We’re all at my sister’s house, for Father’s Day. My nice sister has a pool. A beautiful, in-ground pool, and every time I see it, I wonder why the hell we don’t live next door to her. But I digress. My mother is wading in the shallow end, while Henry splashes about with his father. I’m sitting on the edge, dangling my legs into the pool. My mother, who feels it is her duty to evaluate my appearance on a regular basis, is glaring at my toes. She considers neglect of one’s parts not only ill-advised but immoral, and here is evidence of my lapsed spirituality--bits of nail polish clinging for dear life to my neglected tootsies. She’s clutching my foot, menacing my poor toes like she could frighten them into enameled, manicured perfection.
Her [disgusted]: It’s a shitty color.
Me: Gee, thanks. I liked the color.
Her: I can’t wear pink. Pink looks terrible on me.
Me: Yeah, see, these aren’t your toes.
Her: Pink. Horrible.
Me: I know. You like to wear gold, or whatever, but’s that not me.
Her [offended]: I do not wear gold. My toes are painted pearl white.
She hoists a leg out of the water and thrusts her foot into my face, just as Henry announces that he needs me. A few minutes later, order is restored, and we’re all back to our original positions.
Her: I can’t believe you said my toes were gold.
Me: You’re upset about that? You called my toes shitty.
Her: I did not say shitty. I would not say shitty to you. I said crappy.
Yeah, I know, it’s not much of a story. It more or less sums up all that confounds me about the woman, is all, and I swore I wouldn’t use my blog to write about my family, but here I am, doing it. Anyway, rules are made to be broken, and me, I’m a rule-breaker. I am dangerous.