My mom is currently visiting my sister's family (they live across the country). In a clever attempt to keep us visiting, my sis went ahead and had some kids. It worked. I mean, we all lived in the same house for over 20 years. We've had enough face time and could care less at this point - that's what email is for. But the grandchildren/nephews? Where's my carry on?
It goes without saying that everyone loves when Grandma comes to visit, especially the Aunt from Philly. It means that's a weekend she doesn't have to worry about Grandma showing up at her house and rearranging her cabinets and linen closet and telling her she doesn't eat enough and maybe that picture belongs over there instead...
Anyway, I was talking to my mom on the phone a few days ago. While I forget the details of the conversation, there was a moment when she had to spell a word because my 6 year old nephew was in the room (obviously, the comment was about him). The thing is, my mother spells ridiculously fast. She does it with phone numbers, too. It drives me nuts. She'll say, "Call your Uncle Wally, his number is 4738782..." and she sounds like an auctioneer. What really sucks is that I have a unique problem with writing down numbers quickly - I transpose some into letters. I've actually written phone numbers down as: 342-N63F. Not only can't my brain keep up, but then it mocks me. It's a pain in the ass at work because it forces me to listen to voicemails at least 3 times to get a number for someone I don't even want to call back 9 out of Z times.
Okay, so anyway, I'm talking to my mom and she spells a word: RISFBAJCHU [as heard in my head] Wha? I'm like, "Ya gotta slow down. Now neither of us (me or the kid) knows what the hell you're talking about!"
My mother and I have this unspoken, mutual agreement to antagonize each other in these ways. Every so often I kidney punch her and check her pants to confirm she's not wearing "old lady" pants (the kind with the elastic band), and she returns the favor by rearranging my house, overfeeding my dog and spelling too fast. It's all about balance.
In her defense, though, I've put my mom through a lot. I remember when I was around 14 years old. I found a strange bump on my stomach and thought I had chicken pox or the plague or something equally dangerous. I found my mom in the kitchen and asked her to take a look at it. Unfortunately, I miscaluated on the shirt-lift and the situation quickly turned from "Hey, can you look at this?" to "WHOO! IT'S MARDI GRAS, BITCHES!"
She said it was a spider bite, I accepted that answer and we both know she didn't see anything except her own genetics staring her right in the face. Talk about awkward. But that's how we roll.
I guess the point of this blog is to remind you about Father's Day next weekend. If it wasn't for your mom, your dad wouldn't be a dad. If it wasn't for my dad, my mother would be Black Jack dealer in Atlantic City. But nooo, she had to go ahead and have that 3rd shot (at his suggestion) of Wild Turkey and well...here I am.
This blog is dedicated to the memory of William Allison (11/26/23 - 6/10/10). I wish I got to learn more about you, outside of you being in the Navy, being allergic to peanuts, loving cookies but most especially, for being the only guy to ask me what kind of panties I was wearing and not getting slapped for it. Rest in peace, dude. You earned it.
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