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“The recommitment ceremony for your wedding anniversary?” I clarify.
She nods. “It’s not the marriage that we’re celebrating…” Her green eyes dance as they stare into mine. “Your father and I have finally…reconnected, after years of having to satisfy myself.” She sighs and stares off into the distance, a dreamy smile on her face. “I wanted to celebrate it and our anniversary was the perfect cover. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed that thick, stiff—”
“Mother!” I gasp, a little part of me dying inside with every word she utters. “Are you kidding me? You’ve invited fifty relatives to help you celebrate the fact that you and your husband are fuck—”
“Watch your language, Rebecca,” Mom warns me.
Ha. My language is the least of my worries. I feel sick. And betrayed. How am I supposed to sit through this, knowing what I do? I offered to read a poem for this thing, for God’s sake. That’s why she kept pushing me to read a poem entitled “The Seed That Lasts Forever.” I cover my mouth with my hand.
Oh God, I’m going to be sick.
“I can’t…” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “We’ll talk about this later.”
I stalk back over to my dildos. I’m doing my best to push my mother’s words from my mind, but they refuse to leave. My parents are having a sex ceremony. That’s what it comes down to. Let’s just hope they don’t decide to do an interpretive dance.
Just forget about it and choose a damn dildo.
I need to get out of here before she does something to really embarrass—I wince when I hear a loud crash.
Too late.
I turn around, my eyes widening at the sight of Mom sprawled out on the floor, surrounded by hundreds of tiny little motorized Pac-Man-style penises. I watch as these tiny little erect penises snap their oversized mouths at her legs, like blood-thirsty piranhas, and I can’t help myself—I lose it. Gasping, I clutch my stomach as tears stream down my cheeks.
Mom glares at me. “Becca, stop laughing and help me.”
I step forward to help her up—but not before I drag my phone out of my jacket pocket and take a photo. If all else fails for finding an appropriate poem for the ceremony, I’ll be able to create an awesome photo montage.
We work quickly to shove the tiny little critters back in their box. I smirk. How cute. Their own little box to play in. I grin and tuck one in behind my dildo. I’ll keep it as a souvenir for whenever I need cheering up. I wipe the smile off my face and turn back to Mom.
“We’re going. Now.”
I take her by the arm and lead her to the checkout, placing my purchases down on the counter. I give my mother a stern look.
“You can explain to Mandi what you did to her display,” I add, reading the shop assistant’s name tag.
“I took one off the shelf.” Her cheeks flush bright red. “It’s not my fault they all fell off.”
“It only takes one mistake to ruin everything.” I smirk, echoing the words I used to hear from her all the time when I was growing up.
“A piece of advice that you never listened to,” she grumbles.
“Well, it was hard to take you seriously. You didn’t exactly set a fine example for me, did you?”
I thank the cashier and take the bag in one hand and Mom in the other, dragging her out to the car. She climbs in and crosses her arms, glaring at the floor of the car.
“Quit pouting like a sulky teenager or I’ll take you home,” I warn. “You need to own up to your mistakes, Mother.” Okay, so I may be enjoying this a little too much.
“That wasn’t my fault,” she insists.
“Oh? The tiny penises just jumped off the shelf to attack you, did they?” I rub my temples, mainly to try and hide my smirk. “God knows what you’ll do next to embarrass me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.
“It means I’m capping you at two drinks. And no lap dances, no stripping, and no hitting on Jake’s friends,” I warn her. “No hitting on the strippers, either.”
“Rebecca, I’m your sixty-seven-year-old mother—”
“Who gets a few drinks into her and suddenly thinks she’s a twenty-year-old hornbag,” I retort. “You were escorted out of Aunt Minnie’s wake, Mom. Remember that?”
“Oh, Minnie was the biggest minx of them all,” Mom protests. “She would’ve been dancing right there with me, if she could.”
“I don’t think it was the dancing they had a problem with,” I remind her gently. Watching Mom trying to wrestle that coffin open while screaming “Free Minnie” was both hysterical and horrifying. “Just tone it down. Please?” I beg her.
She’s about to reply when her phone rings. I pull into the parking lot while she answers the call. I’m only half paying attention as I reverse into a spot near the door, but when I hear the word hospital, she has my full attention.
