Family Portrait

Mom is staying with me for a few days.  It’s her birthday on Friday, and I’m still broke beyond words, so I thought I’d buy some Bailey’s for her gift and that would be a fun, unusual treat because she doesn’t get to drink often.  I don’t know whose mother I was thinking of here.  She put my Bailey’s to shame, showing up with Kahlua and on the hunt for margaritas.  Apparently, her sister sent her a giant box of booze as a birthday gift, and she’s now hiding it at home, in my bedroom.  It’s like she’s having my teenage rebellion for me.

Have lately become convinced that my dad is in the mob.  Evidence is as follows:
– He’s in “waste management.”  According to The Simpsons and most movies, this is significant.
– He is the president of a garishly dressed organization that people go to for money.  Okay, so I’m talking about the Lions Club, but it could be a front.
– Everyone knows him and wants something from him, as evidence by the constant stream of “when’reyagonna cut down the tree/turn on my water/plow my street/otherwise make my life liveable” in grocery stores, churches, golf courses, and at our front door.
– He speaks cryptically, so no one ever knows exactly what he’s talking about (most recent Petespeak: yesterday he called and when I said we went out for Chinese, he said, “Did you go to that place where you order as you go?”  What the hell? I responded with “We went to a restaurant.”  We exist to confuse each other).  Is this general nuttiness, or fear of being overheard giving away details?
– He is hero-worshipped by at least one small boy (for retrieving a baseball from a sewer) and one large man (for talking said man into going into rehab).  Men like mobsters, right?
– Blonde trophy wife with Boston connections (A stretch? Maybe, but I recently watched The Departed and am intrigued by the idea of Irish mobsters and, you know, being one)
– How many times in my life have strange people come to my house asking for the key to the dump?  Have always known this isn’t normal (mainly because when dad can’t be located, they expect me to have the key, like they expect a seven-year-old girl to wear it on a golden chain around her neck at all times), but am now wondering what they’re disposing of…bodies, maybe?

You do the math.  Does Dad = Mafia, or Rachel = Bored?

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