They drove in last night, bearing gifts:
1) A sponge-holder for my kitchen sink.
2) A faux-wrought iron garden table for my kitchen from Home Goods, that looks like it should be on a tenement balcony.
Cougel: "So sweet of you Ema, but it doesn't match the decor of the rest of my place."
Dad (quietly so Mom can't hear): "If you don't like it, just leave it on the sidewalk."
Mom (waving her hand): "You'll get used to it."
3) And these socks. She must have gone to great lengths to find me the hottest pair...
Note the pink leopard-like print and heart. Maybe mom was just trying to acknowledge the feminine cougar I've become.
Also, she must feel guilty about having once blurted that she wished she did with me like Moses in the basket, and sent me down the river Nile... because she emailed me this picture of Lil' Mo and his peeps:
She wrote, "do you see Mose in basket? look how many are watching and protecting him..."
Is that supposed to make me feel better? Watching and protecting? Those guys look like they were all naked in bed, having a ball, before the little shit turned up and spoiled the fun.
So, here's the final stage (I pray!) in Operation Mirror. I knew that once my parents came in, they'd see that my mirror was no longer hanging where my Dad had left it, and I'd have to tell him anyway. So I broke the news to Mom earlier that day. As expected, she cried, "Heeeeeeeeee!!" which means "Holy F*kg Shit" in Jewish Mom. She agreed that Dad would be upset, and understood why I didn't tell him. But when he unloaded the kitchen table from the trunk of his car, I saw the toolbox.
Yep, he was going again. This time he brought screws. I tried, oh I tried, to convince him not to. "Dad, leave it, I'll have a professional (this was my mistake) hang it with my window shades when they arrive." Sweating (me too, just watching) half an hour later (mind you, this was Saturday night, and the last place I wanted to be) it was up! No matter that it's crooked and two inches higher than it should be, the damn thing was secure, and I wanted to get out of there.
And then Dad says: "Wait, it's too high."
"Noooooo! Dad, it looks fine. Really."
Dad reaches into his toolbox: "I'll fix it."
Desperate, I put my hands on his shoulders, looked him in the eyes, and said (in Hebrew - somehow speaking in their language always seems to help my argument). "Abba, please. Let me live with it for awhile like this. You can come back in two weeks and fix it then..." I was being manipulative, giving him an objective for his next visit, but I was desperate. Where was Mom during all this you wonder? Do I even need to tell you that, now that I have a kitchen?
I had not planned to write this post. I have other topics in the cue. And I realize that writing about my parents again is not the ideal choice to "move this story forward." If my blog was a movie, this post would end up on the cutting room floor. But it was the socks that pushed me over the edge. My parents bring me gifts, an endless supply of laughs. So why not share them with you.