Mary Panza

That is a phrase I say to my girl all the time.  I used to say it when she was smaller and was in the temper tantrum phase.  It didn’t last long.  Somewhere in her head it clicked that the screaming wasn’t going to work and that people were looking at her not because she was cute.  She was drawing scowls and frowns and not the usual, “you look like a living doll.” With all that said, I have now become the embarrassment.  I am not saying that in a bad way.  I am enjoying it.

This week was winter break.  I had promised her that we could have a sleepover at our house with her two besties.  Monday, I get out of work and run to the store to get snacks. I pick the girl up from her Dad’s and he was nice enough to get me stuff for breakfast the next morning and some snacks for the night.  We get home and the first thing my girls looks around the house and crinkles her nose.

My girl:  You gonna do these floors?  Did you get to vacuum my room?

Me:  Are you freaking kidding me?  You know where the vacuum is and the besties are like family so that would be a NO on doing the floors.

She gets this from my sister.  She sees the care my sister takes in keeping her house especially before company.  My sister is a master and always has been, in keeping a clean house.  I do my best.  My house is clean to anyone not from my neighborhood.  They neighborhood girls would notice the dirt in the corners or the one cobweb I have missed or the lone spoon sitting in the sink.

I get pissed.  I decide to demonstrate the meaning of “mess with the bull, you get the horns.” I have a pair of grown up feet in PJ’s.  I got them a few years ago when I got invited to a costume party and was going to go as Big Ang from Mob Wives.  I am shaped the opposite Big Ang so I gave up on that and decided not to go.  Then I go into Target and see these footie PJ’s.  Score!  I threw my hair in a couple of pig tails and went as a fat kid in jammies!  Best party ever and I still have them.

2014-02-17_15-55-13_199I go into my room and close the door.  I never close doors in my house.  My mother always told me, “We have nothing to hide.”  She lied.  Anyway, my girl begins to knock at my door wondering if I am OK.  I tell her to come in and I capture the look on her face for all the world to see.

My girl:  Mom.  I have never said this before and I probably will never say this again, you look horrid. Please change your clothes.

Me:  No way!  It is a sleepover for serious party people!  I am just that!

Then I begin to dance.

My Girl:  Ma, please?

Me:  If you ever tell me how to keep my house again, I will wear this outfit to pick up from school and begin to dance when your class lets out.  GOT IT?

My Girl:  Yup.

Wednesday I treat us to The Lego Movie.  That damn “awesome” song is playing in my head even 24 hours later.  As the credits are playing I keep singing the song.  I get hit with,

My girl:  Ma, there are people behind you.  You are embarrassing yourself.

Me: Oh, that’s too bad.  I was trying to embarrass you.

2014-02-17_15-53-09_947She asks me if we can go to the store Justice.  For those of you not familiar with this place, it is like the Deb shop for 7-10 year old girls (without the hooker shoes, which, at this moment, the first lady of Albany Poets is sending me photos of large, red spandex pants from the Deb shop in Crossgates.  I told her if I wear those people will think that the sun fell out of the sky and landed on my ass.)  The movie ends and I keep my promise and go down stairs to Justice.  I am perplexed as to the name of the store.  The only thing I can think of is that there is no justice in the price of kid jeggings at $40 a pair.  My girl has brought her own money in the form of, what she told me was, a $50 gift card.  There is a huge sale and I tell her that this is the way to shop.  You go at the end of a season to get stuff.  She carefully looks at glitter tee-shirts.  By the way, the whole place is glitter and plastic crap and gross smelling lip gloss.  This is my girl’s dream store.  She gets a tee shirt, a pair of black jeans and some weird looking stuffed owl with big glass eyes that looked mine the morning after the wine debacle.  It comes to $38 and the sales rep runs the card.  She owes 13 dollars.  The gift card is only worth $25.

My Girl:  Ma, I am so embarrassed.  I grabbed the wrong card.

I may be dumb but I know when I have been had.  I pay the difference.   She is, after all, my girl.