Manimal Crackers

Mrs. Manimal

Sleeping in bed that night, I couldn't help but think of what Isabella had said about her mother. Instead of being upset or disgusted as she probably expected me to be about her mom, I was actually quite intrigued. If anything, it was probably more surprising that I hadn't heard of her before.

Seriously, I was so curious that the first thing I did that morning was wake up and check out her social media pages. Good god, I really was hooked. I hadn't even bothered to dress up or eat breakfast, or wash up.

She was surprisingly active on Twitter for an older lady, so I decided to check that out. Wow, lots of pretty pictures of horses. I thought. But then I noticed something. She was starting a charity in her dear Husband's name. Because of his death to cancer, she wanted to give back to the community.

I didn't think too much about it, but then witnessed a picture of her with Isabella at what appeared to be a ribbon-cutting ceremony. I could very easily tell who was who, because his wife was a tall, blond woman smiling broadly at the camera, while Isabella looked as though she was severely constipated. And I know what that looks like, because when I was about 15 I saw an Image of Justin Bieber in a magazine ad where he's making that exact same face. A magazine ad for nail polish, that is. His own brand at that.

Scrolling down, I noticed that most of her pictures dealt with horses, her celebrity friends, or celebrities on horses. Okay, so it only makes sense that she'd be married to the most famous guy who could turn into animals. I thought to myself. Cool then.

I wondered if she even knew that Simon was still alive. I mean, he was, after all, still technically sentient, despite, you know, not having a pulse.

And as I sat there, wondering and wondering my life away, who should call but Manimal's daughter herself? (If you're wondering how I know, it's because we have caller ID at home.)

"Hey, Is?" I asked, sheepishly picking up the phone.

"Oh, Jessica, it's so awful!" cried Isabella. "My mother is driving me nuts. She's forcing me to go to this utterly awful garden party and wear this stuffy old pink dress while talking to all of her stupid shallow celebrity friends. Tell me, Jess, what do you think I am, an American Girl doll?"

"No, because you're British," I said. "But thanks for helping me relive my childhood!"

"Jess, this is serious," said Isabella. "How can Mom do this to me? Forcing me to look like such....such...such....a girly girl?"

"Yeah, I'm not the best person to talk to about. I always complain that my Mom spends too much time at work and isn't a "real woman" like most moms are." I continued, putting flowers on Mom's work.

"Well, anyway. I need to devise a plan here. To distract Mom, I need to devise a rumor that my Dad had an affair. And then, in case I get in trouble, in turn distract her with Tom Holland dancing to Rihanna's "Umbrella." In drag."

"Isn't your dad dead?" I asked sheepishly.

"That's part of the absurdity of it," said Isabella. "I mean, Jess, this will be so outrageous that the tabloids won't be able to stop sensationalizing it. What do you think?"

"Is, that's ridiculous," I responded. "Just because your mom is dragging you to all these events, doesn't mean you have to destroy her life like that."

"Actually, it does," said Isabella. "They need to learn that they can't keep treating me this way! I'm a goddamn adult!"

"So talk to your mom about it," I said.

"I tried," she said, with plenty of emphasis on the word tried. I could tell that her trying to reason with her mother was about as effectual as talking to a brick wall, if not counterproductive. That said, I wasn't interested in hearing her complaints, even if she was technically a friend, and I do mean technically. Annoyed, I immediately hung up the phone.