Mother's Day Can Eat My Shorts

Yep, I said it.  Mother's Day can eat my shorts.  Not one person in this family, which now includes my elderly father, offered to do one GD thing for me today.  Not one.  The Father insisted I take him for a mani-pedi, but didn't even offer me one.  Seriously?  I do everything but wipe his ass.  Never mind that I had a bajillion chores to do (since I worked at my JOB all day on Saturday), and a few things I wanted to do for myself, since I knew NO ONE WOULD FUCKING OFFER TO DO ANYTHING FOR ME.

Of course, the day started off foul because the prior evening, as we were watching the news (kill me now), The Father commented to me about his now-deceased wife's vagina.  Straw that broke the camel's back, y'all.  Is it the Parkinson's?  Who knows.  He is quite inappropriate and apparently obsessed with his weiner and wants to share all kinds of juicy tidbits about his past with me.  Ummm, hello?  I am your DAUGHTER and a WOMAN.  Misogynistic pig.  And I am now his sole caretaker.  Joy, oh joy.

And, also, since MY mother was a fire-breathing dragon with narcissistic personality disorder, the very last thing I want to do is give her glowing reviews on Facebook.  Difficult enough to see everyone else posting about how their mother was their best friend, blah-blah-blah.  Mine was my mortal enemy until I was in my 30's and had a granddaugher-on-the-way to hold over her head and make her behave.  It was all I could muster to send her a card, which was not ooey-gooey, by any stretch of the imagination.  She is shallow and self-absorbed and now pretends to have Alzheimer's to get attention.  Sorry, lady, I am busy.

Next year, I am going away some place for the Mother's Day weekend BY MYSELF.

Whackadoodle-doo, y'all.

&8~)