Mom Talks
conversations with lady
(Featuring a one in bazillion mom, my mom.)
I've had the idea for years because that's how long she's been calling me, ignoring me while we're on the phone and then trumping my excuses to get off the phone.
Some random Caribbean ring tone interrupted my perfectly poised grump Sunday afternoon and it was the one person in the world I can never ignore, Lady*. She was calling from the foreign foods section of her local grocery store so that I could translate Tikka Masala. Weasel is an Expat Brit so she jumps at any chance she can to speak his language, even if it means reading labels on isle 6. Our conversation went like this:
Lady: Hey, I'm in the foreign foods, ask Weasel if he wants some spotted Dick?
She had humored herself so. She couldn't even finish the question before she was spitting air out the gasket of her pressed lips trying to hold back laughter.
Me, to Weasel across the room and unamused: Mom wants to know if you want any spotted Dick?
Lady: Hey, here it is, I saw this the other day, what is this? Treacle. What's treacle?
Me, to Weasel across the room and again, unamused: What's treacle?
Weasel: It's like maple syrup but disgusting.
Me, to my mother: It's disgusting is what it is.
Lady: Oh. Here, what's this, Branston Pickle.
Me: It's pickles in some brown sauce, it's disgusting too.
Weasel: It's sweet.
Lady: What did he say, put it on meat? What kind of meat? What kind of meat do they eat over there?
Me: No Mom, he said it's sweet. And they don't believe in meat. They believe in chips and mushy peas. See if you can find some mushy peas, that'll teach you all you need to know about the English.
Lady: Mushy peas... no, I don't see any mushy peas.
I don't respond. I can hear packaging materials crinkling in the palm of her hand as she selects and returns random prodcuts to the shelves and whispers the names to herself. "Piccalilli..."
Lady: Well, I want you to know that I counted up that I've only seen you 3 times in the last year. You just don't love me anymore.
Me: 3? That's it? That might be a record.
Lady: Yep, when you came up after Ike, when I went to see PaPa and you met us for dinner and when you and Weasel came up earlier in the year.
I reminded her of the reunion in Austin just after Christmas.
Lady: Okay, 4. But I never even talk to you anymore.
Me: You're always in a bad mood and it just so happens that today you're not and I am.
Long pause.
Lady: HP sauce. Ooooooo, Pataks...Biryani Curry Paste in a jar!
Me: Okay, I'm gonna get off here and let you finish shopping.
Lady, during a satisfied sigh: Okay sweetheart, I'm gonna let you go. I need to finish up here and get home.
See what I mean? She always trumps me.
Several hours passed before the next Carribean jingle:
Me: Hey.
Lady: Hey, you know I get about two checks a year from the Hill Country Telephone Co-op...theeeeey cooooome...to about...(calculator punching noise in the background)...twenty-six dollars total.
Me: Yep, your dividends?
Lady: Yep. So, when I die, you need to make sure you call them so you can get my checks. It's your inheritance.
Me: Sweet!
We both laughed to the verge of tears.
*Lady is what I affectionately call my mother, Sallie Jo.
DISCLAIMER: THIS STORY MAY CONTAIN EMBELISHMENTS BUT IS MOSTLY VER BATUM. I ♥ you mom!
Some random Caribbean ring tone interrupted my perfectly poised grump Sunday afternoon and it was the one person in the world I can never ignore, Lady*. She was calling from the foreign foods section of her local grocery store so that I could translate Tikka Masala. Weasel is an Expat Brit so she jumps at any chance she can to speak his language, even if it means reading labels on isle 6. Our conversation went like this:
Lady: Hey, I'm in the foreign foods, ask Weasel if he wants some spotted Dick?
She had humored herself so. She couldn't even finish the question before she was spitting air out the gasket of her pressed lips trying to hold back laughter.
Me, to Weasel across the room and unamused: Mom wants to know if you want any spotted Dick?
Lady: Hey, here it is, I saw this the other day, what is this? Treacle. What's treacle?
Me, to Weasel across the room and again, unamused: What's treacle?
Weasel: It's like maple syrup but disgusting.
Me, to my mother: It's disgusting is what it is.
Lady: Oh. Here, what's this, Branston Pickle.
Me: It's pickles in some brown sauce, it's disgusting too.
Weasel: It's sweet.
Lady: What did he say, put it on meat? What kind of meat? What kind of meat do they eat over there?
Me: No Mom, he said it's sweet. And they don't believe in meat. They believe in chips and mushy peas. See if you can find some mushy peas, that'll teach you all you need to know about the English.
Lady: Mushy peas... no, I don't see any mushy peas.
I don't respond. I can hear packaging materials crinkling in the palm of her hand as she selects and returns random prodcuts to the shelves and whispers the names to herself. "Piccalilli..."
Lady: Well, I want you to know that I counted up that I've only seen you 3 times in the last year. You just don't love me anymore.
Me: 3? That's it? That might be a record.
Lady: Yep, when you came up after Ike, when I went to see PaPa and you met us for dinner and when you and Weasel came up earlier in the year.
I reminded her of the reunion in Austin just after Christmas.
Lady: Okay, 4. But I never even talk to you anymore.
Me: You're always in a bad mood and it just so happens that today you're not and I am.
Long pause.
Lady: HP sauce. Ooooooo, Pataks...Biryani Curry Paste in a jar!
Me: Okay, I'm gonna get off here and let you finish shopping.
Lady, during a satisfied sigh: Okay sweetheart, I'm gonna let you go. I need to finish up here and get home.
See what I mean? She always trumps me.
Several hours passed before the next Carribean jingle:
Me: Hey.
Lady: Hey, you know I get about two checks a year from the Hill Country Telephone Co-op...theeeeey cooooome...to about...(calculator punching noise in the background)...twenty-six dollars total.
Me: Yep, your dividends?
Lady: Yep. So, when I die, you need to make sure you call them so you can get my checks. It's your inheritance.
Me: Sweet!
We both laughed to the verge of tears.
*Lady is what I affectionately call my mother, Sallie Jo.
DISCLAIMER: THIS STORY MAY CONTAIN EMBELISHMENTS BUT IS MOSTLY VER BATUM. I ♥ you mom!
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