When I need a bit of humour I have two options. My children, aka, the cats. Or my mother. I picked my mother. Seeing how my mother has refused to take a photograph since 1977, pictures of the kittehs will have to suffice. (Although, as I look at the picture of Isis in the fridge I must question the amount of alcohol within... we get a lot of company with questionable morals. That is my explanation.)
Isis in the refrigerator. She enjoys a cold beer after
a long day shredding furniture. Unlike a normal cat
she prefers to get her own, no need to wait on this
independent feline.
My mother is an excellent topic as she has always offered to be the subject of my comedic monologues. I should mention that she has always believed my exploitation of her would result in millions of dollars, which she would be entitled to a portion of after she sued for likeness rights. If she had a hero it would most likely be Kathy Griffin's mother. Most of her more priceless antics are lost if not seen first hand. However, I am lucky enough to have a few stories that might lend themselves well to the written word. I'd like to introduce you with the following tale of the great and magical Karen.
My mother is a woman who's feelings and thoughts have never been a question to those around her. We come from good female stock. Women who spoke their minds. Through a relationship with my grandfather my mom picked up a fondness for the more colorful bits of the English language. I was once witnessed at the tender age of 2 playing with my dolls singing, delightfully, "...bullshit, baby...". My South-side Irish father says he never used the word "fuck" before he met my mother. He is a construction worker by trade, so that assertion is questionable at best.
One of my fonder memories of Karen involves myself, a school bus full of special needs children and a projectile. Like Karen, Romeo has many opinions about the neighbors.
It was a warm fall morning in late September and my mother had graciously offered me a lift to work. It was very nice of her as she had graciously demanded use of the vehicle (which happened to be mine) the night before. I gathered my work paraphernalia and got myself into the car. I had planned on driving, but was informed that it made more sense for Karen to drive as she was simply dropping me off. I thought it made more sense for me to drive as I wished to arrive at work alive.
As we travelled down a street riddled with road construction I was worried for the life of my tires, not to mention the interior of my vehicle. I was gripping the door handle in such terror that I was concerned that I would have to have it surgically removed from my palm. My mother was whipping around corners, blatantly unaware of my mounting terror. Chattering on about some "bitch in line at Walgreens, you should have seen her hair... and the pants! I wouldn't get caught dead in those pants, I thought my ass was big... get the fuck out of my fucking way, asshole. Why are you so fucking old, asshole?!!!!" The offending vehicle was being driven by a Mr. Magoo type man. He could barely see over the wheel, going about twenty-five miles an hour. I could understand her frustration. Elderly people that drive twenty miles below the speed limit aggravate me, but he was going in the opposite direction. Two lanes over. I really wasn't sure what part he was playing in my mother's scheme... I WAS a little concerned that he might have a heart attack, but when my mother is driving it's every person for themselves.
As an aside, I might mention that Karen takes personal offense to things most people can't control. Like aging, breathing and height.
As we neared my place of employment, I had exhausted nearly every prayer I knew. My eyes were closed as I believed death would be less painful if I couldn't see it coming. I was starting to bargain, I would give up chocolate, television and I was considering giving up reading when my mother laid on the horn. I jumped and pressed myself against the car door, "what the hell...?!" I demanded. My mother was staring out my window. She was having what I call a "stand-off" with a small yellow school bus. The road construction forced the two north-bound lanes into a single lane and my mother was determined to be go in front of the bus. The driver of the bus had a contrary notion. I felt like a spectator at the OK Corral.
My mother was growling expletives under her breath as she inched the nose of the car forward. The bus driver reved his engine, causing the nose of the bus to lurch forward. My mother attempted to angle the car in such a way as to force the bus to actually make contact with our vehicle should he move forward. The bus driver made a pleasant, relatively universal gesture that I took to mean, "go right a head, it's my pleasure to let you pass me..." This, I would learn, was an incorrect assumption.
My mother responded with an equally pleasant, "fuck you, you motherfucking ugly asshole!" As I slid down in my seat, praying that I would make it all the way to the floor, I scanned the bus windows. I was thinking, please, please don't let there be any children on this bus.... God was having a holiday that day as nearly every single window was filled with a face. Young children, clearly with special needs, were staring wide-eyed at my mother. The driver, whose window was open yelled back, "nice mouth lady", to which my mother replied, "fuck you!" with the aforementioned gesture. Then, when I thought I was going to die, not in a fiery wreck, but instead of humiliation, that this situation could not possibly get any worse, my mother turned to me and said, in all seriousness... "give me something to throw at him".
Karen and Lucky have the same views on excercise. It's overrated.
OMG, too funny!!! I <3 it!!! Seriously... The Memoirs of Michelle!
ReplyDelete