Life With Marlene

Marlene Alighieri

I just called my mother to tell her I had updated my web journal.

Mom: What did you write about?

Me: You and Dante.

Mom: What good is that going to do?

She Bangs

So I went over to my Mom's to celebrate my youngest brother's birthday. After the cake, my sister, brother, mother, father and husband were standing around the kitchen, talking.

Me: So, Katie, when is your presentation on Dante's Inferno due for English class?

Katie: Monday, but I can't present then because I'm going to a scholarship luncheon.

Mom: You better tell him that you're not gonna be there Monday.

Me: Yeah, you better. What sin is your project on?

Katie: Suicides. I have to start my vocabulary list for it. It's hard, but I've been working on it.

Mom:(in fake disgust, to Katie) Go to hell. You never start anything early.

*Katie rolls her eyes*

Mom: That guy was on drugs when he wrote The Inferno.

Me: I liked The Inferno.

Mom: Kim, go to hell.

Pete: (to Mom) Didn't you read it ten times?

Mom: (matter of factly) No, that was your brother, Matt. Dante is stupid.

Me: (to Mom) So do you think Dante should go to hell?

Mom: He's already in hell.

Me: Actually, he went to purgatory and paradise.

Mom: Kim, go to hell!

On the way home, my husband asked, "So is that your mom's new catch phrase- go to hell?"

I thought for a moment. "I guess so," I replied.

"That's not even a good catch phrase," he said. "It's not like 'eat my shorts' or anything even remotely original."

We were silent for a few moments.

"Hey, Mark?" I said.

"Yeah?"

"Go to hell," I said, laughing.

"You hate me," he said. He paused for a moment. "'Go to hell'- it's like your mom is a three-year-old who just learns a new swear word."

"I know," I told him. "It's gonna compete with 'stuff'".

Spinnin' A Yarn

A few days ago, I tried to teach my mother how to knit. She was inspired to learn by the current eyelash scarf trend. We searched two craft stores for knitting needles and yarn. Materials are scarce since knitting has become a hot trend. When we finally found materials, I told her that she should start on a thicker yarn and, once she got the hang of knitting, she could move to the eyelash yarn.

I doubt she'll make it that far.

I went over to Marlene's on Wednesday. She gathered together her new needles and yarn. I told her to sit next to me on the couch.

Mom: I don't want to sit next to you.

Me: It's easier for me to teach you if you are right here.

Mom: Blah.

Me: Okay, you start by casting on eighteen stitches. See? *I watched her cast on a few stitches* I think you are casting on too tight, Mom.

Mom: I'm fine!

Me: You're not fine! You can't get the other needle in the loop if you do that.

After casting on the 18 stitches, she attempted to knit.

Mom: I can't get the needle through the loops; they're too tight.

Me: I told you so.

I helped her out a bit. She managed to knit one row. We counted the stitches to make sure she had 18. She was fine. I then showed her how to switch hands and knit the second row.

As she labored on her next set of 18 stitches, I worked on my own knitting project. I was through my second row, by the time she finished.

Mom: Now what?

Me: Count your stitches to check your gauge.

Mom: *counting* I have 20 stitches.

Me: Well...I guess that's okay. You can always integrate them into the next row so you'll end up with eighteen again.

Mom proceeded onto the third row. I continued on my scarf. When she finished, she counted her stitches to check her gauge.

Mom: I have 21 now.

Me: Mom, you just can't keep adding loops.

Mom: The yarn is stupid. I can do what I want.

Me: No, you can't. If you keep adding loops, your scarf is gonna go from being six inches wide to being, like, six feet. No one has a neck shaped like that!

Mom: *defensively* I can do what I want!

I had to go meet a friend for coffee. I told her I would call her later to check up on her progress.

Since I ended up running errands after coffee, I didn't get a chance to check on my mom. I assumed the knitting was going fine since I never received a call of panic on my cell phone.

That evening, I ran into my brother, Matt, at the Penny Arcade. We were both there to catch Peter's band.

Matt: So, did you see Mom has a new hobby? She's knitting.

Me: Yeah, I know. I taught her.

Matt: She said you yelled at her about adding loops. She's making her scarf too wide.

Me: Yeah. At the rate she's going, she's gonna hafta hope the Elephant Man rises from the dead. He's the only person who can wear that scarf.

I was pretty proud of my mom for sticking out the knitting. Sometimes, she gets frustrated at crafts and quits. She seemed to be doing well at the knitting.

Then the call came Friday morning.

Mom: *distressed* Guess what happened to my knitting?

Me: What?

Mom: It got set on fire.

Me: HOW DO YOU SET KNITTING ON FIRE?

Mom: Your brother was being stupid, so I had to get up to check on the dog. I set the needles and the knitting down. I had lit a candle on the table in front of my chair. When I came back, your brother was putting out the fire.

Me: We should have bought the aluminum needles instead of plastic. We're not gonna be able to find that stuff again.

Mom: Yup. It's burned to a crisp. The end of the needle is black and melted in a curve. It's still by my chair if you want to see it.

Me: No, that's okay.

Mom: And I was back down to 20 stitches! I started at 18, then was up to 21, then 22 and I just figured out how to get back down to 20.

Me: You'll have to start over again.

Mom: It's a shame I can't save it.

Since Matt told me mom had been knitting all Tuesday and my mom was upset that she couldn't save it, I was under the impression that she had about six inches or more of scarf knitted.

Me: How long was the scarf?

Mom: About two inches.

Note: I happened to go over to Marlene's on Friday evening to pick up some stuff. Out of curiousity, I ferretted out the needle by her chair. The tip of it was charcoal and curved, reminding me of the Wicked Witch of the East's feet in The Wizard of Oz when the house drops on her and her feet curl up.

