Et Tu, Mother?
Before I go into today’s tome I would like to thank the fine folks at Fox Television and the New York Post for showcasing one of my recent finds yesterday. Yes, dear readers, you heard me right. You see, my parents are coming up soon and our apartment is in shambles. It’s downright disgusting, truth be told. One of the few times I will engage in housework is when I am seriously pissed. Since I am rarely in such a state, Chateau de Ghetto is usually dishevelled. Not anymore.
When my husband came home last night he noticed the hallway had been torn apart, swept and mopped and the bathroom got a going over that would make even Joan Crawford proud. He said:
Me: The fucking Post stole my story and those fucking sneakers are going to be televised tonight on Fox News, that’s what!
Knowing full well of my predilection for rage-induced cleaning, he didn’t ask any more questions. Mr. Heather understood. He handed me a bottle of red wine and made himself scarce. My husband is a very wise man.
Anyway, I am back to my more or less usual beatific state today and want to kill two long overdue birds with one stone: writing the following post and letting my mother know that we picked up her package from the post office. Here we go.
My mother recently returned home from a trip to Sedona, Arizona. As is her habit, she called me to let me know she had arrived home safe and sound. Towards the end of our conversation she advised me that she had purchased something for Mr. Heather.
I just saw it and thought of Sam.
Make a note of this, dear readers, as it will become relevant later in the story.
Well, a week or so goes by and we get a notice from the Postal Service that a parcel was awaiting pick-up at the Post Office. Remembering what my mother had told me, I advised Mr. Heather this package was for him. Early Saturday afternoon he headed to the ever-delightful Greenpoint Post Office to pick it up. At 1:00 p.m. he arrives at the junk shop package in hand. It was a smallish thing, maybe 8″ by 4″ by 4″.
Wanting to know what was inside, he opened it right there while Larry da Junkman and I watched. It was the item featured at the beginning of this blog post, folks. A rather small, but nasty looking knife.
Larry: Why would your mother buy Mr. Heather a knife?
Mr. Heather: Yeah, what is this about?
Me: Beats the shit out of me. Ask my dad, maybe he’ll know.
Later, back at our manse of merde, I re-examined Mr. Heather’s new toy.
Me: So what do you use this for anyway?
Mr. Heather: I think it is a de-boning knife.
Me: Why would you need a de-boning knife? It’s not like you’re allowed to cook meat in the apartment. How do you use it?
Mr. Heather (grabbing my wrist): You see, you use it like this to cut the tendons…
Me: Stop that shit, you’re freaking me out! Do it on yourself.
Mr. Heather: Okay. As I was saying, you… (goes into a full mock demonstration on how to use the above instrument on himself).
Me: That’s more like it. Now I’m learning something.
Mr. Heather: What are you going to do with it?
Me: If you wake up late one night and see me standing over your side of the bed you’ll find out.
Mr. Heather: I wonder why she sent me this?
Me: I dunno. Did you tell her that you took a life insurance policy on me? Mr Heather: Actually, I did. I’m taking out another one too.
Me: That explains it.
Did I mention my parents are flying into New York City Thanksgiving Day?
UPDATE, 11/21/07: Per my parents this instrument is used to remove skin from animals. They thought we could use it as a cheese knife. Yummy.
P.S.: No disrespect intended, mother. The reason we haven’t called to thank you is frankly because we do not know what to say. That said, thanks.