The Apple and The Tree
My mother is a large breasted, blonde, Catholic-cum-Buddhist. Aside from perpetuating in earnest a great many Californian stereotypes, all this means to me is that on occasion I get to ogle her hot, Italian yoga instructor in compromising positions, and also that once a year I can’t call and complain to her for 9 solid days while she takes a vow of silence on a spiritual retreat at an ashram.
We’re about a week into her “Navratri” sanctuary and she’s taken this opportunity to dispense some SMS advice about my life and career that I usually dodge during our phone conversations by abruptly shouting, “Going into the subway now, byeeee!” or “But, I want a golden goose!”. Apparently, I have been waiting to be discovered for too long and I need to manifest my vision. Or, I could choose to work in a restaurant for the rest of my life, as long as I acknowledge and am at peace with the fact that she didn’t name me after a queen in anticipation of me turning out to be the [worst] career waitress in Cabo.
Last night I received several texts from her, but the following two were the best:
“Only three days left and I feel like I can’t take it anymore! I want to go home, eat a pepperoni pizza, drink a bottle of wine, and have sex!!!!!!!”
“Oh yeah, and say ‘fuck’ a lot!”
At least I know where I came from.