As a heads up – this story probably shouldn’t be read by people who are easily offended or who have a high opinion of me. Also, if you have a high opinion of me, I am sorry to inform you that you have been tricked. I am not the classy dame you think I am.

This story begins with a gentleman familiar to readers of this blog. A gentleman named BOTASTIC. While BOTASTIC will always remain in my heart, and I love him dearly, my earlier depiction of him left out some things. Lots and lots of things, actually. You see, BOTASTIC is not the classy gent you think he is. BOTASTIC is, in fact, a world class chain puller, and a sometimes user of salty language.

Additionally, for this Actual Real True Story, you need to be introduced to the character of my phone. It is an iPhone. It hates me. I hate it. The stupid sensor doesn’t work, so my face is constantly hitting mute, hitting speaker, making conferance calls, writing emails. You name it, the right side of my face does it. Who knew the right side of my face even had fingers. But apparently, it has, like, a million, given how many tasks it accomplishes in a two minute phone call.

Finally, there is my mom. Please read about her here. My mother is, in all ways, a complete and total classy dame, one who has never used salty language in her entire life. Out of deference, I have always followed her lead whilst in her company. Because while I may not be a classy dame, but I am a.) not an idiot and b.) genuinely respectful.

You may already see where this is going.

So, I am having a verbal slugfest with BOTASTIC. He is pulling my chain with wild abandon, and I am yelling at him. More to the point, I am yelling at him with salty language. My phone beeps, and I look down. It is my mom. I decide not to answer. I am too busy yelling at BOTASTIC.

The right side of my face, though, has different ideas. “I am totally going to answer this,” says the right side of my face, and it does so, without telling me.

And so I wind up yelling this: PUNK A** M*********** not at BOTASTIC, but at MY MOTHER. MY CLASSY, CLASSY MOTHER. I YELL THIS. AT HER.

There is silence.

Mom: Whaaat????

Me: (sheer panic) I was talking to Bo! I was talking to Bo!

Mom: My daughter talks like that?????

Me: Bo was pulling my chain! Bo was pulling my chain!

Mom: I don’t care if Bo was pulling your chain, you don’t talk like that!

Me: I’m sorry! I’m sorry!

Mom: Well look, I am only calling you because I felt guilty I hadn’t called you back yet, but I am busy, and apparently, so are you.

Me: I am so sorry!

Mom: Talk to you later.

We hang up. I call BOTASTIC back. I explain to him both what occurred, and also his responsibility for this incident. BOTASTIC, who is a consultant, by the way, then says, “I think this is good. I think this is an opportunity for greater honesty, greater closeness, with your mother. I think this is going to lead to a high point in your relationship. I think you’re going to reach a new plane of understanding.” As previously mentioned, BOTASTIC is a PUNK A** M***********.

That night, my mom invites me to a movie. You better believe I am there with bells on the next day. I get to my parents house, and my dad, who is a lot like Santa Claus, gives me a hug and goes into his typical spiel. This is his spiel, by the way: “I want you to know how proud I am of you, how special you are to us, and how much I love you.” I am deeply, deeply surprised by this reception.

My dad leaves the room, I look at my mom, and she mouths the words, “I didn’t tell him.” And then she smiles a deliciously wicked smile.

Which just goes to show, my mom might be classy dame, but I know where I got my naughty streak from.