Conversations with THE GRANDMOTHER

So, I've regaled you fun folks with some of my convos with THE MOTHER, but today, I'm going to give a rare treat in the form of a rundown of my phone call with my grandmother.

Now, I must preface this dialogue by telling you that my grandmother has come up with a few doozies over the years.  She once wrote in a book, "Know your cab driver" then explained to both me an the mother that none of the crap that happened in that book would've happened if the main character hadn't gotten in the cab in the first place.  Hard to argue her point there.  

This is also the woman who when asked how the weather was up in her neck of the woods once told me, "It's as clear as a pineapple outside."  I'm still trying to decipher that one.

So, I guess the following conversation shouldn't have come as a surprise.

The Grandmother: I didn't hear from you yesterday.  Does that mean you got some writing done?

Me: Yes, I wrote over four thousand words yesterday! (I was pretty impressed with myself.)

The Grandmother: Um...and how many pages is that?

Me:  I don't know.  Probably about sixteen or twenty, depending on how many words per page.

The Grandmother:  And, are you writing a mystery this time?

Me: Umm...(This is something both she and The Mother always ask...mostly because mystery is by far our favorite, mine included, genre to read) ...no, it's not.  Mysteries are hard, grandmother.  I WANT to write one, I do.  But, I don't know.  I start out with a great idea and then it just crumbles.  Maybe, I just want them to be so perfect, I end up over thinking it.

The Grandmother:  Well, I don't know what there is to over think!  You have a guy in the freezer.  *short pause*  And, he's dead.

Me: I'd think that anyone in a freezer for any length of time probably would be dead.

The Grandmother:  Well, there's your story!  See, how easy that was?  

Me:  Umm...so my story is that there's this guy?  In the freezer?  Who's probably dead?  I don't know, grandmother.  What else?

The Grandmother: Well, I don't know.  You're the writer, but the rest should be easy enough to figure out.

Me: Umm...

The Grandmother:  You know who the guy in the freezer is?  He's the cab driver!  That would explain why we haven't seen him in a while.

Me:  The cab driver?  He's dead?!? In the freezer?

The Grandmother:  It all makes perfect sense now!

Me: It's as clear as a pineapple.

The Grandmother: Exactly.

There you go, folks.  My next book all laid out for you.  Courtesy of The Grandmother.  Do you think she'll expect a cut when it's published?

Conversations with THE MOTHER v6

I get a ding from my Words with Friends.  The Mother had made her play and I just can't believe my eyes, so I grab my phone and call her.

THE MOTHER: Hello?

ME: It's not nice to call your daughter a whore.  Or are you telling me you got a new job?

THE MOTHER: *laughs* Speaking of Penny. (my mother's dog who is currently preggo and nearing the birthing)

ME: Were we talking about her?

THE MOTHER: Well, we should be.

The Mother then launches into a long rant about how Penny is being, well, Penny (this dog definitely has personality) and she's not cooperating with The Mother unless my dad is right there with them.  

Then, of course, our conversation shifts from the dogs just as suddenly as it did to the dogs.  Our conversation style is schizophrenic, at best.

THE MOTHER: So after you left, your dad and I needed a rest.  We always seem to need a nap after you've visited.  I don't know why, but we just do.

ME: Gee, thanks.

THE MOTHER: A few hours after you left, your Dad decides to take a shower and then we were going to watch a movie.  

ME: What did you watch?

THE MOTHER: That's not the point.  You remember how when you and your older brother lived at home, we always had socks missing?

ME: The dryer eats them!

THE MOTHER: Well, since you two moved out, we've never lost socks, BUT! we lose combs.  All the time!

ME: Okay.  (not sure what this has to do with socks, Penny, or me...but okay)

THE MOTHER: So, your Dad comes out of the bathroom after taking his shower and tells me that we have no combs left, when I bought a huge package of them just before you came to visit.

ME: *laughs*

THE MOTHER: No, wait! I'm not done yet.

ME: I didn't take your combs, Mother.

THE MOTHER: *continues as if I hadn't just told her I didn't steal her damned combs (I did, however, take a bunch of toothpaste, but we're not talking about toothpaste)*  Well, I get mad and say to your father, "Damn that Karla! She stole our combs, and didn't even have the courtesy to leave us one!"

