Peg and I like to play a game where I visit Albany or Martha’s Vineyard and in the mere hours that I am there, it is my player’s job to seek and her job to eventually retrieve. Whereas I seek out things that I want and/or am too cheap to purchase myself and she then spends weeks wondering where she put her new Burberry shirt.
During the most recent 72 hour jaunt to Albany, I sought after a Swiffer, a thing of Comet, Swiffer wet and dry cloths, nine dollars – which I used to purchase BK breakfast for myself and El Padre, latex gloves, a package of toilet paper, an orange adidas shirt, a button down shirt from BR, some hair product of some sort, her hooker shoes, and my personal favorite, a strand of pearls. My best showing yet I would say.
Her assessment of her bedroom when she returned home led to immediate retrieval via threat of the BR shirt. That shit was totally not worth the $309 check that she would have cashed. I wormed my way back into her good graces by sending her back the shirt and a can of Glory collard greens. Nothing says “Thanks for birthing me and allowing me to continuously mooch off of you”, like a two dollar can of greens. She figured out the adidas shirt when she called demanding its whereabouts and the whereabouts of her hooker shoes. “Covering up my boobies and my sweaty back and the shoes, those ugly shoes?? They’re for hookers!” The shoes are currently collecting dust underneath my desk at work.
I read about this once in the New York Times. That young recent college grads go on a rampage when they visit their parents. They know no bounds and feel that if it’s in their parent’s possession then it is communal property. To be honest, I’ve only recently began saying things like “My mother’s house in Albany”. And even then it is as if someone else is saying those words for me; though I did learn very early on that my mother’s money is not my money and that maybe I should make my own or risk being homeless. Or maybe make my own and buy my own damn cleaning supplies instead of pilfering off of the hardworking. In my defense G had just taken all of the dishes so I am at least entitled to a fucking swiffer.
Remember this now because at some point she will realize that she’s missing a strand of pearls. When this time comes, think of me fondly as I’m sure that the punishment will be swift and severe: Possibly death by evil Peg stare that can easily turn the warm blooded ice cold. Either way I am quite sure it will not be remedied by the simple act of a can of collards. I might even have to man up to the $12 Whole Foods variety, she’ll be that pissed.