This is an old one, because I'm lazy...

(I may have edited a few words. I don't know because I don't really read this garbage.)

I have witnessed one of the signs of the apocalypse… my mom blogs.

I remember a time when Mom viewed electric can openers with suspicion and a cell phone with open hostility. She even told me once that she refused to drive an automatic transmission car for years because she didn't understand how it worked - therefore found it untrustworthy. So I ask you, world, how in the hell did Mom figure out how to blog? I assumed that mom thought a blog was something that you wiped away with a tissue, but no, apparently my mother is well on her way to becoming a veteran blogger.

So, how did I make this miraculous discovery? Did I read one of her titillating stories on the web? Was she featured on the news as an undercover crime-fighter who broke up a local drug-running cartel using only her wits and her blogging ability? Nope. Mom told me about it in a round-about manner; sort of a duh-what-were-you-thinking, you-should've-already-known kind of way. You see, I was going to make a surprise visit to mom for mother's day to drop off a gift and parade around my kid like a trick pony for my parents to admire, like the wonderful, and smugly perfect child that I am.

While traversing the dangerously slick floors of IKEA, and discussing with my mostly-naked male love-slave, Chance, what time we should go to Mom's house, Mom calls to wish me a Happy Mother's Day. (Okay, so Chance was wearing clothes and the legal term for male love-slave is husband, but you get the picture.) So I casually ask what she's up to on such a fine day, not because I think she's actually doing anything, but so that I can find out where she is and when it would be just the right time to swoop in and present the very finely wrapped gift I've prepared for her. She pauses, significantly, and says, "Well, I'm in Show Low," in the tone of voice reserved for speaking with either the developmentally challenged or a man while he's looking at big boobies. Her tone clearly conveyed that I should already know this and she couldn't believe that her daughter could be such an imbecile.

I'm stumped, not so much because Mom is in Show Low, but because of the you-should've-figured tone she used. Since mom is hitting me over the head with verbal cues, I rack my brain - did she tell me this a few weeks ago? Did I “accidentally” delete a email from her, mistaking it for a chain email? Then, before I can figure out how to ask her about it in a way that still makes me sound like a good child who keeps in touch with her parents while admitting that I somehow didn't know she was going away (through no fault of mine), she matter-of-factly said, "Yeah, I wrote it up in my blog days ago."

You know the sensation you get when all oxygen is sucked from a room, rendering it impossible to breathe or even hear any noise? The absolute void of atmosphere that must exist only in space? That is what actually happened in the patio section of IKEA. Literally. Yep, a siren went off, red flashing lights dropped from little trapdoors in the ceiling and a giant spinning vortex appeared in the store flinging European merchandise and thrifty shoppers far and wide. You see, that's what happens when you negligently break the laws of both physics and reality. Her unfounded claim and completely illogical actions created a worm-hole of chaos.

Now, in her defense, I don't think Mom realized that her wildly irregular actions would have such far-reaching and disastrous effects, but they did. I think a few people may have even died, or at least were transported to an alternate dimension. I don't remember many details about that dark time and how we escaped. The next thing I remember is sitting in the snack bar, desperately clutching a life-giving cup of Diet Pepsi and questioning reality. Thank god Chance-the-love-slave was there to pull me through the disaster and find me nourishment. I just hope all other victims of the disaster are able to eventually find their way home. Mom has a lot to answer for.