ME: I didn't take your combs!

THE MOTHER:  I'm going on and on and on, just a bitching you out, and I told your dad that I was going to show you, that next year for Christmas, all you were going to get from me is big box of combs.

ME: I didn't take your damned combs!!

THE MOTHER:  I know that.  After I yelled about you for a few minutes, your little brother came strolling out of his room with all the missing combs, and he laughed at me!

ME: If I were him, I wouldn't have told you I had them for a few days, let you get good and mad before giving them back.

THE MOTHER: You laugh now, but just wait until next Christmas.  You're getting nothing but a giant box of combs!

ME: Don't you think you should give that to the one who actually stole your combs?

THE MOTHER: That's what you're both getting.

Clearly, there won't be any surprises come Christmas time.  I'll have plenty of combs this time next year :)

Words with ... THE MOTHER

Most of the conversations I have with my mother are thru the phone lines, but for the last month (since she got her iPad for Christmas), the only time I ever get a word or three through to here is when we are playing that oh-so-fun word game Words with Friends.

If you remember this post, in which this girl *points at self* learned that her mother was not truly her mother (a fact I have never let her forget since), you will not be the least bit surprised at this convo that recently took place between us.

She's quite mean to me.  I don't know why I continue to take such abuse from this woman....

Conversations With THE MOTHER...and THE FATHER

Since I live in one state, my parents and younger brother in another, and my older brother in yet another, it's not often that all of us are in the same place at the same time. So, while most of my conversations with THE MOTHER take place via phone or Skype, THIS one, in which THE FATHER happens to have a starring role, happened during a recent sojourn up to the Mitten.

Here we go. Buckle up, bitches (don't say I didn't warn ya!)

ME: Where are you two going? *looks at THE MOTHER and THE FATHER curiously*

THE MOTHER: We're going with your cousin. She should be here in a little bit. *cell phone buzzes and she reads text* She says she'll be here in twelve minutes.

ME: Twelve?  Tell her we're locking the door in eleven.

THE FATHER: It'll take your mother longer than that to text the message. If you want to f*** with her, you do it.

The MOTHER hands me the phone, shaking her head. I quickly tap out a text and hand the phone off to my dad. The phone buzzes almost immediately in response.

THE FATHER: *frowns at display* Lame-O?  She just called me a lame-o!

THE MOTHER: What?  Let me see that. *takes phone from THE FATHER*  Lame-O?  LMAO?  Huh, well, we can all tell she went to a public school.  She spelled Lame-O wrong.

ME: *laughs*

THE FATHER:  Now, who's the lame-o? Even I know how to spell lame-o.  What a lame-o she is.

ME: *still laughing; can't catch my breath*

THE FATHER: What a Lame-O

THE MOTHER: Yeah, Lame-O.  Wait till she gets here.

ME:  *am about to fall off the couch, laughing so hard*

THE MOTHER: What is so funny about her calling us a Lame-O?

ME: That doesn't mean Lame-O. *still laughing* L *snort* M *gasp* A *laugh-snort* O *laugh* ... Laughing. My. Ass. Off.

THE MOTHER and THE FATHER, in unison: Oh.

THE MOTHER: Well, I think Lame-O was funnier.

Conversations with THE MOTHER

So, I'm talking to THE MOTHER over the weekend.  We are known for our vast and varied conversations, but this weekend's eleven minute phone call (by far one of our shortest) takes top honors for BEST CONVO EVER.

Here's the long and the short of it:

We're about five minutes into the call in which we've already discussed my dad's upcoming surgery, his dentist and now we're into the pros and cons of quilting...

THE MOTHER:  I've always wanted to get into quilting, but I need to get a sewing machine cuz I can't thread a needle by hand.

ME:  That's funny.  I'm the exact opposite.  I have no problem with threading a needle, but I can't use a sewing machine because I can't seem to figure out threading that damned bobbin.

THE MOTHER: Oh, I've never had any problem with that.  In fact, when I was in high school Home Ec, I was the only one in class that could thread the bobbers.

