My mother, God love her, has had a love affair with the South West for as long as I can remember. The Jewelry, the food, the people…and the flora. And by flora, I mean Cacti. She has owned (and killed) hundreds of cacti in various forms since I was a munchkin in the ’70’s. So I learned at an early age to stay the heck away from the pricky things.
If you are unfamiliar with cacti, you must know that there are two essential kinds: The long-needled kind that can impale, and the tiny, hair-like, short invisible bristles that get under your skin like fiberglass and don’t leave for days, no matter how hard you scrub.
Either way, they are awful and I hate them. They are a scourge on this earth and must be removed.
A few months ago we were having a family dinner at my mom’s house (we often do) and I backed into one of the tiny fiber-like kinds of cacti…with my rear….in non-bristle-repelling sweat-pants. I had no armour on at all. I yelped like Scooby Doo, and then set out a string of explicatives worthy of any sailor. They were so bad, I had to rip my pants off right there in the dining room and then drive home (pantless) to get a new pair of pants.
Believe me when I tell you that me ripping off my pants in the dining room was enough to ruin that particular dinner recipe for my kids for decades.
I cussed all the way home, fervently hoping I didn’t have any cause to attract attention. I could envision me having an accident or requiring a police stop and having to explain my current bottom-less situation.
But I made it, and weeks of counseling had helped me with the post traumatic stress I experienced afterwards.
Time heals all wounds.
And then Tuesday afternoon, My Captain, Varmint (who was home sick) and I were over at my Mom’s again..only this time to move an enormous plant, and it happened again!!
I backed into one of her &!*#!&!! cacti on the back deck. The good news is that I had jeans on, the bad news is that it was the impaling variety of cacti.
Jeans do not stop long sharp needles from slicing through the soft helpless flesh of one’s buttocks.
I cussed like a sailor again. I’m getting creative in my cursing.
And my mom, the creator of all of this pain, the harbinger of these malevolent horticultural torture devices, has the nerve, the nerve to tell me she doesn’t like it when I use such strong language around my Varmint.
My Varmint who at that moment was being the perfect example of ROFLOL.
(For those of you who aren’t texting savy, that means Rolling On Floor, Laughing Out Loud. Which is different than LOLPIP, which is Laughing Out Loud, Peeing In Pants.)
So I lovingly and respectfully informed my mother that when one is repeatedly subjected to being stabbed by hundreds of tiny little pricks in one’s bottom, one is allowed to cuss like a sailor on leave.
Which set her off on a peel of laughter. Apparently she thought the phrase ‘hundreds of tiny pricks in one’s bottom’ was something to laugh at.
I hate the South West.