Ladies who lunch - or, more reasons to question my genetic makeup.

My family is INSANE. I think I may have mentioned this once or twice.

My mother, obviously paying no attention to the fact that I have hated every single article of clothing she has ever bought as a gift for me, bought me this heinous pink tank top with a sequined/bedazzled butterfly thing on the front, with some little shirt that goes over it, for you know, when the humiliation of wearing a bejeweled shirt becomes too much for me, and I must cover it up. I looked at her, and lovingly said, “You’re kidding me, right? Mom. Seriously. Have you ever, in my life, seen me wear ANYTHING with sequins? Or butterflies? Anywhere? I love you, but you are never allowed to buy clothes for me again without me there.”

“But… The saleslady told me these were really in right now.”

“Mom, if you don’t believe the shit she says about this ugly shirt, she doesn’t get to pay her rent. Think about it.”

“Oh.”

She told me that this weekend we would return the shirts for something else. Little did I know, that meant lunch and shopping with my grandmother, who if you recall, can’t believe she’s related to me and can’t ever look at me the same way again because I have a living will with DNR orders on it. Good times are sure to follow.

We go to lunch, and immediately my Grandma starts bitching about the fact that in the whole empty restaurant, they sat us next to a table with kids. Kids who speak. And make noise. Bad, bad kids.

We eat, and my Grandma goes on this tirade about the Terri Schiavo case, and my Mom quickly changes the subject, because of the events of Easter.

I got way nervous, because she asked me about a friend of mine, John. I have never mentioned John and his story here, because it is long, and emotionally exhausting. Long story short: John is gay, was unsafe and promiscuous as a teen, and now is on the down side of a LONG battle with HIV, and now AIDS. Given my family’s homophobia, and ignorance, only my parents and Jackie know of John.

“Who’s John?” My Grandma asked.

“Oh, he’s just a friend from school that my Mom knows. He’s fine.” Thank god that little kid started crying, because it deflected right off John.

When the check came, my Mom and Grandma fight over who’s going to pay. The total bill is $27 and change, and my Grandma is content to leave the $2 and change as his tip. My Mom says “Let me leave the tip.” And puts a five on top of the $30 my Grandma already put down. She throws the five back at my Mom, and says that her tip was enough, and that we were already paying enough for food, we don’t need to waste more money on a tip. A seven dollar tip was way too much.

Nice.

I think being a waiter/waitress is one of the more difficult jobs you could have, given all the stupid fucking people you have to deal with, and I appreciate that when I am at a restaurant. I am not a cheap tipper, and I can’t stand people who are. When we got up, my Mom slid the five under the bill so she wouldn’t see. She did, and threw it right back at my Mom. Jesus, what a cheap motherfucker.

After lunch, they dragged me to the mall. I despise the mall for many reasons:

1.People who bring their ENTIRE family, none of whom speak English, and have about six strollers.

2.People wander aimlessly, like they have nothing better to do than dick around the fucking mall all day and get in my way. I walk fast. I like to get where I am going. It’s bad enough I have to be in this godforsaken place, get the fuck out of my way.

3.People in line in front of me with kids jumping on and off the escalator because they are either afraid, or want to watch the stairs come out of the floor…. Over, and over, and over, and over…. Grrrr.

4.People walk so closely next to me that their bags of useless crap keep hitting me, until I finally have to move over, only to realize I can’t, because of # 1.

I hate the mall. I try to only go to the mall one day a year. Around December 23rd, when I realize I have to do my Christmas shopping at some point, and have been putting off going as long as I could.

Thank god for online shopping.

The only time I have been there that was a pleasurable experience was when they were filming “Bad Santa” there, and I saw John Ritter (I was soooo in love with Jack Tripper as a girl it’s sick), and actually met him and shook his hand.

Three’s Company rocked my world back in the day. Ok, it still does. But not the Terry episodes. She sucked.

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When we were in the mall, my Mom, The Queen of Confrontation, held a door open for this lady, and the lady didn’t say thank you, or anything.

So my mother just screams out “You’re welcome!” She is going to get us killed.

“Mom, not again. It’s ok to let some things go. You don’t have to yell at everyone all the time.”

“I didn’t have to hold the door open for her. I did it because I am a nice fucking person. Fuck her. Fucking Cunt.” I suppose it’s a good thing the woman was gone and didn’t hear that.

My Mom said that in front of her own mother. Which would probably be bad, if my Grandma didn’t offer up her own racially-based insult about the woman herself.

How do I come from these people?

I have often wondered if I would rather have a mother like mine, who is crazy, a partier, a loudmouth, and yells at everyone like a pint-sized drill sergeant, or if I would rather have some Stepford soccer mom who doesn’t speak up, and who doesn’t do anything except make sure that her family is taken care of.

I can’t decide which one is worse.

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And, thanks to those of you that blasted the hater that popped my hate mail cherry in the comments, or the “message board for retard people.”

You guys are the shizzle, my nizzles.

Man, I am so white.