ME: *laughs* Bobbin.

THE MOTHER: Yeah, the bobber.  So, I always had to thread everyone else's bobbers.

ME: *still laughing* It's called a bobbin, Mother.

THE MOTHER: That's what I said, the bobber.  Oh, and speaking of t-shirts(sidenote: we actually were talking about t-shirts...like right before the whole quilting thing so, yeah, speaking of), you know that Walking Dead SURVIVOR shirt your brother got me when we were up in Michigan?  You would not believe how many comments I get on that shirt.  Every time I wear it, someone asks where they can get it.

ME: I'll bet.  I like that shirt, too.

THE MOTHER:  In fact, I wore it the other day and this guy stopped me to ask what it meant.  He'd never seen the Walking Dead before.

ME: What do you mean he'd never seen the Walking Dead?  Does he live a under a rock?  On Jupiter?

THE MOTHER:  I told him that he should just watch the show and that he'd understand what my t-shirt meant.

ME: You could've just told him that it simply means you survived the zombie apocalypse.

THE MOTHER: Yes, I could've but I can't say that word.

ME: Zombie?

THE MOTHER: Appopoclips.

ME: *laughs* Apocalypse.

THE MOTHER: Acopolis.

ME: *laughs harder*

THE MOTHER: Apopoleptic.

ME: *gasping for breath*

THE MOTHER: I told you I can't say appopoclips. *turns from phone to yell at the father* Your daughter is laughing at me.

ME:  *still laughing* Then, why do you keep saying it?

THE MOTHER: Appoclips.

ME: *deep breath* Did you want to hear about my lumpy dog?

That's about as subtle a shift in conversational direction as I was capable at that point.  From there, we discussed our dogs, ear mite medicine, and my impending trip up to visit the old folks.

Here's to hoping the zombie apocalypse doesn't begin before I see them next as THE MOTHER won't be able to properly forewarn me.

Then, From Out of Nowhere

Phone rings. Picture of my mom's dog pops onto my screen.

ME: Hey, what's up?

THE MOTHER: You know those books I got at the flea market when we were visiting?

ME: Ummmm...  (she bought A LOT of books at the flea market...then again, so did I)

THE MOTHER: Well, I'm not sure I like this one guy.  His books are kind of weird.

ME:  Define weird.

The Mother and I have read a lot of "weird" books in our day, peeps.  The only real question is: how weird? I mean there's aliens in the backyard weird and then there's group of serial killers who remove their victims skin and then make clothes out the hides to wear on their next killing spree.  (both of which are real books we've read and enjoyed)

THE MOTHER: Well, it starts out kind of normal.  There's all these attacks, people go into the forest on these nature hikes and--

ME: Only their remains are found.

THE MOTHER: All through the book, everyone thinks it's grizzly bear attacks!  So, they're trying to find these grizzlies that are eating people.  But, the sheriff, well, he acts weird.

ME: Define weird.

About now, you're probably thinking the same thing I am.  There are no grizzlies eating people.  The sheriff is the real killer, and he's eating people.  Well, that is kind of weird, but not beyond the normal scope of suspense fair, so I fail to see how this can be weird.

It should be noted that while I'm thinking this, THE MOTHER is still prattling on about her "weird" book.

THE MOTHER: And then, from out of nowhere, there's this dragon!

ME: Wait.  WHAT?

THE MOTHER: About 100 pages from the end (this is easily a 500 page book) this fire-breathing dragon shows up!

ME: From out of nowhere?  There's no warning? Just poof! Here's a fire-breathing dragon?

THE MOTHER: That flies!

ME: *rolls eyes* A fire-breathing dragon that flies.  Is this a small dragon?  One that can be easily concealed?

THE MOTHER: No, he's 48ft long.  But, he's...what do you call it when they blend into their environment?

ME: Chameleons?

THE MOTHER: That's it!  A 48ft long chameleon, fire-breathing dragon.

ME: That flies.

THE MOTHER: Weird, right?

ME: Um...yeah.  So, what are you reading now?

This is where I expect her to tell me she's cracked open the new James Patterson or Dean Koontz, because The Mother does not read the same author one book right after the other.  Especially when the books are "weird"

THE MOTHER:  Now, we're onto Jesus sightings.

