Things she is apparently capable of making?
Chocolate penises. I didn't get a card from her on my birthday, but I did receive a photo that I was nowhere near drunk enough to tolerate.
I've spent five successful weeks shutting down any and all conversation with my mom about 50 Shades of Grey, and was actually fairly successful until this week. Ignoring the trilogy on her bedside table (ick) while back home in June, cutting her off when I told her I bought a few books at a gift shop, rolling my eyes on the other side of the phone while she told me she was "going to try to get the author to Skype in" for her book club because — god, there's not enough alcohol in the world for this, is there.
Last week, when she giddily told me she was on her way back from Lover's Lane — Chicagoland's premiere seedy sex toy shop — with penis-shaped chocolate molds before I could squash it with the regular "LA-LA-LA-LA-LA", I gave in. Moms need to have fun, right? How bad could listening to her talk about book club with her friends be?
My mom essentially threw a dick-themed Bar Mitzvah in our backyard — lots of ribbon, lots of Jewish family friends, lots of cock-shaped desserts, and more parental embarrassment than anyone signed up for.
From what I've heard, there were Costco sandwiches, there were tables full of candy, there was a large cookie with a phrase from the book that I don't even want to know about, there was everyone I've ever known as a blood relative under the age of 65 talking about S&M, there was a sex therapist there to speak (christ almighty), and there was my mom recalling the whole thing, including choice bits about how "Someone said I should have put a creme filling inside, that would have been spectacular!" and "Gail brought a platter of cookies that look like mouths, so i put a penis cookie inside of one! hahaha!"
And on top of that, my grandmother already asked me what all this "tying people up and having them sign a slave contract" business was on the phone yesterday, so it's only gonna get a lot worse before it gets better.
Actually, only worse for one person: me.
Conversations with my father, everyone.
I gotta go whip up a batch of pink penises...is what I'd say if I were my mom hanging up the phone today. Excuse me, while I rinse my brain out.