Yes, it’s capitalized.
Normally when I get a phone call or text message from my mother, I can’t help but to feel bothered. Irrationally bothered. I know it’s a little normal to think “Ohhhhgawd! Mom! C’mon!” But I act like a busy executive being interrupted, when she is merely interrupting my all-important couch lounging. I snap at her for the simplest questions. Very irrational, and I admit it. I have a problem. But last night was so totally different. “Wanna drunk?” she asks. “Yes.” I reply. “And can you grab me some tortillas? J wants quesadillas.” Nice and easy enough. It was 5:30, I would have them fed and bathed and all snuggled up by 8:00.
TWO HOURS LATER!
I’m fuming because I have only one hour until my children need to be in bed and I haven’t fed them. She rolls up and saunters in as if nothing is amiss (Her time schedule is a little askew, always has been). And just as I am about to flip out on her the way only I can, she soothes me by pulling out a box like a dog trainer would pull out a juicy, meaty, blood-dripping prime rib bone. Corrrrn Dogs! I drooled a puddle. I lost all track of her lost time and forgave her without saying a word.
You see, I longed for Corn Dog day at school. I would make my way to the front of the line as quickly as possible in order to get those two scrumptious, cornmeal-slathered pork sticks, gobble them up, then get back in line and take whoever’s name wasn’t there that day in order to get my second helping. Yes, it may have been a little unethical, but I love the crunchy nibblet at the end. That had to be my favorite part. Or the way the corn batter would stick to the roof of my mouth, completely similar to the bread from a peanut butter and jelly sammich.
So when Brumhilda whipped that box out, I was instantly transported to a time when I didn’t become irate over a delayed dinner. It was then that all was well between mommy and me. So she poured the wine, and I was ok with bathing the kids in the morning.
imafaker 