ME: You're reading another by this guy?  I thought you said the books were weird?

THE MOTHER: Well, yes.  I just said Jesus sightings, didn't I?

ME: *facepalm*

I can't even tell you what the rest of the conversation was about.  I'm still mystified by this part of it.

Are You My Mother?

Karla* has always been a seeker of knowledge.  A finder of truth, if you will.  Even as a child, she was one of those annoying kids that was always asking, "What's this do?"  "How does this work?" and my personal fave "But, why?"

So, it shouldn't come as a surprise to you fun folks to know that Karla was also a bit of an arguer even as a little one, especially when she believed herself to be in the right.  Which opens this particular story of how Karla found out the truth about her mother.

Karla was in sixth, maybe seventh grade (she can't remember which), her science teacher thought it would be a grand idea to introduce the students to the world of genetics.  Of course, it was simple DNA type lessons, mostly about traits. Dominant and recessive.  Being the teacher that she was, she used the easiest comparison to demonstrate this: EYE COLOR.

This, friends, is what started it all.

See, Karla has blue eyes, as does her older brother.  Her mother, on the other hand, has brown eyes.  As the teacher is explaining the whole brown is the dominant color, blue recessive thingie-mabob, Karla's brain is working a mile a minute.  So, maybe Karla didn't hear all of the lecture.  Maybe Karla only heard that if her mother had brown eyes, there was no way she could have a blue eyed child.  Like, I said, MAYBE...but yanno...probably NOT.

Karla's hand shot up.  Thus begins the argument of the day.  "That's not true," Karla argues.  Her mother has brown eyes.  Karla has blue.  Explain that, teacher.  (Karla was a smartass, even then).  Teacher asks what color eyes The Mother's parents have.  Brown, Karla replies.

Teacher then asks the question of the day: What color are your Dad's eyes?

Karla does not hesitate with her response.  GREEN.  Because yes, her DAD has green eyes.  In that moment, she doesn't stop to think that MAYBE teacher meant the man whose name is actually on Karla's birth certificate NOT her DAD.

Teacher, clearly exasperated with Karla and ready for this nightmare of a lesson to end, says, "That's not possible."

Magic words, apparently, for they shut Karla up.  Instead, she considered Teacher's words.  That's not possible.  And Karla continued to mull it over for the rest of class and the school day.  That's not possible.

And Karla came to the only possible explanation: SHE'S NOT MY MOTHER!  That woman lied to not only Karla but Karla's brother.  ALL THESE YEARS.

Well, Karla being Karla, had to know the truth.  She had to know what happened.  Was she and her brother abducted from a mall as tiny kiddies?  Was her REAL mother out there somewhere looking for her?  Only one person had those answers, and Karla would get them from her.  She would have the TRUTH. (Right about now, you're picturing the courtroom scene in A FEW GOOD MEN where Tom Cruise is demanding the truth from Jack Nicholson.  Well, Karla could handle the truth. This I assure you)

And, Karla being Karla, decided the best course of action in this type of confrontation was a frontal assault (because in Karla's dozen or so years of life, she'd participated in many a war and knew all about military strategy).  She would need backup.

Enter the older brother.  On the bus ride home, Karla explained (complete with huge, flailing arm gestures for emphasis) to the brother everything that she had discovered. Karla, being Karla, took his silence not for the shell-shocked upset that is was but rather for quiet outrage and an unspoken agreement that together we would get the truth from The Mother.

This friends, was not how the confrontation played out.  While Karla shot out questions and accusations at the mother like they were well-aimed heat-seeking missiles, the older brother kept repeating the same tearful two sentences over and over, like some kind of scratched CD.  "You're not our mom? You tell her you're our mom, Mom!"  He really was no help in the matter, whatsoever.

After many a heated minutes, the Mother finally wrangled control of her two children and explained to both Karla and her brother that yes, we were her children.  and yes, we do have blue eyes and her brown.  BUT, the man whose name is on our birth certificates has blue eyes and that is where we get it from.  Again, she is our mother.

