Please Tell Me I’m High On Mushrooms, Not Looking At One Under Your Breast

In December I took a trip to the midwest for over two weeks.

My mother and sister live in Kentucky and were just six hours away, so I went for just a day.  Miraculously, my mother never fails to outdo herself.

After spending time with the children I sat at the dining room table with her.  Her failings aside, there is never a time I don’t feel guilty for being a relatively horrible daughter.

For instance, she filled my trunk up with Christmas gifts.  I did not give her one.  I felt better after opening a few boxes, specifically one with a t-shirt that displayed a very large pink pig and the words “Road Hog.”  You may ask, “WTF?”  And I will tell you I have no idea.

So I asked her on Facebook, “Mom, what’s the deal with the t-shirt?”

Her reply: “Oh, I was going to give that to your nephew, but I thought you’d be the one who’d have the nerve to wear it!”

I did not follow up and ask, “Why would I want to?”

Second box: Gigantic automatic air freshener with 3 refills.

While I was at Mom’s house I observed my sister nearly get shot in the eye with a ridiculously powerful burst of spray from a similar model.  Since my mother has five dogs she has MORE THAN A DOZEN of these things on at all times in her home.  They make me gag in combination with the nasty ass smell she’s attempting to disguise.

Are we sensing a theme here?  (1) Pig shirt, (2) air fresheners.

My daughter got a donut maker and a separate cupcake maker.  My mother, always one to promote obesity and overeating.

Rachel’s comment was, “Wow!  Grandma plays favorites!  I love her!”  She also got a Kindle Fire.

I then proceeded to open two hardcover books I did not care to read, but it was nice of her to send them (?)

My husband got a $100 gift card to Home Depot.  Nice!

I got a Christmas ornament made out of some kind of recycled metal and

a set of sheets intended for people who sweat a lot.

Now that I’ve thought about it I no longer feel guilty whatsoever.

* * * * *

Anyway, back to the subject at hand . . .

We were sitting at the dining room table and I asked my mother if she’d ever had the rather dark mole on her face looked at by a dermatologist.  She said, “I’ve been planning on going because I have this other thing” . . .

As she continues speaking she lifts her shirt and then her bra along with her right breast.

She shows me the skin underneath, not at my request.

I am face to face with something the size of a small pancake, grayish and mottled in color.  It appears to be molding around the edges, cracked and bloody in places.

She continues: “I have this other thing here that needs to be looked at, I’ve been treating it with

WART REMOVER.”

And then she kind of crinkles up her nose and says:

“It smells bad.”

I gag on the words, “Oh my God, Mom!  What is it?”

In a downplayed tone of voice: “Oh, I don’t know.  I had it once before and they cut it off.”

I ask in amazement and disgust, “You didn’t ask what it was?!”

My sister thinks it’s from all that sweating under those large boobs with no air flow.  Moist and murky.

* * * * *

I hate being such a big complaining pussy, but are you fucking kidding me?

Tell me about forgiveness and God and your belief in honoring thy parents when your mother has a mushroom under her right tit.