Osmokesis

Bev is not a huge fan of posting on social media for Mother’s or Father’s Day. I don’t feel the need to find a bunch of funny/embarrassing pictures of my parents from the 80’s or to write a post about how my parents are the best in the world and then post it all to my Instagram story in 2-3 word phrases. You know the ones (similar to the birthday posts I talked about here). Happy (pic of Dad holding baby in hospital room). Father’s (picture of Dad teaching 3-year-old how to ride a bike). Day (picture of Dad and kid at high school graduation). To the best (picture of Dad and kid at college football game). Dad in the world (picture of dad and child at child’s wedding).

My dislike for social media posts has nothing to do with how I actually feel about my parents (I think they’re pretty kickass), but more about how I feel about the weird peacocking that people do on social media on certain holidays. I guess I just prefer to celebrate Mother’s and Father’s Day by… ya know… calling my parents to wish them a happy day and finding a present that I think s/he will actually like or use. For MamaG, this usually means some sort of new kitchen gadget that Maude picks up and wraps for both of us. This year, I stepped up my game and gave MamaG a tincture of CBD oil in hopes that it will help with her restless sleep habits. She asked me about forty times if it was marijuana and I can’t really answer her because I secretly don’t really know what the hell is in it (I think it’s legal in all 50 states, right? Like, you can order it online… I don’t know) but I do think it’s helping her sleep a little bit better, so I’m calling it a win. Even though she yelled at me when she found out how much it costs. For Smoke, Father’s Day gifts usually consist of Maude and me throwing some money at MamaG who buys some type of tool or gadget that I know nothing about. This year I think it was something to do with oil or grease or something? I truly have no idea, but he seemed to like it. In addition, I usually bring Smoke a six-pack of craft beers brewed in and around MyCity. He loves trying different and new beers and then not remembering which ones he likes and doesn’t like. 

Anyhoo, yesterday (on Father’s Day), I had to call my cable company with an issue I was having. As I chatted with the sweet DirecTV service woman from Alabama (let’s call her Debbie), there were a few breaks in our conversation where we had to wait for my cable box to reboot or whatever. And in true Smoke Goldenstein’s daughter fashion, I asked her a few questions about herself, and my service call quickly turned to a therapy session about Debbie’s ungrateful 13-year-old stepdaughter. The girl’s mom lets her get away with everything but Debbie and her fiancé put their collective foot down with the little wench and, in true teenager style, she retaliates. Debbie and her fiancé have gone as far as packing up the girl’s clothes in trash bags and hiding them in order to wake the teen up to the fact that she needs to clean her room or they’ll get rid of her stuff. Guys, there was actually a moment when my cable box was done and I was ready for the next step, but I waited like three minutes for the Debster to finish her story about the demanding stepdaughter before telling her we could continue the process for the cable issue. This is an absolute Smoke Goldenstein move. The man could talk to a brick wall (as noted here for Uber drivers and here for people he’s chatting with on the phone) and I realized that I am slowly becoming him.

And then, today happened. To make a long story short, I encountered several severe corner-cutters in a row (the first guy was literally basically driving head on at me in my lane as he was making a left turn and the second one was not much better). I absolutely LAID on my horn at these assholes, who seemed to have absolutely no clue that they were driving like dickbags. Or, corner-cuttin’ sons of bitches as a certain someone would call them.

All of this to say, I basically realized that my latent Father’s Day gift to Smoke is that I am literally morphing into him. One corner-cuttin’ sonofabitch at a time.

Anybody know where I can find some ladies’ gray socks?

-Bev