Not to be dissuaded by such an easy explanation, Karla still had her doubts.  To which the mother jokingly replied, "Okay, you got me.  I was out driving one day when I was sixteen and saw two children playing in the middle of the road.  I thought, hey TAX DEDUCTION and took you home with me."

To this day, Karla and the Mother joke about this particular argument. It never fails to make us laugh about how angry I was that day to think she'd lied to me, and that I was going to find out the truth no matter what.    My favorite is when we are discussing something and I tell her she's being mean to me.  Her reply, "Now, if I was your REAL mother..."

Well played, Mother.  Well played.

Like my mother always says.  We're the FUN kind of dysfunctional.  I kinda have to agree on that one.  How about you fun folks?  Have you ever had a moment where you were sure the people claiming to be your parents were really aliens from the planet Quasar...or some other far off planet?  Do share ;)

*not quite sure why Karla feels the need to talk about herself in the third person, but let's go with it, shall we?

What The Hell Does That Mean?

I need a room like this.  I'm just saying.

I come from a long line of readers.  My mom, grandmother, aunts, a few uncles, and a slew of cousins are all word junkies like me.  So, it's not surprising when almost every conversation I have with family and/or friends morphs into an epic book chatting fest.

Hey, that's just how we roll ;)

Also, when we read a book, we usually write in the front of it.  You know, the usual.  Name, date (month and year) read, and a little something extra to let whomever might happen to browse it later on know whether the book was good, bad, or just a little ugly.  Again, that's how we roll ;)

A few years back, my grandmother grew tired of always writing the same old thing about her books.  Good. Super Good.  Excellent.  Better than Excellent.  So many Excellents on the shelf became monotonous and really, how could she remember what she liked/didn't like about the book with something so generic as that? Her point exactly.

She began writing cryptic little notes in her books.  Things like, Check out the neighbors, Brotherly love, and my personal favorite Know your cab driver**  We always get a chuckle out of her little blurbs she writes in her books now.

So, my mother calls me last night, and I'm not at all surprised when her first words upon my Hello have to do with Grandmother's penchant for indecipherable book blurbs.

MOTHER: You know that book your grandmother just had to make me buy?

ME: Umm... (she says this A LOT so, yeah I probably do, but eh, not so much)

MOTHER: It's really good. I'm not saying it's not, but I'm getting a little worried.  (she then, proceeds to tell me about said book, which I'm pretty sure I read way, way, way back in the day, like the early 90s***)

Long pause.

MOTHER: So I call your grandmother (she's always YOUR grandmother when my mother is perturbed with her, sort of like Dad is always YOUR FATHER) and do you know what she wrote in her copy of this book?!?!

ME: (braces self for something from out of left field)  Umm, no...what?

MOTHER: "Keep Searching"

ME: *thinking this but not saying it aloud as I KNOW it will rattle the MOTHER* That actually makes sense...for once.

MOTHER: And do you know what your grandmother said when she read that to me?  (short pause, not even long enough for me try to answer) She said, "Keep Searching?  Well, what in the Hell does that mean?"

Yep, friends.  Only my grandmother...oh, and my mother.  No wonder I'm a little left of center.  It's all their fault :)

**that one is a long, but hilarious story I might share with you all sometime ;)
***Wow. I'm really getting old, aren't I?

Challenge Accepted!

At the top of my mother's To-Do list for our "vacation" activities was perhaps the largest project we have ever undertaken.  You see, friends, my parents own several acres, and their fenced in backyard encompasses a good chunk of rolling hills and steep gulleys.

Our objective: create an allergen free environment for my mother's white Doberman, Vanessa, aka Frag-ilee, because she's allergic to damn near everything and thus FRAGILE.  (I call her Vanilla Bean, cuz yanno, that's how I roll).

Even though I had the flash turned off, Vanessa/Vanilla Bean still shied away from the camera.  She knows the flash hurts her eyes, our poor, fragile dog

The first day working in the yard went smoothly.  Mom manned the rake while me and my shovel loaded her piles up into the wheelbarrow to take away.  By day's end, we had a good chunk accomplished.

