Mom’s Not Too Nice

The main thing to know about my mom is that if she isn’t your mom she will not like it if you call her mom. You know how sometimes, when people are talking about their parent, they’ll refer to them as if they are your parent too? “Sue and I took Mommy to lunch yesterday and it was ever so much fun.” Or say that person meets someone else’s parent, they might say “How is mother doing?”

My mom would not like this. She would be very against this type of bullshit, as a matter of fact.

One time, at Thanksgiving, one of my dearest friends came over to have dinner with us—my mom, my sister and me. I cooked all day and made a very nice meal. During the afternoon, my friend made sure that there was good music playing the whole time. Calm, Thanksgivingey music. Carlos Jobim, George Winston, Mozart. At a certain point, my mom wanted to put some music on although my friend must have done something to slow things down with my mom’s music schedule because she announced to me and my sister that he was a real asshole for not letting anyone else choose the music.

There are so many times that I have thought and even wished that my mother had dementia or Alzheimer’s. This would explain her psychotic lack of tact. But she doesn’t have anything wrong with her brain in that way. She’s still sharp as a tack. If you know what I mean.

She likes to keep her hair nice and styled. If the person who cuts hair at her assisted living place doesn’t show up on the day she thinks is the best day my mom gets mad and talks disparagingly about this person and how she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. I’ve never met the haircutter person but if I ever do I will probably feel embarrassed.

“Hello. I’m Badass’s daughter,” I will say, smiling and trying to look extra kind. “Sorry.”

Sometimes my mom regales me with stories about all the stupid assholes in the place where she lives. Most of them don’t know what the hell they’re doing. There is one constantly terrified looking old woman in particular that my mom thinks is a real jackass.

“She never knows where the hell she’s going. Don’t make eye contact with her.  She’s looking for her room,” my mom warns as the woman shuffles toward me looking for guidance. Maybe I can tell her where her room is? As she gets closer and I am about to help her my mom steps in and takes control.

“Go away.”

The woman cowers and my mom and I are off to the store. Mission accomplished.

She is so badass.

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