Isn’t it cute how I said “small viewing party” as if it were some fancy affair? But really, it was just an excuse to get together to drink beer and eat hot dogs and Rotel. As if we needed one.
“OMGeeeee,” her friend Amy drooled as she watched George Strait perform. “He is so hot.”
I looked up from my plate. “He’s dead, right? Like, this is a compilation of old videos from before he passed away?”
There was a collective gasp in the room, and I heard someone mutter asshole.
“Oh, wrong crowd, huh? Okay, fine, but seriously, he’s hardly alive, you guys. He’s what, 87 now?”
“Hang on,” my mom said, holding up her texting finger. “I’ll Gooooogle it.”
She drew out the word Google for at least 5 minutes, taking 2 breaths in between to make the word last as long as it did. She was showing off. Some asshole had bought her a goddamned Smartphone and taught her how to use it. I’ve been pondering who the culprit might be, and I’ve at least been able to narrow it down a little bit. It couldn’t possibly be any of her boyfriends for two reasons: 1.) They’re poor as hell and each have at least 72 children to support (she sure knows how to pick ‘em, peeps) and 2.) They’re all my grandpa’s age, and he’s dead. I’m pretty sure they’d have as hard of a time as Gramps would figuring out how to work a damned Smartphone.
Not that I should make fun. My own phone was purchased by my husband through a website that he didn’t understand, and when it came in the mail, there was a sticker on it with a handwritten note, scrawled with a black Sharpie, that said, “No funciona bien el telefono.”
It had cost the hubs dos pesos, and the flip function didn’t even work. Meaning it was a flip phone that didn’t flip open.
But dammit, it can call 9-1-1, and that’s all I need. Do you hear that, rapists?
Anyhoo, all of this is a roundabout way of saying that I’m desperately trying to figure out the name and address of the bastard who got my mom the phone. Because if I get one more “a million likes and our dad will take us to Disneyworld!” Facebook post from Mom on my feed, I’m going to whoop that bastard’s ass and then delete my mom. Don’t worry; she been made aware of this.
“I Gooooooogled it, you guys,” Mom announced, holding up her new phone. “And it says he’s 61.” Here, she shot me a triumphant look. “He’s 61 and sex-ay. I’ll take him!”
“Mom,” my little sister said. “The average age of the men you date is 105. We know you’ll take him. The rest of us prefer to stick with guys in the 30-40 age range who don’t live in trailers with goats tied to a tree in the front yard for a lawn mower.”
“The trailer and goat/lawn mower were mine,” Mom insisted about whatever boyfriend she’d happened to hit the jackpot with during the year to which my sister was referring. “NOT his.” (She said “goat lawn mower” like that, as one term, so I’m still not sure if that’s how she described it to people, like, “No, I don’t own a riding lawn mower. I just bought a goat lawn mower,” or if she’s saying it like I wrote it, with the slash in the middle. I’m also not sure why I care…)
“Something to be proud of,” my younger brother muttered.
“You know,” Mom said, smoothing the front of her Smartphone with her index finger while looking around at her kids, “sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have kind children. But no. All of you assholes got the smartass gene from your father…SIGH…”
“Yeah, but where did Shay get her nose?” someone piped up.
My mom held up her hands in a defensive gesture and shrugged, wide-eyed. “No clue. That’s shit’s not from me.”
**Update: In the months since I drafted this post, the hubs actually has surprised me with my own Smartphone--and taught me how to use it. Which is a major sore point for my friends, who are so sick of my big-nosed selfies from all different angles (I mean, it works as a camera, Facebook, and flashlight ALL IN ONE!!) that now they, too, are threatening to delete me from Facebook, much like I once threatened my mom.