, , , ,

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.)