SON MIS LOCURAS

On looking through old high school pictures.

Me: Why did you wear the same clothes to school on picture day for three years?
Vero: It was a uniform!!

If you’re like me, you are your mom’s henchwoman.  When there is a problem she can’t handle, she borrows my “educated” skills to take care of it.

My latest henchmujer endeavor—calling Animal Control to get rid of five neighbor cats who keep doing their business in my mom’s garden.

Yes, this is what my education means to her everyday life.

Nurse:  Don’t drive too fast on your way home.

Me: Excuse me?

Nurse: Don’t drive too fast when you leave here.  You look like you have a sports car that needs to be driven slower.  Do you have a sports car?

Me: Yes.  Are you a radiologist or a psychic?

Mom:  A mi lo que me da miedo son las ratas que se comen a los cuerpos en el corner.

Me: En el corner? Ay cuerpos en el corner?

Mom: Si. Las noticias dijeron que las ratas se metían a los cuerpos en el corner.

Me: Mom, en cual esquina pasa esto?

Mom: En el corner, atras del hospital general.

Me: Ahhhh, la palabra es “coroner” no “corner.”

My mother asked me if the Black Cherry had any news on El Cacahuatero.

For a moment I gave her a “what the hell are you talking about” look, then I realized she wanted me to check my Blackberry for news of Jimmy Carter.

Communication really is miraculous.

Tonight, my mom lamented all the things she wasn’t able to give us when we were kids.  She wondered how denying us toys and other items (mostly because of our childhood poverty) had affected us.  She teared up as she wondered aloud whether we, today, recognize her good intentions.

I reminded her that all I ever wanted was my own Big Mac, and that she gave me that, so I grew up and became a pretty well-adjusted adult.

She then told me about her eight-year-old neighbor, who, upon not getting her way recently, said to her mother, “Cuando estes vieja no te voy a dar comida.”

I argued that at least we never said that, even as kids.  She thought about it, and smiled.  Yes, we were ok.  She’d done ok and tears were not necessary.

Rose Hills’ baseball fields were empty at 6 p.m. today.  I considered it a bit of a miracle to have a whole baseball field to ourselves.  Nothing like putting on the cleats, taking some batting practice, and playing a good game of catch on a Tuesday evening.

Older Stilwel:  Hi Dottie. Remember me? “You’re gonna lose!”
Older Dottie:  Stilwell Angel? Oh it’s good to see you again. Where’s your mom?
Older Stilwell:  Mom died… a few years ago.
Older Dottie:  Oh I’m so sorry to hear that. She was a great woman and a damn fine ball player.
Older Stilwell:  Yeah. When I heard about this, I… I felt I owed it to her to be here. She always said it was the best time she ever had in her entire life.

Doctor: Are you sure you’re not pregnant?

Me: Yes.

Doctor: How do you know?

Me: It’s physically impossible.

I said it a few weeks ago, and despite thoughts that have recently come to the fore in many friends’ dreams (and even in my doctor’s head), it’s still not going to happen.

I’m not a purse-carrying kind of woman.  Quite frankly, I wasn’t even a purse carrying kind of girl.  At no point in the past 40 years have I figured out how and what to put into a purse.

Since we’re on the subject, I’m also not particularly good at identifying which purse style goes with any particular occasion.  Once when I thought I’d found a purse that fit my life and style, my best friend pronounced it “a training-bra of a purse.”

So, I mostly carry my keys and driver’s license in my shoe at formal events and in my pockets on other days.

My awkward relationship with purses was highlighted today when I heard a church lecture telling young women that the content of their character could be judged by the contents of their purses.

Of course this is a ridiculous and shallow (not to mention creepily invasive) way of figuring out the core of any person’s character, but I thought it would be amusing to judge me by the contents of the purse/bag/sack/satchel I carry these days.

Give it a shot.  What does it say that I carry:

• a comedy notebook;
• a life observations notebook;
• a mini voice recorder;
• a camera;
• a blackberry charger;
• a camera battery charger;
• nail polish;
• an empty checkbook;
• a Luna bar;
• some Aleve;
• tweezers;
• pens and highlighters;
• keys;
• lab results;
• another woman’s lipstick;
• a wallet; and
• keys.

When my mom had a heart attack at 62, she started asking for the strength to make it to 65. When she turned 65, she changed her mind and said 68 was a better number. Of course, because 68 is a weird number, she rounded up to 70.

Today, I asked her if the goal had changed. “Con que llegue cuatro días, estoy contenta,” she said.

I think she’ll make it the four days to her 70th birthday and beyond. This week will be dedicated to her. Happy Birthday!!

A friend’s kid passed out at school this week.  Doctors diagnosed the culprit as an allergic reaction to spandex.  Spandex? Allergy? Discuss.

Around 8:30 last night, a fire truck came by our house.  It was moving slowly through the rain, so we wondered its destination.  We didn’t hear any other emergency vehicles,  so we ruled out mudslide.

Today, we figured out what happened.

This giant tree already had the half blocking the uphill path cut down.

Up the way, more of the same, just not in the street.

Today, I was oddly inspired to get organized.

I cleaned out my purse.  I cleaned out my car.  I cleaned out my closet.

I was a little sad I didn’t find anything unexpected.

Not that I ever need a reason to go to New York, but while wandering around there this weekend, we saw the theater for “The Motherf–ker With The Hat” start advertising for the play.  Since I’m a fan of Bobby Cannavale (think, “Third Watch” and “Station Agent,” not so much “Will and Grace”) and I need an excuse to get back in the second quarter, it’s as good a reason as any to head back.

“I missed my expressive, volatile New York tribe—not because I like conflict and aggression, but because it is abundantly clear where you stand with the guy who leaps onto the hood of your car and calls you a stupid bitch.”

–Gabrielle Hamilton, Blood, Bones & Butter

I tried to make some appointments today and encountered some odd resistance.  When I tried to schedule with my chiropractor, I was told I’d have to wait a bit—seems someone stuck a hose through their office’s mail slot and flooded the office overnight.  Who does this kind of stuff?

The switch to and from Daylight Savings Time always sneaks up on me.  It just makes me feel like this:

Mom 1:  My kid just told me she’s reading a story about a girl who grew up in the last century, “just like you did.”  She wants to know what it was like to have a mom who cut my hair and wrote grocery lists out on paper instead of an iphone.

Mom 2:  Wait until you’re a grandma.  Then your grandkids will ask if you ever lived in a cave.

I suppose my better half is a good influence.  How else to explain that when left to my own devices I made dinner an Entenmann’s raspberry danish and stayed up up until 2 a.m.