treating me to a pedicure that results in some strange dark colour selection. I almost expected Gigi to shake her head and say "Oh Katie" while simultaneously sighing a sigh that tugged on my shame-shroud.
But I finally figured out that my child was a fanatical zealot and not channelling my mom when we were sharing a tub this past weekend.
She offered to scrub my back and who am I to say no to that kind of offer. Anyhow, while she was working away at making sure nary a square inch was devoid of suds she started to scour my lower back while muttering under her breath. I tried to make out what she was saying but only caught a few words "dirty", "wrong", and "bad". WTH?
Gently I asked what was wrong and hoped for some clarification about what was obviously upsetting her so much. But I got no response - just more muttering and hard-core scrubbing.
Finally I figured out what was creating so much work and sense of indignation. The kid was trying to scrub off my tattoo. I explained to her that it was part of me, and started to explain why I selected the image so permanent on my lower back.
But in all seriousness, I hesitated when our eyes met and for a split second I expected my daughter to scream hooooooo-or, floozy, demimondaine*, or harlot while thrusting her accusing yet totally cute pointing digit into my face. But no - there was no name calling or inappropriate labelling, she just once again told me it was WROOOONG.
* good work thesaurus junior
So my kid is a fuddy duddy and I'm too James Dean for her likings. Oh this parenthood gig is gonna be a fun, fun ride. Let's just hope our telekinetic knife fight results in sautéed veggies for dinner because I can't cope with another trip to the ER this month.