Because I knew I’d never look at a tape measure the same way again.
She stood up. Walked to her nightstand. Pulled out a bottle of silicone lube the size of a wine bottle. Dropped it in my lap.
A locked toolbox. Cheap lock. I picked it in ten seconds.
She never touched me. Not once. She just… supervised . From an armchair. With a clipboard.
“I know you’re in my things, boy. Bring the tape measure to the master bath. Now.”
Bonus: Social Media Caption (for an NSFW Twitter/Reddit post) r/confession: My stepmom Mama Fiona is a size queen. I found her laminated "girth chart" in the garage. Instead of killing me, she made me sit on the bathroom floor while she measured me with a tailor's tape. Turns out I'm "ambulance-tier." She spent the weekend coaching me on technique so I "don't hurt anyone." I’m terrified and also strangely grateful. Send help. Or more lube.
Mama Fiona. Six feet of Irish-Italian fury in stilettos. She didn't cook us casseroles. She rebuilt the deck. She didn't gossip. She read The Economist and could deadlift a Buick. I hated her for about six months. Hated how she looked at me like I was a loose screw she hadn't gotten around to tightening.
It said: “You’re a grower, not a shower. But you’re also a goddamn tripod. Go forth and be humble.”
