Thursday, June 15, 2006
Tony Franciosa Used to Date My Ma
There are days, and then there are days, if you know what I mean. This my excuse for not blogging. I know that all (3) of my adoring fans have been just pining away.
Okay, no I don't. Fuck y'all.
Anyhow, the spawn and I leave tomorrow evening for a fun-filled week-ish with my parents and Incredible Shrinking Sister.
My mother called me three times this morning, within five minutes, while I was on the other line. Normally, I do not answer call-waiting beeps, because, hey, I probably don't want to talk to you, so I should just save us both the pain and not pick up, right? Praise Jebus for caller ID.
But I figured three times in five minutes must be something important, like someone's leg has come off or there has been a decapitation again (don't ask), so I finally clicked over.
"You all right, Ma? What's the problem?"
And I was right. It was important.
"What kind of alcohol do you want me to pick up from the package store?" They don't even have package stores in Seattle, as far as I know, but even the liquor area of the 7-11 is a package store to my mother.
"Ma. You suggesting I need to be liquored up?"
"I think we all do, sugar."
"Yeah, you're probably right. Bring on the vodka."
This is how we in my family deal with each other. We mix some drinks and pretend we don't all want to kill each other violently. Then, at the end of the visit, we hug and comment how nice it was and how we should do it again next year, and run, screaming, away from each other.
At any rate, I do look forward to this year's round of what I like to call The Comment.
My mother, who is all cuddly like Hannibal Lecter, is master of The Comment. She has elevated it to an artform the likes of which the world has never seen. She should be encased in Lucite and put on display for people to see and admire and then be thankful that she is indeed not their mother.
The Comment is a one-liner delivered in the sweetest, most concerned voice possible, that somehow manages to rip the top of your head off and then shit all over your life and make you question your very existence.
Yeah, she's that good, y'all. I can only hope that, on her deathbed, she will beckon to me and have me lean over to hear her whispery, papery, almost-dead voice, whereupon she will bestow unto me the secret of The Comment, so that I, too, may one day rip off my kids' heads with such well-placed and devastating one-liners.
Having witnessed interactions between my grammy and my ma, I know that my ma learned from my grammy. My grammy may be even better at it than my ma is, and that's saying something. I figure this gift was passed to my grammy from my angry German great-grammy, and so forth and so on up the line back to Moses or something, which means that one day, it will be my turn to learn from the masters.
Of course, my grammy, being certifiably Crazy at one point in time, is also prone to more direct forms of expressing general disdain, such as hurling full gallons of milk at my pappy's head or pulling the car over specifically to beat my uncle about the head and shoulders for no apparent reason other than that she thought it was appropriate at the time.
However, it must be noted that it is not so much the words of The Comment, but the tone in which she delivers it. I cannot quite convey this through text, of course, but you'll just have to trust me that my mother's one-liners have been known to make unsuspecting grown men weep like pissant babies.
Anyway, I am now mostly immune to The Comment at the advanced age of 24, and generally look forward to hearing whatever it is that will come out of my mother's mouth.
Some past choice bits:
Aged 16, Zombie saunters off the plane, looking fabulous as Zombie is wont to do, and Zombie's Ma smiles big, happy to see her eldest daughter. Hugs are exchanged. Zombie's Ma grabs Zombie by the shoulders and pushes her away a bit to admire her.
"I see you still dress like that," coos Zombie's Ma, who then abruptly releases Zombie's shoulders and turns around and starts walking away.
Aged 20, Zombie arrives in Seattle with her 2 year old and new baby in tow.
"Oh, so you feed him like that?" coos Zombie's Ma, observing Zombie giving her son some lunch.
"Oh, so you dress her like that?" coos Zombie's Ma, observing Zombie getting the baby dressed for the park.
"Oh, you use those kinds of diapers?"
"Oh, what a cute little coat on that baby. Too bad it's not nearly warm enough for her."
If any of y'all have kids and moms, then you know those sorts of Comments. I think our parents are genetically incapable of approving of the way we take care of our children, no matter how well we do it, since, obviously, they did a better job.
Okay, I'm probably not doing a very good job in my mother's eyes, since at last year's visit, we had such Comments as:
"I wanted to buy the children a Bible, but I didn't think you would allow it. Are you teaching them to pray to...whatever it is you pray to these days?"
"Oh, you mean Satan? Sure."
My ma still doesn't get the whole atheism thing. She is under the impression that you can't quit being Catholic and I must've just exchanged God for Zebibobo, the Pagan Pink Unicorn of Death, or Satan, or something equally ridiculous, since I have always been just such a rebel, and that, one day, I will give up my heathen ways and come back to The One, Holy, Roman and Apostolic Church and then a sunbeam will hit me in the head and a choir of angels will sing and I will shoot myself in the face.
Then there was "It's nice to hear how respectful you're teaching him to be" after my son was overheard bellowing, "JESUS CHRIST, MEREDITH!" at the top of his lungs when my daughter knocked over his blocks.
There are times I have done or said things that have shocked The Comment right out of my mother, though. These times are rare, but exceptional in their beauty.
Re: Terri Schiavo
Zombie: That poor cabbage. They should just let her go.
Zombie's Ma: THAT IS NOT A CABBAGE. THAT IS A HUMAN BEING. HAVE YOU NO DECENCY?
Zombie: I guess I forgot to pack it in the suitcase. Sorry.
Re: The death of the Pope
Zombie: 'bout damned time. He was getting pretty decrepit.
Zombie's Ma: OH MY GOODNESS, DO NOT TALK ABOUT THE POPE THAT WAY. THAT IS THE POPE.
Re: The War in Iraq
Zombie: I'm all for bombing unnecessary brown people, but I think we should've waited and bombed the people that actually had something to do with that Twin Towers thing first.
Zombie's Very Republican, George-Bush-Loving Ma: OH MY GOODNESS, YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ANYTHING. STOP LISTENING TO THAT LIBERAL COMMUNIST NPR GARBAGE AND JUST REALIZE THAT THE PRESIDENT KNOWS WHAT HE IS DOING.
Zombie: Well. I'd trust him more if he could at least pronounce "nuclear" correctly.
Zombie's Bill-O'Reilly's-Twin-What-Was-Stolen-at-Birth-in-a-Bizarre-Twist-of-Events Ma: *general gasping, overwhelming anger, some spluttering in an attempt to form a coherent thought in the face of such reckless stupidity being evidenced by her eldest daughter* DON'T YOU REMEMBER THE BAY OF PIGS?!?!?!
Zombie: That was a little before my time, but I know what you're talking about. What's that got to do with anything?
Zombie's Thoroughly-Ashamed-of-Her-Politically-and-Morally-Aberrant-Daughter Ma: It is absolutely impossible to talk about anything with you. You just do not understand.
And so on.
I'm sure something amazingly joy-filled will occur, and I have a laptop with which to blog about it, so aren't all (3) of you just so excited?
I know I am. Bring on the vodka.
link | posted by Zombie at 4:18 PM |
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