Mom on an unwed relative: “She never married, you know. She’s the Virgin Mary!”
Mom (who is secretly Swedish) knows about Ikea’s plan to take over the world: “Where’s the pharmacy and medical clinic in the new Ikea? I want to buy sweater.”
Mom tires of wearing head-to-toe leather: “Can I borrow Ed pants? I forgot my jeans so I will wear his.” Incidentally, mom is better hipster than you: she wears a long-sleeved shirt under a short-sleeved shirt under a tank top (and then a vest, and then a floor-length leather jacket). My mother is the matrix.
Mom is down with technology: “You stay here and fax Ed; I need to get my tickets.”
Then again: “Call?” “yes press call.” “Call? Do I press call?” “YES MOM, PRESS CALL” “This call here?” “YES MOM” “Call?” “YES” “Why you getting crabby?”
Mom hits the sauce: “Wine with green label is best. Always buy green label wine, it always good.”
Mom worries about my gangland friends: “Keem there’s nothing wrong with leaving a party if it gets too rowdy, just go home if your friends start fight.”
Mom confuses Ed a great deal: “There sure are a lot of bums!” “Where?” “On the road.” “oh.” “You think that’s the underwire?” ” .. I don’t know”
Mom remembers the 70s: “Is that one of those new LSD candles?”
Mom knows that one guy with the disease: “OH I forgot to leave the bag out for the Canadian diabetic!”
Mom steals a banana: “I told them I have diabetic so I need to eat this banana right now even though we tell kids not to eat the banana.” Incidentally, my mother doesn’t have diabetic, or even diabetes. Her doctor once told her she might develop it at some point (and to her credit, she’s no longer in danger of diabetic) so she took that as “HAVE DIABETIC” and now lives her life as someone who has some weird-ass disease that means she can only drink hot water and eat enormous slabs of chocolate.
We took her to the ferry terminal this morning, and she’s home now. It was a good visit, and I only lost my shit once (as seen above when she tried to make a phone call on my iPhone and failed miserably). Her visits are rough on me because she doesn’t like to DO anything – she “can’t be bothered” to see or learn or experience or do, so we end up doing nothing. She’s difficult to have conversations with, because she doesn’t actually listen to me – I could pour my heart out about everything, and she’d come back with a bizarre non sequitur about the guy across the street that doesn’t smile and that she told off (in her mind). It’s .. hard. I wish I had a mom I could have meaningful discussions with, but I don’t. I have this. And I do the best I can.
One thought on “what?”
I so relate to this. My mom is perhaps less… random, and is more of the talks-about-herself-for-hours-on-end variety (mostly woeful stuff that induces daughterly guilt that my mom’s life is so horrible), but I think I know just how you feel. The conversations don’t in any way require my actual participation (a recording of me periodically going ‘uh huh, oh, really, mmm’ would do just fine), there’s no back-and-forth or “dialogue” as I’ve heard it’s called. And she doesn’t want to go do anything – but I’ll go mental if I have to just sit around being talked at for hours on end! It’s so hard – I so feel for you.