So let’s say you’re hanging out with my mom. And let’s say that maybe there’s wine. Except it’s way more than maybe because if you’re hanging out with my mom there’s definitely wine. So there’s wine. And my mom has had some of it. And you’re in the middle of a conversation about health care reform, or stray kittens, or Cheetos, and all of the sudden she’s like, “Wanna see a picture of me when I was hot?”

And you’re like, “??” because, um, OFF TOPIC, but then you’re like, “well, sure,” because when given the chance to see a picture of a hot chick, you don’t turn that shit down. Until you realize that she’s not hot anymore because SHE’S SIXTY, but by that point you’ve already agreed to the whole thing and there’s really nowhere to go but forward.

So you’re waiting for her to pull out the picture, right, and you’re internally evaluating your lying skills and thinking, “if she wasn’t hot, shits about to get real awkward,” but it doesn’t get awkward because my mom was *totally* fucking hot. Like, it’s actually pretty annoying. Like, she’ll nonchalantly say, “you have my old body, except I was maybe a little skinnier.” And then I’m all, “right, but you were also a total freak.” And she’s like, “what the what?” And I’m all, “the peach pit?” And she rolls her eyes and puts the picture away and yells, “WE WERE SERIOUSLY IN LOVE.”

And then she pulls down The Photo Album, the one and only photo album that my grandmother ever made for her, and it’s my mom’s entire life but it’s not in any sort of chronological order because my grandmother was a heavy smoker, a big gambler, a sugar addict, and an all around crazy. So you’re flipping through the album and there’s a picture of my mom at 5 years old, followed by a picture of me at five years old, followed by a picture of my mom as a 20-something flight attendant and 12 pictures from when she was in third grade.

And the conversation we have while looking through the book is always the same. Except it’s less of a conversation and more of her repeatedly saying, “Look how shiny my hair was! I was so hot. I could have been a hair model. I was so hot. Why wasn’t I a hair model??” and my job is just to listen and nod and mutter “fucking Pantene idiots” under my breath.

But then we reach the end of the book, which is absolutely my favorite part because the end of the book is where her prom pictures are, and when she turns to that page I get so excited in my pants I can’t even stand it. I shoot my hand out, point to the guy in the pictures, and yell, “REMEMBER WHEN YOU WORE HIS CHEWED PEACH PIT ON A STRING AROUND YOUR NECK??” I do this every single time. I mean, it never gets old. And when I do, she sighs and doesn’t say anything and I’m all, “and you have the audacity to tell me that I’m weird.”

(Don’t ever let anyone suggest that there isn’t enormous glory in the little victories.)

So the peach thing. I mean, I just don’t understand it. I’ve been in relationships before, sure, but the most stalker-movie thing I ever did was spray the guy’s cologne all over my bra. Okay okay, and one time I maybe stole his socks. BUT THAT’S IT! My mother actually waited for this guy to finish eating a peach, picked up the peach pit, poked a hole in it, threaded it onto a string, and wore it around her neck. Like, in public. Like, where other people could see it.

A FUCKING PEACH PIT.

And when the topic of peaches and my mom’s general weirdness came up at dinner the other night I was all, “You know, I spend a lot of time on the internet and I honestly don’t think I’ve found anyone doing anything even half as creepy as your peach pit thing.” To which my mother responds, “False. I know for a fact that there are women who sell their dirty underwear on Craigslist.”

Which is when my internal organs exploded and I asked politely if I could please be excused from the table. Because, um, HOW DOES SHE KNOW THAT AND OH MY GOD THE HORROR.