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My good Mormon parents are drug runners for Jesus. There’s no other logical explanation for their yearly disappearance to exotic locations like Columbia–that was the location for the trip last year. This year they are in Thailand. Suspicious, right?

What’s more suspicious is the fact they travel during the holidays.  Last year I was forced to make my own damn mashed potatoes while they were gone.  I can’t help but wonder if there’s some sort of buy one kilo get one kilo free deal going on for Black Friday.

It’s very likely they’ll end up in a Thai prison, but luckily I’ve seen the movie “Brokedown Palace” so I know exactly how to get them home.  And once I do, I plan to blackmail them for extra Christmas presents.  I have a feeling their Mormon bishop won’t be as understanding as I am.

While I wait for the phone call alerting me to their prison sentence I’ll continue to miss my mommy, just like I do every time she leaves the country.  I’d obsess over the fact I’m a 33 year old momma’s girl, but I think this behavior is a lot healthier than when I was 16 years old yelling about how much I hated her every single day of my life.  Hormones are a motherfucker.

There will obviously be a movie about my parents prison experiences, and when there is I’ll be sure to remind the producer to include the scene where the loving daughter listens to the last few voicemails her mother left over and over, because she misses her so much.  See, Internet, I AM A GOOD DAUGHTER!

I had lunch with my mom today to celebrate my birthday tomorrow.  Because I came out of her she gets dibs on all birthday celebrations.  I can live with that.

This is how I expected the conversation to go:

“Honey you’re the most amazing, perfect, beautiful daughter in the entire world.  I’m so incredibly lucky to have you.  It’s the reason I believe in God.  I asked for the most lovely daughter in heaven and ended up with you.  That said, what do you want for your birthday?”

“I want you to vote for Obama on Tuesday.”

“I will happily vote for Obama.  It’s the least I could do for your birthday my dear.”

This is how it really went:

“Happy birthday tomorrow!  If we lived closer I’d do your laundry.”

It’s not vote for a better presidency, but clean clothes certainly have a place in history too.

There are few things in life that make me happier than a random call from my mom.  I’m not that girl who talks to her mom every single day, so when I do see her name on the caller ID I answer with a smile. However, whether the call ends with a smile is a completely different story.

“Hi honey, I was just thinking about you and thought I’d call.”

“Hi mom.  Were they good thought or bad thoughts?”

“Neither.”

“MOM! That’s a horrible answer.”

“What?  Of all people I thought you’d appreciate the fact I was being politically correct.”

“Whatever.”

For the past week I’ve had a headache I just can’t get rid of.  Saturday night when it reached the point of nausea I called my mom, the nurse, for advice.

“Honey, it sounds like a tension headache.  Do you have someone who can massage your neck?”

“Yeah, let me ask Daisy if she has some free time.”

“Sarah, I meant a date.”

“I’m not in the habit of calling men over to rub my neck while I barf in their lap.”

“Well, do you have a vibrator you can put on your neck?”

“Are you seriously suggesting I put a sex toy on my neck?”

“Sarah, some people have vibrators specifically for muscle aches.”

“Mom those are called massagers.  We’ve been over this before.  Please, stop calling them vibrators.”

“Fine.  Do you have a massager?”

“No, but I have a vibrator I could substitute.”

“Sarah, honey, I’m going to come pick you up for lunch.  I’ll be at your house in twenty minutes.”

Shit.  My mom hasn’t been to my apartment in ages.  We usually meet at my brother’s house or elsewhere.  I panicked imagining all the things that may bother her.  Yes I’m an adult, but no matter what age I am I will always be her little girl.

First things first, I opened all the windows in an attempt to cool my little sauna apartment down.  I can hear her now, “It’s so hot in here sweetie.  How can you stand it?  You really need to move.  Maybe buy a house…  your younger brothers all have.”

I hit the bathroom next.  Every Saturday of my childhood consisted of chores.  I was in charge of cleaning the bathrooms in our house—with four brothers none of whom could manage to aim a stream of urine, this was quite the task.  I’ve hated cleaning bathrooms ever since.  Needless to say, my bathroom is always a disaster. Knowing her need for a clean, germ-free bathroom I scoured every surface.

