Does this mom get a bit carried away with her idioms? Have fun with this “idiomatic” mom.
Dear Son, my own flesh and blood:
To see you would be a sight for sore eyes. You are the heart of my heart.
So you have a gut feeling your boss is about to give you a kick in the teeth? He didn’t like it when you were caught red handed, then had a slip of the tongue and called him a pain in the neck? That put his nose out of joint, you say?
If he’s giving you a cold shoulder and you are not seeing eye to eye, you might not get the promotion you’ve had your eyes on. Just keep your nose to the grindstone, your shoulder to the wheel, keep a stiff upper lip, stay on your toes, and keep your fingers crossed. It certainly won’t help to put your foot in your mouth, get cold feet or say something that gets you in over your head. Maybe he is just pulling your leg. If you keep your eyes open, your chin up, offer to lend him a hand, and work your fingers to the bone you might keep the job by the skin of your teeth if you’re not weak-kneed, rubber-spined or thick-headed.
Have you had your head in the clouds and do you wear your heart on your sleeve or have you been crying your heart out? A good rule of thumb is to wash your hands of your pride, beg his mercy, pat yourself on the back, hide out in your neck of the woods, let your hair down, and play it by ear. But be prepared for your blood to boil if he chooses to just step over your dead body.
I just wanted to speak my mind and get this off my chest. My lips are sealed, and I’m here to help you face the music. You’re my heart’s delight. I’ve loved you warts and all since you were wet behind the ears. I’d give an arm and leg for you. Now have a cookie for your sweet tooth, take the weight off your shoulders, relax and keep your head above the water.
Meanwhile, hang on to that job with all four feet, grow some hair on your chest, get some iron in your blood, and grow nerves of steel, come to your senses, dig your heels in, and use some elbow grease, ‘cause – make no bones about it – you can’t bring your lazy carcass to my couch, feed your face at my table, and spin your hard luck stories in my ears. I’ll not let you be a yoke on my back. If you plan to be here under my nose I will wash my hands of you.
From your bone weary, but loving mother