At this rate, she'll never make it to the eyelash yarn.

A Toast to Microwaves

I was catching up with my mother at dinner on Sunday.

Mom: Do you know what you shouldn't microwave?

Me: Marshmallow Fluff?

*When I said this, I was thinking of the time when my father decided to heat up a jar of Fluff in the microwave. He said after five minutes, he opened the microwave. The cap on the jar looked like it was crooked. He opened the cap and the contents of the jar exploded. My mother, thinking quickly, rinsed his face off with cold water, so the Fluff wouldn't scald him. The next morning after my mom told me this story, I looked at the kitchen ceiling. Stalactites of marshmallow Fluff hung from the ceiling. I think there were some still there when we moved from the apartment.*

Mom: No, Pop-Tarts.

Me: It seems to me that the Pop-Tarts commercials say they can be microwaved.

My youngest brother: (sigh) She microwaved it too long.

Mom: (ignoring youngest brother) I only put it in for like a minute. When I lifted the Pop-Tart out, the bottom fell off. The filling went all over the inside of the microwave. It was very hot. I touched it and burned my finger. (pause) So don't microwave Pop-Tarts.

You would think this was the end of the conversation, but if you, dear reader, have been following this blog since its inception, you know that my mom can't let go of an idea.

Yesterday, I called my mom to see what time I was to air her out.

Mom: My finger still hurts.

Me: From the Pop-Tart?

Mom: They are very dangerous.

Jeepers Creepers 2

I invited my family over for dinner on Sunday night. As dinner was wrapping up, my sister lamented the fact that she cannot take out books from the library because her fines are too much. "I can't take out movies from Blockbuster either," she said.

I reminded her that Blockbuster is not the same thing as the library.

"You should use the I-Demand movies," my mother told her. My mom is all about digital cable.

"Yeah, but they only have like five movies per month. It's the same stuff over and over again," said my sister.

"Jeepers Creepers 2 is playing this month," said my mother.

"Is that the one with the guy who is stupid and went back to the place?," I asked.

My mother sighed. "No," she insisted. "This one they are on a bus and then the monster gets them."

I didn't challenge her, but I wondered if the whole movie took place on the bus or the creature drove the bus? Since I haven't seen the movies, I guess I will never know. I will just have to rely on my mom's reviews of the films.

Marlene v. The Dog Part II

My mother has no control over my sister and brother. Of course, my sister is 18 and brother is 24. They come and go when they please and this causes my mother some angst. Especially when it involves letting the dog out.

My mother related an anecdote about how she was wearing her night gown, alseep in her chair on Friday night. She was getting ready to go upstairs when she went into the dining room to find the dog. The dog wasn't there. She checked the kitchen: no dog. My mom remembered she told my brother to put the dog out. She realized that he must have put the dog out, but then went to bed. My mother decided to go outside to find the dog.

This is when I interjected.

Me: Don't tell me you went outside with no underwear on to find the dog!

Mom: It was late at night. No one was around. So, anyways, I followed the track of the leash in the snow around the house to the front porch. And there was the dog on the porch, waiting to come in.

Me: And you weren't wearing underwear?

Mom: (matter-of-factly) No, I wasn't.

Me: What happens if there is a big gust of wind when you are outside?

Mom: (pause) I just try to hide behind the trees when I walk the dog. As long as I sneak from tree to tree, no one will notice.

Me: I'm totally putting this in my blog.

Mom: No, you can't!

Me: Why?

Mom: People will line up to my front door to get a peak.

Me: I really don't think so. I think they will be forewarned to stay away.

My mom's nightgowns are about ten years old. One is pale blue with Garfield on the chest and has the texture of Kleenex because it is so old and has been worn so much. It is almost transparent. When my mom wears it around the house, it does not leave much to the imagination. I can't fathom that she walks around the neighborhood in it. Nope, maybe, it's that I hope she doesn't walk around the neighborhood in it.

But she does.

Marlene V. The Dog

My mother is not domestic. Growing up, most of our dinner were pre-packaged or made from a box. Occasionally, my mother will get it in her head that she is Martha Stewart or Donna Reed. It is then we are in for a real treat.

Marlene called me on Sunday to inquire if I was going to be over for Superbowl. "I'm making somethin' in the crock pot with pineapple and carrot", she said.

When I told my husband this, he made a face and reminded me we were going over Dave and Amy's house.

I never did find out how the "thing in the crock pot" turned out.

I believe my mother is in recovery. She is suffering through the repercussions of a traumatic cooking incident that happened when I was in college.

I think it was during my junior year of college when I received the fateful phone call from Marlene. I could barely get a "hello" out when she went on an emotional tirade.

Mom: Do you know what she did!?!

Me: Who? What? (The only she I could think of was my sister).

Mom: The d-d-dog...she- (my mother was crying at this point).

Me: What did the dog do?

Mom: SHE ATE THE BREAD!!! SHE ATE THE SEVEN DAY BREAD!!

Me: What is seven-day bread?

Mom: It's the Amish bread! You put the mix in the bag and every day, you add something else to the stuff to make the bread. (Pause) Today was the sixth day! I just added the stuff this morning before work. And when I came home, the bag of dough was gone!

Me: Wow, you were cooking?

Mom: I was supposed to put it in the oven tomorrow---JESUS CHRIST! THE DOG IS THROWING UP!

I had the unappealing image in my mind of the dog sitting in the corner of the kitchen barfing up bread dough.

Mom: I CAN'T TALK NOW!! I gotta go.

She then hung up on me.

My mom claims this incident has put her off of being domestic. I think between the pineapple-carrot concoction and some other dishes, she is starting to recover. I do think she harbors some sort of anger against people who are successful in domesticity. She probably wants Martha Stewart to rot in prison. Let's face it: no dog ever ate Martha's bread.