After racing around for exactly twenty-two minutes the phone rang. “Sarah, dear, I’m two minutes from your house.  Meet me outside.  See you in a second.”

Fuck.  Seriously?  All that and she wasn’t even coming upstairs.  As I walked outside to meet her I sighed a deep breath of relief.  Luckily she hadn’t come upstairs because guess who forgot to make her bed and put away her unmentionables?  Again.

Let me preface this by saying I absolutely love my mother.  She’s the single most amazing person I know.  She’s kind to strangers.  STRANGERS!  I’m rarely kind to people I know, let alone someone I’ve never met.  As much as I love her, sometimes when I go home to visit I feel like a teenager again.  Which would be fine if I had the ass and thighs to go along with teenage-Sarah.  Currently I don’t, hence the problem.  Here are just a few things she said over the weekend to prove my point:

“Why don’t you clean your room while you’re here.”

“What time will you be home?”

“Here’s money to pay for your dinner and the demolition derby.”

“Put your seat belt on.”

“Are you wearing a helmet when you’re on Carl’s bike?”

“Do you want me to french braid your hair?”

“Do you want money for gas?”

“The dress is short, just wear jeans under it.”

Daisy is very busy in the country reminding my mother that while the twins are very cute, she is the first grandchild. Pugs are never to be forgotten. They remind you they exist by emitting toxic gases from their asses.

As a kid I remember my mom having the most beautiful suitcase in the entire world. I never understood why she kept it in her closet and didn’t use it every single day. As I got older I learned it was her temple bag, and therefore only used when she went to the temple.

After years of coveting the suitcase, she finally parted ways with it and gave it to me last Sunday. It’s 70-licious and I can’t wait to use it! It will make an excellent booty-call bag. It’s the perfect size for a toothbrush, nightie and bottle of vodka.

As I walked to my car to put my new treasure in the trunk, I was planning all the extracurricular activities I could use it for when my mom yelled after me, “Have fun at the temple!”

So that’s where I get my sarcasm—I’ve often wondered.

When my mom called last night I thought either she read her will on the Internet and wanted to call and confirm validity, or she was calling to thank me for her Mothers’ Day gift. While neither were the case, she did laugh over the fact I added my gas receipt to her card. Yes, that’s right, I love my mother $44.12 dollars more than Ben does. Proving once again I am a superior being. As it turns out she wanted to talk about something far more important. My death.

“Thanks for driving down yesterday. I’m upset I forgot to have you, Matt and Ben sign some paperwork.”

“What paperwork? If you’re trying to adopt us out I think you’re too late, we are, after all, adults now.”

“Sweetie, I’ve not gotten rid of you yet, so it’s not likely going to happen, besides I’m counting on you to take care of me when I’m old. I figure you owe me. I want you guys to fill out a living will, so if something were to happen to you I’d know what your wishes were.”

“That’s probably a good idea. Is there somewhere in there I can request male strippers and vodka on my deathbed? But why doesn’t Jeff have to fill anything out? You’re getting rid of him, right?”

“Sarah, please be serious about this.  Jeff has a wife that can legally make his decisions.”

“So let me get this straight, because Matt, Ben and I don’t have spouses you’re punishing us with homework?”

“If you’d rather produce a husband that’s fine too.  I’m emailing you the paperwork tomorrow, so you better hurry and find a man.”

On my last birthday my mom handed me a blank birthday card and said, “Here’s your card sweetie. I didn’t have time to fill it out, so can you? You’re a writer, write yourself something thoughtful and appropriate.”

Last night I found the card in a book. It reads:

Darling Daughter,

Happy Birthday sweetie! You’re by far the best accomplishment of my life. As your gift this year I want to give you the world. However, since I don’t have that authority I’m going to give you everything else.

Consider this my last will and testament. I’m leaving everything your dad and I own to you, and only you. Your brothers are not to inherit anything. I’m forever apologetic that you were forced to grow up alongside such horrible boys. I hope this one act will make up for a childhood of brothers farting and burping on you. I trust this will guarantee forgiveness as well as place me a spot in the heaven place I’m forever talking about, which I imagine is much like a cruise: a good idea at the time, but miserable as fuck.

Catch you on the flip side.

Love your Mommy.