Recently, someone stole my mom. He whisked her away, on a big ol’ plane, off to Big D. He’s keeping her there for two whole weeks, and not giving her back. I don’t want to name names, but I’m looking at you, Harvey.
I don’t think he knows or even cares how much his little “vacation” with Mommy is hindering my day to day life. I mean, I have lost my laundry buddy, my pizza buddy, and my Forsyte Saga buddy (that’s right, Mommy, I may just fire up the old Netflix and start watching it soon, since I have nothing else to do while you’re gone). I hope you’re happy, Harvey. I hope you’re happy.
While he is off gallivanting all over Texas and the surrounding states with our mother, I am languishing here at home, in the heat, with no mother on whose shoulder I could lean when the children start getting crazy. While they are visiting Toby Keith’s bar and grill, I am left to “enjoy” our weekly dinner of ravioli and cheesey bread without her. For reals, Harvey?
The kids are wondering where Mom Mom is, too, Harvey. What can I tell them? Uncle Harvey has stolen her, because he’s a mom-stealer. It’s what he does. That’s what I told them. I told them Uncle Harvey steals people’s moms.
You better send her back, soon. (You can’t see this, but I’m doing the whole two fingered “I’m looking at you” thing.)