New Jack Crazy

Wow...J-ma. Ummm, maybe mommy needs a little drinky drink? There's this drink called a Yogi where the guy puts his...ummm, never mind. That may have been a dream...anyhoots...

You know I have a list, a mental list. On this list are situations that I am pretty sure I never want to see my mother in. Situations that if I actually saw them I would pry my bloody tear-dropping eyeballs out with a rusty spoon and feed them to rabid ferrets.

What, pray tell, Lady Crazy Pants, could inspire such self mutilation? Well here’s a little sampling from my childhood.

My grandma had size double G milk bags. They were some biggins girl. Titnormous. She also lived in a house with no air conditioning. So in the summer, every night before bed, she would sit on the couch and force my grandpa to help remove her sweaty bra (cause she couldn’t reach the back) and unleash the beasts. This is the point at which I would high tail it the fuck outta there because she would sit there, a melon teat in each hand, and scratch em like they were winning lottery scratch offs. Then, yeah it gets worse, she would have to pick the sweaty skin dirt out from under each fingernail. So it sounded like…scritch scritch scritch…flick flick flick…scritch scritch scritch.

Wish you had that fucking rusty spoon now don’t you?

Now my head editors and I worked LONG and HARD on this list, girl. Cause I wanted to be PREPARED. I wanted to have a Stop Drop and Roll evacuation just in case. So you can imagine my dismay when the Grand Dame Crazy Pants called the other night, interrupting my sacred mommy wine time (of the pinot noir varietal), and dropped this bombpop on my ass.

Crazy: Yeah, mom…ummm, I’m walking out the door. (LIE) What’s up?

Grand Dame Crazy: Oh, I just have something real quick to tell you.

Crazy: Yeah, okay.

Grand Dame Crazy: Oh, ok.

Crazy: This is the part where you start talking mom…

Grand Dame Crazy: Did J-man get his Valentine’s day card?

Crazy: Oh yeah! He’s sending a thank you for the money (LIE). Alrighty, talk to you…

Dame Crazy: That’s not what I wanted to tell you. Did you get the box from QVC with the 24 bags of toffee popcorn?

Crazy: Mom! The WHAT? What I in the hell am I going to do with 24 bags of…

Dame Crazy: Oh shut it, it’s not for you anyway. It’s for my grandson. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. I want you to promise me that you will never ever trust your step-siblings. They’re crooks. Each and every one of them!

Crazy: Is that what you wanted to tell me?

Dame Crazy: No. I’m taking a dance class!

Crazy: A whuuut?

Dame Crazy: Yeah, a dance class. I’m learning the Hip Hop.

(Silence)

Me: HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Dame Crazy: What’s so funny?

Me: Mom, do you even know what hip hop is? I mean, you know it’s not a class where you put you hand on your hip and hop up and down.

Dame Crazy: I know what hip hop is! I watch B-nonsense and Jay X and P Diddlee and Atrocious B.I.G. and all those fools all the time on BET! I’m not crazy! The girl at the Y…

Me: Whoa, at the what?

Dame Crazy: At the YMCA, I joined it and the girl was showing me around and took me to the dance studio. It looked fun with all those crazy dances, so I signed up. Isn’t that a kick?

So yeah. Girl, now my mom, MY 65 YEAR OLD MOM, is going to try to be cool. I just have visions (oh god here comes the bloody tears) of her in a Kangol Hat with a Jheri curl, gold plated grill, alarm clock around her neck and sporting some Adidas kicks with phat strings running around yelling “ Yeeeaah boooyeee, fuck the police!”

Suddenly Tit scratching doesn’t seem so bad.