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Some People Need a Mute Button

29 Jul

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.

Protected: A Haiku

20 Jan

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To Justine, Love, Judgy McJudgypants

5 Mar

The other night while I was on the phone with my mom the conversation, as it often does, turned to love life-or lack there of. “Here we go,” I thought to myself.

Mom: Whatever happened with that dating site about those sweet fathers?
Me: Which site?
Mom: You know the one that I’m talking about. That website where those rich men are looking for nice girls. They’re called sweet fathers or sweet pops or something like that.
Me: How about sugar daddies? Is that what you mean?
Mom: Yes! That’s it! Sugar Daddies! Whatever happened with you finding someone on that website.
Me: Mom, are you serious?? You remember those emails I used to get! Those guys are basically hiring hookers.
Mom: Oh. Still, you might be able to find a nice man. You’re still pretty. But you really should start going back to the gym.
Me: Thanks, mom.
Mom: Men like thin girls, and you’re not as thin as you used to be.

click here to read the rest of the story on The Catherinette Chronicles

Protected: Reaching New Heights of Stupidity

11 Feb

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Protected: Another Short Bus Adventure with Mom

19 Jan

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My Mother’s Short Bus Adventures

10 Dec

Her stupidity is like a gift from God.  It really is.  I swear I couldn’t make this kind of stuff up-not even if I tried.  It never ceases to amaze me that she is able to function without hurting herself or those around her.  As I’m stuck at home with the spins, she continues to check in on me several times a day.  This afternoon, she called me with some big news. 

Mom: How are you feeling?
Me: Dizzy.
Mom: Still?
Me: Yes.  Come on, we’ve been through this-6 times today.  I’m still dizzy.  I feel better than I did yesterday.  Let’s talk about something else.
Mom: What are you doing?
Me: I’m watching Law & Order: Criminal Intent.
Mom: Is it a new episode?
Me: No.  It’s a repeat.
Mom: I thought the show was on at night time.
Me: It is.  I’m watching repeats.
Mom: Oh.  Did you hear that NBC is going to start changing it’s prime time line up?
Me: Really?  I hadn’t heard that.
Mom: Yeah, they’re only going to have their shows go until 10.
Me: What do you mean until 10?  Then what?  They’re off the air?
Mom: No, no!  At 10 they’re going to put on John Lennon.
Me: John Lennon?
Mom: Yes.  John Lennon?
Me: Mom.  John Lennon is dead.
Mom: He is??  When did he die?  It must have been at some point today because I just heard about this on NPR this morning.
Me: Mom, he’s been dead for years.  There’s no way that NBC is going to be airing anything with John Lennon from the Beatles at 10pm.
Mom: Not that John Lennon!!  The other one!
Me: What other one?
Mom: The one that does those talk shows at night time.
Me: You mean Jay Leno?
Mom: Yeah!  That’s him.  John Lennon.  Jay Leno.  They’re all the same.

I’m sure that The Beatles and NBC would beg to differ with her.  Still, you gotta love her.  My mom, she really is “gifted”.  I wonder if she was always like this, or if she fell down several flights of stairs and then became this way.

Protected: My Mother Rides the Short Bus: Part 2

26 Nov

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My Mother Rides the Short Bus

2 Nov

I’ve suspected for quite some time now that my mother used to lick the windows while she rode around in the short bus.  These suspicions were confirmed yesterday when we took a little trip to the Apple store at the local mall.  For the last 2 years she’s been talking about getting herself a Macbook for work.  Her thinking is that she could use it to write up her patient notes instead of doing it longhand.  This is funny in and of itself because:

  1. She’s computer illiterate and barely knows how the heck to boot up her PC at home.
  2. She’s the world’s slowest typer. 

It would take her less time to master a foreign language than to figure out how to turn on the computer, find the word processing program she needs, type up her page of notes, and figure out how to save it.  The thought of how many times she’ll call me when she starts trying  makes me want to throw myself down the nearest flight of steps.

There we were at the Apple store, talking to a very patient young man who was telling us all about operating systems, RAM, and gigabytes.  My mother just nodded her head, pretending like she understood everything he was saying.  She told him that she was looking for something very basic and that she didn’t know anything about computers-this was when I interrupted and told him that all that talk about the operating systems, RAM and gigabytes might as well have been a Chinese poem.  He just stared at me.  My mother took her chance and asked him,

Mom: “Does the Macbook come with Vista?”
Sales Guy: No, but you can buy it.
Mom: But then how does the computer work if it doesn’t have Vista?  Doesn’t it come standard?
Me: Mom, this isn’t an HP, this is a Mac. 
Sales Guy: Macs have their own operating system.  They don’t have Vista.  It’s kind of like Macs are Volvos that come with GPS and PCs are Fords that come with squat.
Mom: Oh.  What’s GPS?

She ended up purchasing a very nice Macbook.  One that I plan on stealing just as soon as I can.

Fast forward to this afternoon.  We were in the car when she suddenly burst out laughing.  When questioned, she said that she finally understood the Mac vs PC commercials.  “What the hell are you talking about?” I asked her.  After several minutes of uncontrollable laughter, she proceeded to tell me that she never understood why the Mac commercials always slammed Vista.  After all, in her warped mind, they ran on Vista too.  She just couldn’t understand why they would make fun of PCs and Vista when Macs would have the very same problem. 

Mom, this one’s for you.