Today I decided was a good day to try to see Kathryn and The
Goats, The Goats being her two sons Cyrus and Cash. Why The Goats? It’s not
that they resemble our goaty friends, but rather that pygmy goats are so damn
cute and I’m tempted to get them for The Manor, and sometimes I wonder if I
should just forget the whole Damians thing and just get goats instead. Somehow
this has turned into Kathryn and I referring to her children as The Goats. Go
figure.
So we go to a Mexican restaurant, where I learn the
horrifying news that Kathryn has not been reading my blog, and thus has no
idea what’s been going on with every bit of minutiae in my life. I know, what
the hell. I start by telling her about my new love interest, Joaquim.
Me: And the key
things in his profile were that he’s an avid cyclist, speaks Russian, has
traveled all over the world……what?
I’m getting The Look from Kathryn.
Kathryn: So you’ve
somehow managed to work it so that you’ll be impregnating yourself with your
own sperm. Because basically Joaquim is your clone.
Well….okay. So I want a mini-me – what’s wrong with THAT?
Sure, I wouldn’t want to date me (I
fear that much personality would cause a total eclipse of the sun, or
something), but having a little me toddle about correcting people’s grammar and
saving spiders and being supremely witty and sarcastic? Hell yes.
Anyway, we have our lunch, and The Goats are well-behaved
enough but I still need to admonish them and give them the death glare a couple
of times. Because….
Me: ….I do run a
tight ship you know. Cyrus, please dear, let’s leave that huge box of food
alone – that’s for The Kone. Anyway, as I said, tight ship, all the time.
There’s a slight lull in conversation.
Me: You’re hoping right now that I have three of the
most hellacious kids to ever walk this earth, aren’t yo……
Kathryn: YES! I was just thinking that, that I hope The
Damians are hell spawn that drive you insane! Tight ship my ass! And if they’re
not, if they’re perfect and lovely and well-behaved all the time, well, I just
don’t know.
Me: So if we show up everywhere and The Damians are the cutest little Stepford urchins dressed adorably in matching sailor outfits and one is saying “here’s a flower
I picked just for you mama” and the other is helping a little old lady across
the street and the third is helping a baby bird with a broken wing…
Kathryn: We could no longer be friends.
Me: Fair enough.
On a
separate note, as far as my adoptive status, I fear that my mom still hasn’t
come to terms with the situation. Hence our phone call today:
Mom: So in addition to these cataracts that I need to
have taken care of there’s also this infection and other things…..it’s not easy
getting old.
Me: Well, it’s a good thing I’m adopted, so I didn’t
inherit those derelict Ukrainian genes from you. Skol!
Cue uproarious laughter. Sigh. Like I keep telling my mom,
just because you gave birth to me doesn’t mean I wasn’t adopted. I mean how
else would it turn out that I’m Finnish?
Really, why is that so hard to understand?
2 comments:
I expect to be dead by the time I'm 65 so I'm not overly worried about those ageing problems.
can't you just buy some plants instead.
plus don't you think you need something "different" than yourself in a mate. Someone who "is" an athlete, has depth perception, likes cats, enjoys food other than Slim Jims and Cheez-its, doesn't hoard, can actually play hockey
A concerned citizen of the world.
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