I seldom write about my mother, not because she reads this blog (trust me, she doesn't) but rather from the fear that she'll hear about something I wrote about a woman, ANY woman, and think I mean her. I could write about the alcoholic neighbor we once had who named her children after the tipple she imbibed in during her pregancy (Meet the girls: Whisky, Brandy, Sherry, and oh, the little boy there in the corner's Drambuie) and somehow my mother would twist this into an attack on her. Mom is one of the most determinedly kind people on the planet, and it kills me not to write about her, but there you go. Today I'm breaking the rule and writing about one of her traits, one that drives me insane and which I have tried to rid myself of, the inability to answer a simple question simply.
An example: I will, on my rare trips home, ask my mother if the mail has arrived yet. Her head snaps back, and shakes from side to side. Words begin to form on her lips: her eyes dart back and forth. Finally she draws a deep breath, licks her lips, and begins her verbal assault. It usually goes like this: "WELL, I was in the back yard and The Fatties' dogs were barking and I thought, HELL, I should just tell Big Fatty that it was her OTHER daughter that called the cops on her for sanitary violations and not me, and did I tell you the one who lives with her is gay, but the friend she has living with them is NOT, which is interesting, they're just friends and there's nothing going on or Big Fatty would have noticed and trust me, she would have told me. So, I was in the back yard, and we have ants. Again. Why we pay an exterminator, I'll never know. This house was built on a giant ant hill." At this point I break into the tirade with a gentle, "The mail?" and she replies, "It's usually junk or sometimes packages for you come but usually UPS and the driver leaves them with the Kings." I then scream, "HAS THE MAIL ARRIVED?" and my mother gets offended and says, "I was telling you about that." I then lose it and stomp out to the mail box to see if anything's there and she follows at my heels saying, "I told you about it already." Nothing is in the mail box which means either it hasn't come, or else Mom got there first and put the mail "somewhere safe" in that happy place where she hides things which never re-emerge into the light of day.
"For fuck's sake, " I snap, "Did the mail COME or NOT?" She draws herself up to her full height of five foot two--still taller than I am, and positively towering over Lulu--and she says in very hurt, dignified pure-WASP tones, "I told you, I don't know, I was in the back yard."
The mail is a sensitive subject for me. My parents serve as my US or permanent address and things of importance--teaching license, for example--- are sent there. However, my parents worry about the safety of these articles, and Mom will get crafty and "hide" something so "thieves won't find it." Since they never leave the house and Dad doesn't sleep except in a recliner during the day in front of the TV, the chances of a break-in are minimal. What the hell a thief would want with a teacher's certificate is beyond me. Still, she protects me, and hides the mail. Sadly, she doesn't remember where she hides it, exacting revenge on me for the time I was four and hid the key to the freezer, thus forcing the family to go vegetarian for a month until they figured out a way to spring the 60 pounds of ground beef in frozen exile at the back of the garage. When I do go back "home" I spend a lot of time on the phone with call centers in Bangalore, having a conversation that goes roughly like this:
Rajeesh: Hello, Ma'am, my name is Rajeesh and I am with Global Credit Financial Services. How may I help you?
Me: Hello, Rajeesh, it's Zanne.
Rajeesh: Oh, Miss Zanne, did your mother hide your new credit card again?
Me: Yes. (Sigh.) I gave her the tumeric-coated pickles like you told me but it's not helping. Hey, do you need my security code so you can issue me a new card?
Rajeesh: It's already on the way. Try to beat your mother to the mail box this time, will you?
Me: You're on. Thanks, doll baby.
Rajeesh: My pleasure. Try to relax, you're only there for a few days! Chill. Thank you for using Global Credit Financial Services, and have a good day.
A note: last week I received a call from a dear friend in India and after I got off the phone I started to laugh: it's probably the first time a credit-card holder/abuser has RECEIVED a call from Bangalore.
If you ask me if I love my mother, I can answer quite simply "Yes." But if you ask me how I am, you may well receive the rambling, "Well, after the dogs ate my brioche that I left on the table and got wired off the caffeine because it was dipped in coffee before I went to answer the phone..." Genetic? Environmental? The desperate subconscious plea of someone who doesn't get to talk enough with rational human beings? You tell me. I am, after all, very much my mother's daughter.
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