My mother has a landscaper who does not know how to shut her mouth. I know what you’re thinking,
Catherinette, why does your mother have a landscaper if she’s Mexican? Don’t Mexicans naturally gravitate towards yard work, cleaning bathrooms, and making tacos?
You racist bastard. I’ll have you know there are two different kinds of Mexicans: then kinds who do all that shit, and then the kinds who pay their own people to do that shit. My family falls into the second category. What’s more, we often hire people outside of our own race to do those menial chores for us. It says to the world,
Yeah, I’m Mexican, but I can afford to hire white people when white people can only afford to hire Mexicans. So take that.
But anyway, so this woman who works for my mom HATES her life so much that she’d rather be moving plants, digging holes, and pulling weeds than go home to her husband. There are nights where she’s at my mom’s past 1:00 in the morning – and no, they’re not having a lesbian affair. Pulling weeds is like this woman’s Vicodin, it numbs the pain of her marriage and mundane life. God only knows why. Vicodin is much better. Though it’s bad for you and you shouldn’t do it and drugs are bad. RIP Cory Monteith.
Over the weekend I went home to take Lucy(fer) and Damien to a concert. I’m the coolest aunt ever in the world, and they’re also a solid cover because it would be creepy if I went to see these guys by myself. If loving a teeny bopper Nickelodeon boy band is wrong, then I can never in this world be right. It’s a problem – I’m trying to seek help. It’s too embarrassing to admit how much money I spent on tickets so the kids (and I) could meet the band, have our pictures taken, grope two of the singers (who are all over the age of consent AND can buy alcohol in all 50 states), and sing along to every song at the concert. 10 hours later, I finally dropped off two sleepy kids and headed to my mom’s so I could wash the disgusting sweat off my dirty Mexican body. The second I pulled into the driveway and saw the gardener’s car I had one thought, “Fuck.”
I kid you not that it too me 45 minutes to get from my car to the house. Why? Because she wanted to show me every single plant she had moved, tell me about how she had Lyme’s disease, and how her husband was recovering from open heart surgery. See how I was able to sum that up in 1 sentence? It took her 45 minutes. And it’s not like I was throwing questions at her, all I said was, “mmm hmm,” “oh,” and, “ok.”
Meanwhile, I know my mom saw me pull in to the driveway. Think she’d come out and save me? Or maybe call my phone so I could pretend to have a very important phone call that I had to take? No. No, she did not do any of those things. Instead she hid in the house because she was afraid she’d get sucked into the conversation and not be able to find her way out. When I asked her later why she didn’t come out she said, “Figured it was better for one of us to get sucked in than both of us. Plus the book I was reading was really good.”
It was past midnight when I finally made it in the door.
At 3:30 I got up to pee and peeked out the bathroom window. She was still out there digging a hole for some plant I can’t pronounce.
Also, but mostly unrelated, I totally wrote this post under the influence of Vicodin. I had the worst cramps in the world. For like four hours I was in terrible pain and kept thinking, “Man, this is so weird. I feel l have cramps, but I don’t have my period.” Yeah, I had my period. SURPRISE! Fuck you, Aunt Flow. You are not the coolest aunt ever in the world like I am.
I’m going to take a nap.