To Momma
The door slams as the dust settles. This is the calm before the storm.
Silence that is so powerful you can feel it; almost taste it. But it’s not the type of silence that is settling. Something inside of you tells you that the shit is about to hit the fan and you don’t want feces on your face, but you still want to sit in the front row. Your gut tells you to get the hell out but your feet refuse to comply.
“What do you two think you’re doing?
This kitchen’s a mess!
I’m sick and tired of telling you to clean up every…”
If I may be so bold, I’ve tuned out by this point. She could’ve had a premonition about the winning lottery numbers and been trying desperately to inform her male heirs of her discovery.
“Tonight’s winning lotto numbers are 33-55-48-19-55”
I was too busy being a seventeen-year-old punkass with cool hair and a big mouth. I was too cool to listen to my mother. That took effort, which is something that was in short supply during those precious teenage years.
Instead of listening carefully, I fired the first shot.
“Just because you had a bad day at work doesn’t mean you can come home yelling nonsense at us”
Keep in mind that there is also a stringy white boy with a two foot Mohawk sitting at the table munching happily on some Cheerios or Frosted Flakes, completely ignoring the glorious escapade that would compromise my freedom yet again.
I hope the cheeky fucker enjoyed his breakfast cereal.
“Ohh…and the kitchen is not a mess. There are two plates in the sink. Get over yourself”
And just like that, like a zit that never goes away and refuses to pop, the Battle of Cross Creek began…again.
The verbal exchange that followed is too jumbled and too far back to record. I’ll never make it as a stenographer and I’m cool with that. All I remember is something about car keys and the crescendo of foot stomps and guttural moans that followed. To an innocent bystander, it may have looked like they were possessed by some demon or feeling the Holy Spirit; in reality they were both possessed by their collective ability to build a mountain out of a molehill.
My Dad always used to say that my mother and I fought like guests on Jerry Springer because we were so much alike. That statement always caused a string of uncontrollable profanities to erupt from my throat like a post-binge drinking purge.
I’ve come to realize that he was right.
I’m blessed (sometimes cursed) to have her heavenly moss atop my fatass noggin. I have a huge forehead and the glorious tendrils help to conceal it.
I’m cursed with her temper, but I’ve learned to tame the savage beast. It rears its ugly head occasionally and I make an ass of myself, but that’s okay. I make an ass of myself in many other ways, none of which involve any of my mother’s character traits so I won’t bitch about it.
I inherited the carefree attitude and sense of humor that helps both of us weather the storm of life and I am forever indebted to her for that.
I sometimes employ her social skills, but never to the extent that she does. I don’t think its possible for me to ever take the pebble from her hand on that one. The Grasshopper concedes defeat, but I promise to keep trying.
To Momma:
Thanks for putting up with my bullshit. After enduring twenty-three hours of labor, you knew before I came into this world that I was gonna be handful and I appreciate the fact that you never abandoned me in shopping mall restroom or somewhere in the swamps of Jersey. I know it must’ve been tempting at times.
Happy Mother’s day.
Silence that is so powerful you can feel it; almost taste it. But it’s not the type of silence that is settling. Something inside of you tells you that the shit is about to hit the fan and you don’t want feces on your face, but you still want to sit in the front row. Your gut tells you to get the hell out but your feet refuse to comply.
“What do you two think you’re doing?
This kitchen’s a mess!
I’m sick and tired of telling you to clean up every…”
If I may be so bold, I’ve tuned out by this point. She could’ve had a premonition about the winning lottery numbers and been trying desperately to inform her male heirs of her discovery.
“Tonight’s winning lotto numbers are 33-55-48-19-55”
I was too busy being a seventeen-year-old punkass with cool hair and a big mouth. I was too cool to listen to my mother. That took effort, which is something that was in short supply during those precious teenage years.
Instead of listening carefully, I fired the first shot.
“Just because you had a bad day at work doesn’t mean you can come home yelling nonsense at us”
Keep in mind that there is also a stringy white boy with a two foot Mohawk sitting at the table munching happily on some Cheerios or Frosted Flakes, completely ignoring the glorious escapade that would compromise my freedom yet again.
I hope the cheeky fucker enjoyed his breakfast cereal.
“Ohh…and the kitchen is not a mess. There are two plates in the sink. Get over yourself”
And just like that, like a zit that never goes away and refuses to pop, the Battle of Cross Creek began…again.
The verbal exchange that followed is too jumbled and too far back to record. I’ll never make it as a stenographer and I’m cool with that. All I remember is something about car keys and the crescendo of foot stomps and guttural moans that followed. To an innocent bystander, it may have looked like they were possessed by some demon or feeling the Holy Spirit; in reality they were both possessed by their collective ability to build a mountain out of a molehill.
My Dad always used to say that my mother and I fought like guests on Jerry Springer because we were so much alike. That statement always caused a string of uncontrollable profanities to erupt from my throat like a post-binge drinking purge.
I’ve come to realize that he was right.
I’m blessed (sometimes cursed) to have her heavenly moss atop my fatass noggin. I have a huge forehead and the glorious tendrils help to conceal it.
I’m cursed with her temper, but I’ve learned to tame the savage beast. It rears its ugly head occasionally and I make an ass of myself, but that’s okay. I make an ass of myself in many other ways, none of which involve any of my mother’s character traits so I won’t bitch about it.
I inherited the carefree attitude and sense of humor that helps both of us weather the storm of life and I am forever indebted to her for that.
I sometimes employ her social skills, but never to the extent that she does. I don’t think its possible for me to ever take the pebble from her hand on that one. The Grasshopper concedes defeat, but I promise to keep trying.
To Momma:
Thanks for putting up with my bullshit. After enduring twenty-three hours of labor, you knew before I came into this world that I was gonna be handful and I appreciate the fact that you never abandoned me in shopping mall restroom or somewhere in the swamps of Jersey. I know it must’ve been tempting at times.
Happy Mother’s day.
posted by Cecil at 9:33 AM
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