Thursday, April 10, 2014

Facebook Wars and Easter Peeps

This is the kind of shit you’re missing if you’re not my mom’s Facebook friend:

You’d better hurry up and ask her before she gets cocky and stops accepting friend requests (besides the ones from the guys she meets on Christian Mingle and, of course)…

But seriously, don’t.  Not that many of you know me or my mom personally since I’m stealthy like a ninja in my quest to stay anon—but if you do—seriously, don’t Facebook friend my mom.  She shares shit like the picture above all the time.

She posted that particular gem one night around midnight, and it came along with a request to her ex-boyfriend’s daughter in the comment section to commission this mural.  Let me lay it down more clearly for you, peeps:  SHE WAS GOING TO PAY SOMEONE TO PAINT THIS CAT ON HER LIVING ROOM WALL. 

At first this had me questioning her sobriety.  And then, before I knew it, I found that I didn’t really care if she was drunk, because something even more curious was happening:  the middle finger of my right hand was pressing down on my mouse in a quest to SAVE this ridiculous cat picture onto my hard drive. 

I almost smacked myself in the face—whatever would I do with such a stupid Facebook post?  And then I realized that my hand had simply been acting on reflex, and my brain was just a bit slower to catch on.  When it did, I finally understood that I was saving this because I knew I would have to use it to make fun of my mom in a blog post one day.  And that day has come.

Because she keeps doing it and it needs to stop.  Or rather, I say that it needs to stop, but I’m actually secretly enjoying it.  The progression went a little bit like this:  At first I loved having my mom on Facebook—she was kind of funny!  But then she got all rambly and weird, and my siblings and I didn’t even want to post anything for fear that she might reply—and you simply cannot be at your computer or on your phone every second of every day to monitor what your mom might say.  Believe me, I’ve tried, and I’ve found that I need my arms for other things, like drinking beer and eating tater tots.

In any case, we couldn’t get Mom to shut the hell up.  And I was annoyed.

But now…well, now I’m at the point where I simply can’t help myself.  I look forward to seeing what she’s going to share any given day, because each post is worse than the last.  It’s like watching a damned train wreck.

My older sister and I have learned to have a blast with it.  Whichever one of us gets to it first will simply tag the other on the first comment under whatever ridiculous “Mom post” pops up on our feed that hour. 

We don’t say anything else at all. We don’t need to.  It’s great fun.

Blame the fact that we’re easily amused on our parents.  They didn’t spoil us enough growing up, so we had to make do with what we had.  Obviously it’s a lesson that has been carried on throughout our lives.  It is only just now beginning to serve us well.

This was the post where my mom finally wised up and caught on to us, probably because I broke the rule and responded to my sister’s tag:

Older Sister:  Shay
Me:  OMG, I’m going to skip my 6-mile run today because I tossed and turned so much last night.
Mom:  Shut up

And then there was the one where my older sister and I had to have a chat because I was so disappointed in her.  It started with a post saying my mom had won a free coconut wheel on some sort of virtual game she was playing, and my older sister took over from there:

Older sister:  Shay, LOOK!  A free coconut wheel!
Mom:  Shut up
Mom:  And give me a life
Older sister:  Okay, I’ll try…not sure how?

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked my sister angrily over the phone that night.  “I was SO with you.  I was all set to type, ‘All I’ve ever WANTED is a free coconut wheel!’—and then you jump in with that last comment?  Whose side are you on?”

“The woman needed help, Shay,” my older sister replied heatedly.  “It’s CANDY CRUSH SAGA, and she only had 5 hours to play today, for God’s sake!”

Holy shit.

And then came the day when the entire thing came crashing down.  Recently, my mom and my older sister got into a fight because my older sister felt that my mom was sharing too many pictures of Easter peeps on her Facebook page, and that Easter peeps are stupid.

I’m not even kidding, you guys.  This was a real fcking fight that they had.

I believe that this was the image that sent my older sister over the edge.  My mom shared it, like she does all of her peeps pictures, in honor of Easter—because don’t you know that this is how we Catholics honor Easter?

It all ended with my older sister unfriending my mom, which was really sad because now who would I tag in the comments section to make fun of my mom’s posts?  My dad was out; he refuses to accept my mom’s lingering friend request because she’s embarrassing.

 Then came this fluttering across my feed, courtesy of my mom:

And I didn’t have one person to tag.

Not one motherfcking person.

I had to do something, so this is what I did:  I risked Facebook deletion from my sister by fueling the peep fire and taking all of the peeps pictures on my mom’s page and sharing them on my older sister’s.  It was only partially malicious—in all honesty, I love those goddamned peeps pictures.  I think they’re hilarious.  It’s the one differing element in my and my older sister’s normally quite similar senses of humor.

Anyway, I was hoping that all of my older sister’s peeps anger would be directed toward me instead of my mom, and that she’d need someone to which to complain about me, forcing her to re-friend my mom—because if there’s one thing my mom loves, it’s a little family drama.

And it worked, peeps.  It worked. 

My mom and my older sister were Facebook friends again the next day. 

The first thing my mom did?  She posted this picture, captioned “Riding with My Peeps” on my older sister’s page:

She’s learning.  J


  1. HILARIOUS! I so needed to laugh today, and this takes the cake :)

  2. Peeps humor is the humor that keeps on giving and has more nutritional value than said peeps. I love your mom.