From Last Week

The other day I texted my Mom for some candy (yes I texted her even though I can see her from where I sit, because we have candy stealers galore here. If they knew we keep a pound of dark chocolate truffles in her desk drawer for the two of us it would be gone in like five minutes flat - as opposed to the twenty it lasts with us) (Did I say a pound? That's crazy, who would have that much of one type of chocolate in their work drawer? We don't do that.) (Yes we do.) (Aunt M, you know what I'm talking about!)

(I don't know what it is, but there are two things that are super important to the women in my family. Number 2 is their chocolate. I've seen my boss buy another carry-on suitcase so she could fit the local candy store's entire supply of honeycomb in it because it doesn't taste the same where my aunt lives. And the other day the Math Teacher picked up my Snickers Ice Cream bar and I almost clawed her to death. Not really (yes really) but Becky saw the look of horror in my eyes and softly told the Math Teacher to slowly, and carefully, put the Snickers down and back away without making eye contact.)

(Just kidding Math Teacher!)

(No, I'm mother f*&%ing not.)

Aaannnnnnyway - I texted my mom for a chocolate, and I look up to see her with a look on her face I haven't seen since. . . well, I've never seen the look on her face. She looked like a little eight year old boy who just pulled out his first loose tooth and was gonna go freak his little sister out with it. A look of pure, totally-gonna-get-in-trouble-and-it's-gonna-rock joy. A look that my mom does not use. Because she's. . . she's Lori. She doesn't get in trouble for fun. She doesn't break rules or play practical jokes or sneak into movie theaters because she's so tall and commanding people don't question her when she walks by with her head held high. . . .

Wait a minute. . .

She has totally done all of that. But she does it in such a way that you don't remember, like Men in Black, she does something like saran wrap your toilet so she can balance an alligator head on it and scare the holy loving shit out of you when you try to pee in the middle of the night, only you don't remember those things. You only remember she's Lori. She gets shit done. She doesn't f around. And she certainly doesn't get in trouble. She's like Mother Theresa, but in heels, and sipping a Mike's Hard Lemonade.

This candy story is turning out waaaaaaaay longer than it needed to be.

So, she's got this mischievous look on her face and I go to stand up when I hear her shout:

"Hey AMY!"

And I look just as she's winding up her arm, (her gold-bangled, Chanel-wearing arm) to hurl a twenty dollar box of candy at me from across the office, and over three other co-workers heads, where it will undoubtedly come apart in the air, spraying the land with tiny, golden chocolates, like some sort of Skittles-Willy-Wonky-Rain that will pelt, and then send the entire office into a vague, mass-hysteria that something out of the ordinary has happened!


And instead of letting that happen, instead of letting the twenty sixty-something women that work here dog-pile and freak out over my candy, I raise my hand in the universal stop signal and then in slow motion whisper (because I can't yell, we're at work): "NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

Then my mom, still poised for the throw, cocks her head and smiles, before setting the box down, taking out a chocolate and dropping it in a coffee cup for me (which is how we pass the goods so no one can see what we've got) (If accounting doesn't work out, we can always turn to a life of drug dealing).

"If this were a different office," my mom sighed.

"You'd condone throwing things at me?"

"Oh honey, I always want to throw things at you."

". . . what?"

"Hmmm, I don't think that came out the way I meant it."

"Oh good, because-"

"No, I was wrong, it did."

"Ok, just give me the chocolate, lady."



Next time I'm keeping the box, because clearly having all that power is making her giddy, and sort of throw-y. (This is also the reason we had to have separate wine boxes when we lived together.) (Trust me, it wasn't pretty.) (Also the reason we switched to bottles.)