Wrapping the cookie
“Why don’t you get a grip? It’s not as if the sky is falling.”
Another one of my mother’s spoiled cream pies hits me in the face off the tip of her tongue because I dared to complain about the Nor’easter upon the horizon. She must be feeling her oatmeal after last night’s zing, “Well why don’t you just say no when you open up the goodie drawer? Get yourself on a diet already. What are you waiting for? Flying pigs?” What did I expect in light of my boo hooing tantrum over my mounting fat folds, right when I was making love to a Twinkie. “You’re right mother, your right,” I concede, as I sneak another Twinkie into my sweatshirt pouch as soon as she looks away towards her crosswords.
And ne’er dare I mention a woe is me to my 75 year old mother about living at home with her as a full time caretaker for the past ten months. It was around the time when I got laid off from my job that her arthritis became unmanageable. She asked for my help and I said, “Sure. Yeah. Oh goodie,” instead of “What else does an unemployed overweight old maid have to do?” Or I could have said, “See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya!” But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not my style. The apple in this house does fall far from the tree.
Truth be told, it isn’t hard to figure out my mother isn’t warm, fuzzy or moist; she has coriaceous like skin from decades of sunbathing and looks more like a thin blond ninja turtle than a mother. Perhaps there is a connected dot between her icy tongue and her disappointment over the vanity god’s vengeance, although I have never heard her complain about her pruning. Turtles afterall are known for their hard shells. (Bad joke?) And who better to target than her first born female spawn? Maybe it bugs the hell out of her that I never liked sunbathing, and look nothing like her and everything like pretty Aunt Grace on my father’s side, minus her size 6 body.
Now that she is old, our roles have reversed, a common family phenomenon, although who expects when they are getting potty trained, the trainer will someday become the trainee? At first she could put her depends on herself, and if I wasn’t the one dumping all the trash, I might not have known, but since her arthritis has progressed, she’s like a tortoise on its back, so now I alone have the express pleasure of peeling the skin off the onion, baby wiping the cracks, and wrapping the cookie several times a day. To unsee what I am seeing, I think about puppies, and if I squint my eyes long enough her package resembles a pug. She may be in pain, and physically unable to do what she used to do, making my supple heart ache, but apparently the gods decided not to have arthritis afflict her tongue and I would have appreciated it if they had consulted with me first.
In spite of her raucous rhetoric directed at me, surprisingly, we are quite close. If a slap can be interpreted as a love pat, mean spirited words can be interpreted as a love chat. Most of the time, especially on the days when my spanks fit, I just laugh at her negative taglines, and in her defense, from time to time she also reminds me to “smell the roses,” so there is that, even though we live in the city in an apartment. Although she does piss me off regularly, with reason, the way I look at the only mother I’ve got is with love; my hand dealt, unfolded. She might be the wrong pizza order discovered after opening up the box at home. Still okay. I’m not averse to anchovies or anything else take-out that comes in a square box, especially when it involves cheese and crust.
“Marsha…..Marsha.” I can hear her calling me, an awful flip side 45 playing on the baby monitor next to my bed. Who names their kid Marsha? When I asked her about why she named me Marsha, she explained I was supposed to be a boy and she was going to name me Marshall. I looked up the meaning of the name Marshall and it basically means horse, so I should be relieved I popped female. Marsha, on the other hand means Roman goddess, which is much better, but with a name like Marsha, I clearly had no defense against the bully that called me swamp thing, especially after he got a peek of my mom when she picked me up at school.
Ugh. What does she want now. I was just in there five seconds ago. Well maybe not five seconds, but it feels like that. Leave me alone Ma. I just want to play Words With Friends and then get some sleep. “Okay mom. Okay. I’ll be right there.” Why did I just bother to say that out loud? Baby monitors are not two-way like walkie talkies. I’m just gonna finish this game….what the hell? Damn. I think my screen froze. And now my phone is going all bonkers on me flashing red white and blue like Barney Fife’s patrol car light, and it is sort of giving me the start of a migraine, but I know I have to power through and pay attention to….
“THIS IS A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT FROM THE UNITED STATES NSA/CSS. A GIANT ASTEROID IS EXPECTED TO MAKE CONTACT WITH OUR PLANET IN APPROXIMATELY SEVEN DAYS. WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU CESSATION OF HUMANITY IS EXPECTED. GODSPEED.”
“Marsha….Marsha!” Really Mom? Really? Is it always about you? Well, on the bright side, I don’t have to feel bad about the WWF 7 letter triple play score I just missed. Or the fact that I’m a fat childless old maid. Even better, this not so little lady will not be changing diapers in seven days. Well. I better go see what she wants and tell her about the bad news.
“Ma, Ma, Ma! You won’t believe it! I just got this crazy message on my phone!”
“Marsha, tsk tsk Marsha, don’t be acting like there is something more important than getting me one of those chocolate puddings I like. What is it now? The end of the world? Stop being so dramatic!”