Posing the Posie

It was not uncommon, over the years, for me to gaze lovingly at my husband after I had spent a few days with my mom and tell him he was starting to look really good to me. Maybe I should have visited more often.

Friday evening, when I powered up my phone immediately upon landing at LaGuardia to make sure the world had not suffered any catastrophic changes in the two hours I had been five miles up, I was greeted by a text from my newly minted ex-husband. "Don't kill anybody this weekend," it said. Sweet that we are still in the habit of giving each other "Honey Do Lists." Or, I suppose, "Honey Don't." I assumed, of course, he was referring to my mother, but just in case he was really worried about the multi-generational fireworks I assured him our daughter and I had not exchanged a single harsh word during the flight. (I neglected to mention we had been seated five rows apart.)

For most of us, it's the little things that pull us through the toughest moments, the small bits of joy that remind us life isn't all that bad. For me, when I visit mom, it's the little things as well. The infinite number of petty annoyances that make my blood boil and turn me into an angry, raging lunatic with a morbidly undeveloped sense of humor.

The topics never change, but they seem to always catch me by surprise. The back-breaking weight of her three ton Louis Vuitton pocketbook, which she must carry with her at all times as her quest for a lighter one has yielded nothing. "What, you think I'm going to carry around some cheap thing?" Her insistence on having a conversation with me as I navigate my way through the terrifying drive from the airport to Brooklyn. Her hearing loss has had no effect on her ability to chatter away non stop. "I can't understand you unless you look directly at me," she says, exasperated. It's good she cannot hear what I'm saying as I grip the steering wheel with white knuckles and pray that I won't die on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, that my daughter will live to go to college.

There are the endless instructions. "Turn here,"  even though my signal has been on for at least a minute. "Watch out!" she gasps, causing my heart to leap into my throat. I have already long been well aware of whatever it is she suddenly thinks I should watch out for. "Don't park so close to the pole on the left," she commands as we pull into her building's parking garage. Now that one was new. For years, I was reminded constantly to back in as close as I could to the pole on the left, leaving ample room on the passenger side so that when Josephine from apartment 3A swung open the door of her massive Cadillac she wouldn't scratch mom's Honda. Did Josephine die? "You are too close to the pole," my mother screams. I miss Josephine.

The next few incidents (some of which involved noting what a nasty human being I am, which is, I suppose, really the point) are too difficult to articulate, too incomprehensible. Let's just say I don't know what the answer is to the age old question as to whether, if a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, it made a sound. I do, however, know that if my deaf mother calls out to me and I respond but she is refusing to look at me, I did not respond. In fact, I never respond. Case closed.

Growing up, I always ate breakfast at the small round kitchen table with the wrought iron ice cream shop chairs with the bright yellow cushions. I never tired of reading the three framed pictures above the table. One offered up a recipe for garlic bread, which is kind of funny since my mother has never tasted garlic bread and thinks garlic (pronounced "gawlic" and spoken with almost the same level of disdain as  "goyim"), is a vile substance favored by folks of the lowest classes. Another was entitled "Calories do Count." If I were to identify the one item of furniture in my mom's apartment that reflects not only her personality but her core belief system, it would be that picture, deceptively framed in cheerful yellow.

The third picture always puzzled me. It was called "Posing the Posie." WTF? My mother hates flowers (they smell and they are messy) and I cannot imagine she has ever had any interest in floral arrangements. Yet she chose this picture, and hung it in what was really the most well traveled spot in the house. It is instructive and detailed, tyrannical almost. Hmm, come to think of it, this one is right up there with the calorie counter. It shouts out orders, it is my mother personified.

My ex will be relieved to know there has been no bloodshed, and he will not have to visit me in prison with, as he suggested, a cake buried in a saw. (That sure would've been something to look forward to, though.) My mother is turning eighty-two, and she will continue posing her posies and dictating arrangements for herself and everyone around her, shouting out instructions  until she can no longer speak. And she will always believe that calories count more than most things. As for the garlic bread, that remains a mystery.

Maybe there's more to her than meets the eye, stuff that, because she's my mom, I'll never really know. Maybe it's because I don't want to.