Let me preface this next blog entry with: my mom is a wonderful person who endured 37 hours of labor in a Peruvian hospital, without epidural, so that I could be here.
Almost a week ago, I went on this crazy, amazing, Vegas-style extravaganza for a friend's birthday (shout out to Jo, one CRAZY bitch!). Pre game was at a pole dancing studio, where we all proceeded to learn the art of the floor slither, hair flings and several different types of pole spins. Ladies, it's harder than it looks, but so much fun.
After the stripping, we met at the Palms Hotel at a Suite for drinks and wardrobe change, then, off to Brand Steakhouse and Moon nightclub where a VIP table was waiting for us.
In the midst of this purely decadent and tremendous night, my cell phone rings.
Guess who? It's my mother.
"Carlita, where are you? You're not home...the phone rang and rang," she says.
"I know. We are celebrating a friend's birthday. We're on our way to dinner. Alex is with the kids."
"Hmmmm...." she says and fades into uncomfortable silence. A long silence. A very long ass silence.
"Bye mom."
This is my mother. Many of you may think that you have the market cornered on guilt-tripping, martyr moms. I assure, you, I win.
I don't party regularly, but the one time I do (and feel a bit guilty about it), she hunts me down and ravages me.
The next morning, at 7:15 AM, I awake to dreaded thoughts of humiliation and a pounding headache. Did I really dance on a platform for three hours straight? Yes. Legs hurt. Did I really try the hair whip? Yep, neck hurts horribly. Did I party like a rock star? Hells yes!
The next morning, at 7:15 AM, I awake to dreaded thoughts of humiliation and a pounding headache. Did I really dance on a platform for three hours straight? Yes. Legs hurt. Did I really try the hair whip? Yep, neck hurts horribly. Did I party like a rock star? Hells yes!
The guilt begins to flood me; my poor children, if they only knew their sweet virginal mother was dancing in a mini dress on a platform.
Then the phone rings.
"Carlita, I have to have a serious talk with you...." and here commences about 45 minutes of complete and utter obliteration. She tore me up and down, left to right.
"Carlita, I have to have a serious talk with you...." and here commences about 45 minutes of complete and utter obliteration. She tore me up and down, left to right.
"Your irresponsibility! You are the mother of two children! You have a husband at home waiting for you! You have behaved inappropriately." I am ready to cut my veins open with a kitchen knife.
Not sensing this, she continues:
"You are so easily influenced. I mean, if your friends jumped off a bridge, would you? I remember that Pakistani friend that got you into voodoo. Remember that?"
"Mom, she was Japanese and she had a spiritual advisor. I never had a spiritual advisor."
Not sensing this, she continues:
"You are so easily influenced. I mean, if your friends jumped off a bridge, would you? I remember that Pakistani friend that got you into voodoo. Remember that?"
"Mom, she was Japanese and she had a spiritual advisor. I never had a spiritual advisor."
If my mom hears something on the news that says there is bombing on the Gaza strip, months later she will call you up in a bad mood and proceed to tell you how bad of you it was to do that to the Palestinian children.
She just takes something and runs with it.
That being said, I think maybe she is just there to make sure I don't go off the deep end. I tend to, as my husband says, have my "Carla Rebellions."
Here's to you, Mami. I love you, afterall
She just takes something and runs with it.
That being said, I think maybe she is just there to make sure I don't go off the deep end. I tend to, as my husband says, have my "Carla Rebellions."
Here's to you, Mami. I love you, afterall
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