Who Loves Ya, Baby?

Last night, post-salsa lessons, look what I uncovered when I turned on the lights in my bathroom. It was such a nice surprise, I got a little teary, so I had to preserve the moment for posterity. Who knows, when she one day pays exorbitant amounts for therapy and finally figures out what I did wrong in raising her, she may change her mind. So I will keep this just in case she needs to be reminded that she was once kinda fond of me.

Maybe she left me such a sweet message because she felt guilty. Why? Hmmm, let's see. Maybe for:

• at age 2, sneaking out the window, toddling down the street, and scaring the bejeezus out of me; or
• at age 6, pantsing the neighbor girl whose mom "had a talk" with me and refused to let them play together anymore; or
• at age 9, stuffing a dead chicken into the old fridge (in order to plan for a proper burial), and then forgetting about it until weeks later when Grandpa was horrified to discover its feathery, rotting corpse teeming with maggots; or
• at age 1o, hacking off all the hair on the back bottom-half of her head, and then blaming it on her older sisters' evil midnight debauchery while she snoozed right through it; or
• at age 12, getting drunk on Seagram's 57 during a sleepover at her BFF's (yes, you Stacey) and calling me to confess because she was so sick she thought she was dying; or
• at age 13, disassembling and rewiring her bedroom lamp to convert it into a black light, then plugging it into the socket, shocking the shit out of herself, and blowing the power out of the entire house; or
• at age 14, ditching school so I had to have an uncomfortable f-t-f with the high school principal; or
• at age 14, telling me she'd started her period when in fact she had not, and then kept up the ruse for another two years because it was a good excuse for playing hookey; or
• at age 15, smoking in the garage when she thought I was sleeping; or
• at age 16, making me play Sherlock Holmes to track her down when she thought she'd successfully duped me (her parental unit, aka, P.U.); or
• at age 18, bringing home that bad boy who ended up staying for, like, four years; or . . .

Oh, boy, I think I'll stop now. My own mother is probably loving this a little too much. Yes, payback's a bitch!

Our gorgeous "Critter" just turned 26 and is an awesome mother in her own right. Now that she has a little one to test her sanity, she has probably gained magical insights and forgiven me for my mistakes. Or maybe -- just maybe, she loves me in spite of them. Which brings us back to guilt -- hers or mine, I don't know. But I'm going with Door #2. At least until she gets into therapy.

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P.S. Pay no attention to that funky header. It's not quite what I wanted, but I have been too freakin' busy to fix it. No, Janie, I'm not kissing an F. I'm blowing fragrant lies. Isn't it obvious?
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