As we stood atop the back deck overlooking the yard, we contemplated the work yet to be done.  Mom pointed out the fire pit, lamenting the fact that her horde of dogs always seemed to destroy the circle she had made of the rocks surrounding the pit.  She needed bigger rocks to place around the pit, ones the pooches couldn't scatter so easily.

Do you see where this is going, folks?

The next day was my parents' anniversary, so we took a day of rest to go out and celebrate.  First, we went to the movies.  Then, we picked up my parents' anniversary gift to each other, a new RV (that story will be tomorrow's entertainment, and believe me, you don't want to miss it), and rounded it all off with dinner out.

While coming back from dinner, my mother excitedly pointed out a pile of HUGE rocks just sitting in a vacant field, ripe for the taking.  Those would be great for our new and improved fire pit.  Dad, of course, laughed at us.  Those weren't rocks, but BOULDERS.  No way could Mom and move them ourselves.

And, anyone who knows me, knows exactly what my reply to that was: CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!!!

The next day saw Mom and me back out in the yard.  Again, she manned the rake, but our piles were growing faster than we could burn them, so I had to find something else to do in the yard.  With only one rake on hand, I began scouting out some larger rocks to create our new fire pit.  I found several nice basketball sized "foundation pieces" and was quite impressed with myself.

Until I stumbled upon a gulley at the side the yard that held not one, but FIVE gigantic rocks that made my "foundation pieces" look like pebbles.  PAY DIRT!  We'd have the best fire pit EVER!

This is the bitch that gave us the most problems.  I named her Big Bertha

So, me and my trusty shovel began to dig...and dig...and dig...AND THEN...the first rock came loose!  Excitement surged forth.  I could do this!  One rock down, three or four more to go!  It didn't take long, folks.  Once I got it into my head that I could do it, nothing stopped me.

UNTIL...it came time to lift the bastards up out of the gulley and drag them across the yard to where the fire pit would be.  I needed help.  So, I went inside to recruit my little brother.  Who was NOT happy with my plan, but reluctantly agreed to help.

I had a plan, people.  REALLY, I DID.  But, you know what they say about best laid plans?  Well, yeah.  So, we went onto plan B, which included Mom's help.  Plan B met with the same fate as Plan A, so little bro and I went inside to get Dad's advice.  Of course, he had to point out the OBVIOUS.

Hello, he'd said.  What are you dragging boulders across the yard for when we have a 4-wheel drive vehicle that can do all the work for you?

*facepalm*  Wow, that was almost too easy.

Less than and hour later, we had FOUR boulders moved from the gulley and placed at intervals around the current fire pit.  That way, the next morning, after the fire was out and the rocks currently surrounding the pit had cooled, I could tear down the old and create the new!  So exciting!

The next morning, after all that boulder moving, Karla was moving a bit slow into the junction, but once, I got up and at em, the fire pit took no time at all.  Cuz, really, moving each boulder 3-4 feet was nothing after I'd already dug them up and toted them halfway across the yard, right?  RIGHT!

Here's the finished product:

CHALLENGE COMPLETED!!!

Now, isn't that the nicest fire pit you've ever seen?  If this writing thing doesn't work out, at least I know I have brilliant career as a stone mason ;)

Side note:  This fire pit did come with a price tag. Note the various injuries I amassed while creating my work of art.  Which of course led my seatmate on the plane to wonder if I'd been assaulted by an angry mob.  *shrugs*  It happens.  I guess

This is the one my seat-mate spied.  It was dark purple when he saw it.  Now, it's just about healed

Little bruises starting to come out.  I now have FIVE on this arm

Notice the long doggy nose in the upper left corner? That's Nikki wanting to  kiss my boo-boo

Come back tomorrow, folks, for the story of how my parents' new RV made it home.  Apparently, we can't do anything together without causing a commotion!

Bionic Dad

So, the maternal unit calls me last night while I'm driving home from work.  "I've got news," she says.  No hello.  No, whaz up, biotch?  Just, I have news.  This is a sentence that never fails to garner my undivided attention, which is not always a good thing. 

But, sometimes, this sentence is followed by a string of silliness.  Thankfully, this is one of those times.

