Friday, July 31, 2020

It Wasn't Me

Last night at approximately 7:15 p.m., as I modeled a peppy polka dot dress, elegant eyewear and cotton ball hairdo, so much easier and cheaper to maintain, now that the salon situation is once again in the crapper, the SJG's married son rudely accused me of a crime. "Ma," the text began, part of an endless family chain, because God forbid these people in my bubble should pick up a phone and call, "there's a photo fee you know you owe to Chlo." "How dare you!" I replied. Followed by, "It wasn't me." "Don't hide from the truth, Ma. You know it was you. Here's the Facebook evidence." 
The so-called evidence

Okay, fine. So maybe I did "borrow" an adorable photo of my grand baby that I just-so-happened to come across on Chlo's Instagram. But isn't it my right, after a lifetime of giving, giving, giving, to take a bissel something for myself? Not according to the justice-minded millennials down the road. Before I could make my case, this unreasonable demand arrived from a lovely French negotiator: "You owe $5 a photo, family price. Pretty fair for that amount of cuteness." Who was I to argue? And yet, I still needed to offer a weak typo-ridden defense. "It wasn't me. Or maybe it was. Who the @#$% cares? Leave me alone. I'm very busy pretending to watch the Lakers. I'll pay later in hogs." Before I could correct myself and write "@#$%! I meant hugs!" the youngest son chimed in with the shaming. "Hogs? Seems unreasonable, Ma." Half a second later, my D.I.L. mocked me, visually.

Then added: "No thank you. Five hogs are more than I can handle." Humph. That may or may not be the last time I "borrow" anything from these people. 

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