The Bitch and I had an argument Monday night. I was waiting for biopsy results that were MIA somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle of laboratories, so I was off my game and forgot to check caller ID. My bad.
Arguments with The Bitch have a blindingly bright silver lining: She won't call me for at least four days. Normally, that's a big fat slice of heaven, but this time was different. I got the biopsy results [which were good] on Tuesday. But it took The Bitch five days to ask about the them.
Five days.
I thought about calling her to tell her the news, but the masochist in me was still hoping she could shed her narcissism and........wait for it........be a mother.
Pathetic. Embarassing, even.
For some bizarre reason, this latest lovefest reminded me of Pillsbury commercials from the 60s. A mother served her kids piping hot cinnamon buns, drizzled with a sugary white topping, as this catchy little jingle played:
"Nothing says lovin'
Like somethin' from the oven
And Pillsbury says it best."
Seriously? At this point, I'd be satisfied with a crappy piece of pastry.
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I have a friend who has a mother like yours. I sent her your blog hoping she'll find some solace in the fact that she is not the only one with a Bitch for a mother.
ReplyDeleteGlad all is well re: biopsy.