"The agony and the irony are killing me..."
So I decided to make this huge lasagna dinner for my mom since she was depressed. She has been in a slump ever since the dog died. I think she started to think of the dog as the sixth Coniff kid. Mary Giorgi, my mom's neighbor, said my mom and dad were more upset about Cookie dying than my sister and brother. It's just sad.
Yesterday, my mom put the finishing touches on a memorial garden for Cookie. She stragetically placed a statue of St. Francis between the dog's leash and a bone that the dog only ate half of. Marlene rocked back and forth on her heels, looking at the make-shift shine to Cookie and making her "disgusted" face. She's really torn up about the dog.
So I thought the lasagne would make her feel better. She was perky, or at least as perky as she gets during the dinner. My brother, Matt, is studying ancient languages at UB. He is hoping to go on an archeologist dig next summer.
Mom: (to Matt) Archeology is boring. You should become a doctor.
Me: How do you know archeology is boring? How many digs have you been on?
Mom: (with 'disgusted' face) All you do is rub stuff with a paint brush. You could be rubbing some dirt with a paint brush for like 10 years. And then you find out nothing's there.
Me: I don't think they would dig at the same place for like 10 years if they knew nothing was there.
Mom: Yes, they do! They keep digging. What a boring job. Matt, you should become a doctor.
It has been my mother's not-so-secret wish that one of us become a doctor. In fact, I believe my mother was deeply disappointed when I gave up my pre-med studies at St. Bonaventure to major in English.
Later on, I proposed to my mother that we switch jobs for the day. There are not that many days left to the school year and things are hectic.
Me: I will work for you, Mom...for the day, and you can work for me. I'll even give you five dollars, if you go to work for me.
Mom: What good is that going to do?
Me: You help kids who are somewhere between life and death. I just teach English.
Mom (disgusted face): You do more than me.
Me: No, I don't.
She just flashed me her disgusted look, one more time, as she rinsed the dishes. I bet she woulda changed jobs with me if I was a doctor.
Life's a BitchI called my mother early this morning to borrow some bricks for the flower beds. She had a story to tell:
Last night, around 10 o'clock, she suddenly had a burning desire to see the fast ferry which pulled into Rochester this past Tuesday. So she got my sister and her boyfriend (Katie's boyfriend), Brandon, to help her to the car. Supposedly, my mother is having sinus trouble and couldn't quite walk right. I guess the lure of the fast ferry was so powerful that her sinuses couldn't keep her away.
My mother said she was impressed by the boat, but nervous about the amount of people hanging out drinking at the beach.
She then said that one young man was "putting away" a beer and looking up at the grandeur of the fast ferry.
"It's bigger than a bitch!", he told my mother.
My mother, Katie and Brandon left soon afterwards.
"I don't know what that's supposed to mean- 'bigger than a bitch'," my mother told me on the phone. "I mean, how big is a bitch?"
White Trash Day
My mother, sister and youngest brother picked me up to go to the Salvation Army. As we were driving, my sister asked me if I would be willing to look over her English paper due this Friday. Her thesis is that a protagonist does not necessarily have to be physically strong to be a hero. She then rattled off a list of possible protagonists: Ralph from Lord of the Flies, Hamlet, etc.
My mother interjected: "Hamlet's gay!"
Me: "How do you know Hamlet is gay?"
Mom: "He never married, did he?"
Me: "You know, there are different theories about why he didn't marry. It doesn't make him-"
Mom: "Kim, Hamlet's gay!"
I decided not to bother. She can believe whatever the hell she wants about Hamlet. It's not like she'll publish a scholarly article on it or anything.
The Salvation Army was a somewhat agonizing experience. My idea of shopping at the SA and my mom's idea are completely different. For example, I browse quickly at clothes in my size and at the purses, and then get the hell out. My mom must pick through everything and closely examine it, even stuff she wouldn't remotely use. After I was done picking through t-shirts, I caught up with her at the furniture. She looked disgusted. "Who the hell would pay $1000 for a table from the Salvation Army?," she asked me, shaking her head at a patio set. "It's a shame."
