Comedy Hour: My Mama is BONKERZ

So my mama is like, wayyyyyy Type A.  Always has been.  She’s a supermode perfectionist, planner, doer, attention to detail kind of girl.  It’s really quite endearing.  I wish I had these qualities for myself.  I mean, okay, I’m a bit anal about neatness and organized drawers and color coded closets and logically arranged school notebooks, but that is the extent of my meticulousness.   I can take a vacation and not plan a single activity and be completely happy.  I can come home from work and do absolutely nothing with the pile of laundry that has been needing to be folded for 3 days, even though there are no pairs of clean socks in my underwear drawer.  I can go to the grocery store with no idea of what I’m going to get.  I’m okay with that stuff.  Rest brings peace.  No plans, no worries. 

I realized the extent of my Mama’s OCD on a recent trip home to Louisiana to spend a little time with the ol’ fam.  It was a chill visit with nothing much to do but hang around the house and fuck off.  I was lounging on the sofa when I looked down and noticed these lists…..  As I looked closer, I realized what the lists were detailing.  Take a look. 

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Dad on a DIME

How, might you ask, does one who is surviving paycheck to paycheck afford to get a meaningful Father’s Day present for the men in your life??  Fear not, for I have MASTERED the art of gift giving on a dime, y’all.

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I’ve never had money.  I take that back, I’ve always had some form of income.  I’ve been a slave to the service industry or sales jobs, or commission based bullshit for my entire “career.”  There’s never been lack of a flow of moolah.  The problem lies in the amount of money I made, the habits I had, and the bills.  Oh, the bills.  First of all, when you work shit jobs like these, you just don’t make enough money.  HOLLA POLITICIANS, HELP US LIVE ABOVE THE POVERTY LEVEL!

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Secondly, drunks and drug addicts CANNOT save money.  Not a thing.  I used to work at this fine dining restaurant a few years back.  The kind of restaurant where warm hand towels soaked in rose water had to be given to every guest, and a palate cleansing sorbet served before the main course.  Shit was fancy.  Tips were sufficient, for sure.  Every night I stockpiled my earnings, changed out of my tuxedo shirt and bowtie in the backseat of my car, and drove straight to the pub where I proceeded to drink too much Rolling Rock and buy too many rounds of Jameson for “friends.”  Usually people I didn’t even fucking know.  I would wake up the next morning (every morning after a shift, to be exact—I want to be clear about my drinking habits.  They owned me) with a few ones or maybe a 5 dollar bill here and there.  Do you think a girl like that had money to buy her Daddy a fancy new golf club for Father’s Day?  Fuck no.  He got a phone call and well wishes.

Continue reading “Dad on a DIME”