Smug Marrieds: Wrinkle Cream

My mom likes to try new facial products and I am usually the beneficiary of the leftover or abandonded products that weren't quite right.

She came over the other day with Oil of Olay wrinkle creme. "This is wonderful. I just thought you might want to try this," she said, handing me the opened jar. 

"Seriously, that's your opening?" I asked. "You're handing me wrinkle creme and suggesting I might like to try it?" I looked at Blair standing next to me. "Do you have anything to say about this?"

There may have been a brief flash of sheer panic on his face before he took the jar from me and in his best southern drawl said, "Well I think it's good you learn about these things now, so in 15 or 20 years when you need them, you'll be ready." 

Niiiiice save.

Cheers,

Dena

Mom Diaries: Press "3" for Dead Mom

Yesterday morning, Mothers Day Brunch. Blair, Mom, and me are sitting around the dining room table, nibbling on the last of the rum-soaked tropical french toast Blair had prepared. We were talking about Blair and my upcoming trip to Russia. Mom asked if we were going to see Lennin's body. We are not. I don't want to take a 14-hour flight just to look at a corpse. 

The conversation then somehow turned to what we all want done with our bodies upon our deaths. Blair and I both want to be creamated, and Mom reminded us that she wants her body donated to science. She'd registered herself as a donor earlier this year. 

"It's simple," she said yesterday. "You just make a phone call and they handle everything. They'll come pick up the body, transport it, and send you the cremated remains of what they don't use. You don't have to do a thing and it's free." 

"Well where is this magic phone number?" I asked. "You need to have it ready because I don't picture me taking the time to dig through your paperwork looking for it with a dead body in the house."

"I don't think this is appropriate Mother's Day conversation," said Blair. 

"No, no, it's fine," said Mom, waving away his concern. "Dena, I'll find the number and set it out." 

I snorted laughter. "What?" asked Mom even as Blair shook his head.

"Sorry," I said. "I was just thinking I could, you know, put the number in speed dial. So I'll be ready..."

Blair groaned and Mom and I burst out laughing. "Mom's dead," she said, wiping her eyes. "Press '3.'"

"Or you could do voice recognition," said Blair, who apparently decided if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. He mimicked holding up a cell phone and speaking slowly and distinctly into it. "MOM'S DEAD." 

"Did you say, 'bed head?'" I asked, imitating the monotone of the phone recognition software.

"No. MOM'S. DEAD." said Blair. 

"Did you say, 'Mark's Head?'"

"No. DEAD. MOM'S DEAD." 

"Calling, Mom's Dead." 

We were all in tears, we were laughing so hard. 

Anyway, that's what passes for Mother's Day around our house. Hope yours was love and fun filled as well!

Cheers,

Dena 

Not Dead Yet

I was over at my mom's the other day, sitting on the couch and petting Bailey, the fat Maltese. Apropos of nothing, Mom suddenly asked, "Do you feel like you need to call or check in on me daily since I live alo--" 

"No," I said. 

"Oh, well good," she said. "I wouldn't want you to feel like you need to."

"Not a problem." 

There was a brief silence and then from her, "Of course, there's always the animals to think of if something should happen to me..." 

Oh, she's good. She's VERY good. She knows that while I can stomach the idea of her body entering day three of rigamortis before I find her, I can't even entertain the thought that her animals may be trapped inside for days without access to food and water. Scared, alone, starving...

"Damn it," I say. "Now I won't be able to sleep unless I talk to you every day. You are an evil, evil woman." 

"You don't have to call," said Mom. "I'll just send you an e-mail so you know I'm okay."

Sure enough, I had an e-mail the next day. "STILL ALIVE" read the subject line. 

People, this is going to be a l-o-n-g winter. 

Cheers,

Dena