It started the way many things in my life do: as a joke. My mom, as perhaps is only right, finds my admiration for Mr. Nick Cave repugnant (as well as the man himself). Naturally, I have made a sport of emailing her truly terrible photos of him*, under guise of actual electronic communication. Late last week she decided to strike back, and began filling my inboxes (even my work account! Cheeky, that.) with random ugly photos of random ugly people, primarily old men making terrible faces.
Enter my co-worker J., a graphic artist. She heard me squealing at my computer on Friday, and when I told her what was going on she expressed a great interest in contributing. And so this was volleyed to my mom's inbox:
The photo was met with great enthusiasm, which my mom conveyed to me via email:
I'm going to leave work, come over right now, and wash your brain out with soap. After I pick my bleeding eyes up off the floor. And sterilize them.
I found all of this quite hilarious, so I forwarded both the photo and my mother's response to my friends T. and H., the latter of whom responded with his own work of art (that is me at age 16):
I found all of THAT quite hilarious, so I forwarded the photo to my mother.
She skipped the middle man and went right to the source:
You and the photoshop you rode in on are both grounded. For life.
~An Irate Mother.
Clearly, no friend of mine would give up at that point, while the getting is so good. Thus, H. responded both in words and in art:
Dear Irate Mother,
I understand your irateiness but before you yell at me and say that "irateiness" isn't even a word I submit to you this recent picture taken at a Nick Cave show where you can easily see who the "bad seed" is that has steered your innocent easily led daughter into the arms of that mad Aussie crooner. I will accept an apology from you of course after this evidence is viewed.
The third party in that photo is my friend T. I laughed for the better part of the day. ("That will teach her not to cross an unemployed Mexican with Photoshop," H. said [at this rate, I will be sad when he finds a job.].) I called my mom and urged her to go to her inbox. She laughed so hard that I could hear the tears streaming down her face. And she ended the whole affair in her typically lovely way:
Mis respetos. [Spanish--literally, my respects.] I laughed until I cried. And then I laughed again.
p.s. T., we need to talk.
p.p.s. H., your apology is graciously accepted.
*Like this charming shot, which even makes me tired: