A Birthday Present That Sucks

I returned a call from my mom yesterday afternoon. I debated whether I even should, because I figured she probably wanted me to measure something to assist her in her never-ending mission to redo the beach house. She is currently occupied with making her "white vision" a reality.

The white vision in its original incarnation involved, as you might imagine, varying shades of white. Then my mom decided that was a little too boring so now blue is allowed. But only light blue. Nothing too crazy. You still get an overall white impression, unless you go into my room where you will find both *gasp* yellow and *double gasp* paisley (which I know is not a color, but which is also totally not in keeping with the overall cabana stripes theme).

Anyway, I don't mind measuring things, but inevitably my mom wants me to measure something that A) I've already measured 14 times before or B) is impossible to measure by myself. But I called her back anyway because, well, I was raised Catholic and I figured there was a strong possibility that I'd go to hell if I spent the weekend in my mom's beach house but couldn't so much as measure something for her.

"What up dawg?" I said when my mom answered the phone, mostly because she often responds to that greeting with "what up dog yourself?" and I find it amusing. Yesterday, though, she responded with another favorite, "who is this?" "It's your daughter," I answered. "Which one?" she asked. "The good one," I said jokingly. "Oh hi, Laura," my mom said happily. And I laughed even though I'm not entirely convinced she was kidding. I USED to be the good daughter, but then I started voting Democrat and liking colors and stuff.

Mom: Are you still at the beach?

Me: (hesitantly) Yes.

Mom: Oh good.

Me: Why? Do you want me to measure something for you?

Mom: (indignant) No. I want to give you something. A birthday present that I have there for you.

Me: Oh cool. Thanks.

Mom: You know how you said you like that little vacuum that I have there?

Me: Uh, yeah. . .

Mom: Well, I hate that vacuum so why don't you just take it with you when you leave?

Me: (laughing) Happy birthday, here's an old vacuum I don't want anymore?!

Mom: Well, you might as well have it.

Me: Okay cool, thanks. But when Laura gets a new car for her birthday you are definitely gonna hear about this.

Mom: (laughing) Oh, I'm sure I will.

She won't, actually.

I'm pretty stoked about my birthday vacuum. It's small, it's quiet, it's light, it doesn't freak the cat out, it gets things clean. . .what more can you ask of a vacuum?

"What are you going to do with your old vacuum?" my mom asked. "Give it to poor people," I answered immediately. "Why don't you keep it as a back-up vacuum?" my mom suggested. "Who the hell has a back-up vacuum?!" I ranted, working up to a full-on tirade about decadence. But then I remembered I was talking to a woman who finds it necessary to have both an upstairs vacuum AND a downstairs vacuum, so I just said thank you for the vacuum and explained that I didn't have the space for a back-up.