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My mother exaggerates more than anyone else in the whole world.  This is not just my opinion – ask anyone who knows her and they will attest to this.  It is impossible for her to just state the plain facts and it is one trait, I’m happy to say, that I was fortunate enough not to inherit.

I don’t hold this against her.  Years of shock therapy and a minor lobal proctonomy have taught me that this is her way of communicating.  I only needed to learn how to divide down to the lowest common denominator.  It sounds technical but it simply means that one needs to take what she says and divide by the first number out of her mouth then add one. 

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Let’s do the Math

Example:  If she mentioned that she got over a million calls regarding the neutering of Bob, her cat, then you would take one million and divide it by the first number she mentioned (one million) and add one.  Since I am an accountant, I will quickly do the math for you and come up with the correct number of . . . 2.  My mother received approximately two calls concerning the removal of Bob’s testicles.

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Now, being overly critical of her, I would venture to guess that this was a gross exaggeration and she really received only one.  Probably the vet calling to make sure Bob had moved his bowels.

Pete, my step-father, already had a vast understanding of my mother’s affliction long before we did and is proficient in her lingo.  He is also kind enough to translate her verbiage and give an accurate assessment of any situation as needed.  Case in point: when she called to tell me that Pete’s car blew up and he barely escaped with his life, the call went something like this.

Claudia:     This was the most horrific thing that has ever happened to us.  Pete’s lucky to be alive – I could be planning his funeral right now. The phone has been ringing off the hook, everyone has called… it almost made the local news.  It’s been crazy around here.

 Me              Can you put Pete on the phone?

Claudia:     Let me see if he’s up for taking calls.  PETE! (screaming on the other end)

Pete:           Hello?

Me:             What happened?  How are you?

Pete:           I’m fine.  My toe hurts a bit. 

Me:             From the truck fire?

Pete:           I accidently kicked the leg of the sofa.

Me:             No, I mean how are you holding up after the fire - barely escaping with your life and all?

Pete:          Oh, that.  I saw a bit of smoke coming from under the hood, so I stopped and pulled over.  The engine had over-heated and our neighbor gave me a lift home.

 Me:            You’re okay?

Pete:         Except for the toe.

Mental illness does run in my family so you can certainly understand how we have learned not to call her out on these stories.  I did this once when I was young and foolish, and the treatment and medication required to repair the damage was so extensive that it cost close to a million dollars.  I kid you not.

Lise Marinelli, Author

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