Command Performances

For some reason, after only an hour with my mom, every other word out of my mouth is some version of @#$%&. My son pointed this out to me after we made sure she was settled in for the night and escaped to have dessert and coffee somewhere sane.

Upon my arrival late in the afternoon, I spent a good hour taking orders and helping her to clean up the horrendous messes that had been made by a series of home health aides, the last of whom she had fired in time for my visit. By messes, I refer primarily to the putting away of items in wrong places. The tin foil, for example, was on the left side of the bottom shelf, and not on the top shelf in the center, where it has been stored for over fifty years.

Once I had picked up all the lint from the carpet (at least the ones Miss Bossy Pants could see with her extraordinary, superhuman vision, now enhanced even further by her loss of hearing), I went off to the local grocery store to do her shopping. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried to navigate a grocery store in a not-yet-gentrified Brooklyn neighborhood, but my back was thankful for the break from lint lifting.

I arrived home with the items, including the Resolve carpet cleaner (which she examined with about as much confusion and skepticism as the box of tampons I had tossed in for myself). I am convinced the home health aides exacted revenge on their dictatorial hostess by gratuitously spreading dropperfuls of brownish liquid all over her white carpet. (Apparently, they are trained not to beat the crap out of their elderly charges, but the anger has to go somewhere.)

Anyway, before I got down to the business of stain removal – I spent at least an hour on the floor targeting spots while my mother hobbled around looking for more and shouting “what about this one over here?” -- I had to unpack the groceries under her strict supervision.

“Oh,” she moaned. “I never buy such a large milk,” she complained as she pulled the half gallon container out of the bag. “I forgot you buy in bulk.” @#$%&!!!

“No, the cheese goes on the right side!” @#$%&!!!

“Mom. Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit rigid?”

Mom is deaf, and I could tell by the way she screwed up her face she didn’t get what I said. I tried to be clearer. “You’re so @#$%& rigid!!! Still, no luck.

“R-I-G-I-D. Rigid.”

“R-I-G-I-C? Rigic?”

What the @#$%&? “Mom!!! ‘D,” not ‘C.’ RIGID! UNBENDING! TOTALLY @#$%& INFLEXIBLE!”

“Oh, ‘T’ not ‘C.’ R-I-G-I-T.” A moment of confusion, then, eureka! “Oh, R-I-G-H-T! Right. I’m right.” She seemed a bit puzzled that I, of all people, would be telling her she is right, but she was thrilled I had finally seen the light.

“Of course I'm right. Now, what about the spots near the dining room?”

@#$%&!!!