Before I can ask her to elaborate, she charges forward, her voice rising in excitement.  "They're rebuilding your father, one machine at a time!"  She says this proudly, like it's the most clever thing she could've come up with.  I have to admit, that it is a catchy, phrase...and oddly familiar.

I'm quiet a moment...mostly because some jerk just cut me off, and my mother isn't too fond of my road rage tendencies, so I must take a second before answering her in order to shake my fist and glare menacingly at the asshat in the Beamer that is even now speeding far a head of me. Hello, buddy, we're in a 35 MPH zone here. You're going at least 55.

But, I digress.

"Like the Bionic Man?" I asked into the silence, not at all confused.  It does make a certain amount of logic. 

For those of you minions who are not in the know, my Dad has been disabled since the latter part of my senior of high school, when a he--just barely--survived a freak accident at work.  Since then, we treasure every moment we have with him as we know better than most how quickly things can change.  Also, since that time, he's played guinea pig to numerous doctors as they've worked to keep him in the best health one can possibly be in after such traumatic injuries.  The list of procedures he's had done and the spare parts they've had to replace/add to him is staggering to normal people. To us, it's just another day in the life of.

"Yes! He's like the Six Million Dollar Man!" she exclaimed, clearly impressed that her daughter caught the reference of a TV show that went off the air before I ever thought about being born.  Hey, I have TV Land. I know things.  "They're rebuilding him, one machine at a time!"

So of course, all this talk of turning my dad into a cyborg brought to mind images like this:

"Well," I told Mom just before we hung up.  "I don't mind having a Robo-Dad, but if he starts receiving transmissions to locate John Connor, we should all be worried.  I'm just saying."

I'm not sure she got the Terminator reference, which saddens me to no end.

The Apple Didn't Fall Far From That Tree

I hail from a clan of competitive people.  It's true.  We can turn anything into a race, no matter how asinine, and don't put it past us to break bend the rules in order to assure a V.  That is just how fierce my family (and by extension, ME) is.

If you don't believe me...well, I give you exhibit A.  Convinced now? I thought so.  So, it should come as no surprise to you all that my January reading list caused a bit of an uproar amongst my family.  It wasn't the content, mind you. 

It was the volume. 

You see, friends, for Christmas, Santa had brought yours truly the most awesome of awesomest gifts for any voracious reader.  Yes, minions.  I got me an e-reader.  And, since I have a fondness for bequeathing my possessions names, I have dubbed her Shirley, the gift that keeps on taking.  For, surely, I am not joking (cheesy Airplane! reference).  So, my mother has taken it upon herself to keep my e-reader spending in check by calling me each and every night to ask the dreaded question of, "How many books did you buy today?"  I am a terrible liar, minions, so I have to tell her the truth.  That's really all there is to it.

In order to curb the one-click shopping habit, I've been really giving my library card a workout...not to mention the ARCs I have the privilege of reading every now and again.  And, I was very proud to report to my mother that "No, I haven't been spending the mortgage money on books."

But, she was still keeping track of all the books I told her I'd been reading.  And, of course, she called my grandma to report her findings.  Suffice it to say, folks, I got an exasperated call from dear old Grandma regarding all this...

ME:  Hello?

GRANDMA: Did you really read eighteen books last month?

ME:  Are you seriously calling to ask me that?

GRANDMA:  Well, did you?

ME: How's the weather up there?

GRANDMA:  Karla. (in a half-laughing/half-irritated voice)

ME: (snickering)  I won.  That was almost too easy this time.  You're getting bad at this game. (sidenote: Grandma and I play a phone version of that Whose Line is it Anyway 'Questions Only' game.  I usually win)  And, yes, I did read that many...actually it was only 15 book books (In my family, we count anything less than 250 pages a short story.  I usually don't include those on my monthly reading lists).  Why?  How many did you read?

GRANDMA:  Well, I only read eleven.  But, how many pages have you read?

ME: ???

GRANDMA:  I read 4,215 pages.

ME: ???

GRANDMA:  And really, if you think about it, the number of books you read is not a good indicator of how much you've read.  It's the page numbers that count.  Because you can't say that you read more than me, if you don't keep track.

And people wonder how my mother and I got to be so competitive. It's a mystery, I tell you. A mystery.