Life With Marlene

Snowbound

Friday was a rough day. It was the second day I had off of work because of extreme temperatures. It was so cold on Friday that neither my or my husband’s cars would start. So I had to call my mom’s house to see about getting the batteries jumped.

My mother hates snow. She fears the awesome wrath of winter. Her fear of snow can hamper her daily life. She becomes obsessed with the weather report—it is like she is part of some cult. I remember watching a particularly ominous forecast with her about a year ago; it called for 6 to 8 inches of snow by morning and a rough commute. She shook her head at the TV and said, “Well, I guess I’ll have to pack a bag for work tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. To me, ‘rough commute’ means a slow drive to work.

She made her face. “I’ll have to pack enough to spend the night at work if the weather is bad.” Melodramatically, she added, “I’ll just sleep on an examination table.”

In my mind’s eye, I saw this sad, sad picture of my mom in a fetal position trying to sleep on a child’s examination table. She had tucked herself in using that weird tissue-protector stuff as a blanket.

“You’re not gonna sleep at work,” I said.

Anyway, back to Friday: I called my mom about the batteries. She was concerned that my husband was going to trek into work, but there was no way I could dissuade him. I told her that I needed to get to the grocery store because I had no food. She said she would call me later when she found someone to take her. She does not drive when there is snow on the roads.

Around 4:30, my mother called to go to the grocery store. She had been shut inside all day with my sister and brother; from what she said, it sounded like a synopsis of “The Shining”.

MOM: (depressed) This is the worst day of my life.

ME: Why?

MOM: You and your brother ruined it. Your other brother and sister are driving me nuts.

ME: How?!? I’ve been home all day!

MOM: Your car battery died.

ME: That can’t be helped. What brother? What did he do?

MOM: Matthew drove his car into a ditch off 490.

ME: Is he hurt?

MOM: This is what I get. It’s a punishment for calling into work.

ME: It’s not a punishment! You couldn’t help calling in! The roads were terrible. Mark said that cars were off the road all up 104 and 590.

MOM: It’s all my fault.

There was no use reasoning with her. I had to wait for my father to pick me up to take my mother and me to the store.

The grocery store was dead. I had a list of stuff to make soup, so I shopped ahead of my mom. I was in an aisle when I could hear Marlene’s voice carry. She was laughing and talking loudly (this means she was excited about something). I followed her voice to the deli counter. She was talking to the woman who was slicing cold cuts.

MOM: Isn’t it wonderful? You’ll never guess where I got it.

A-ha! My mom found a new contestant on her version of “The Price is Right”: “Guess how much Marlene spent on the coat”.

DELI LADY: I don’t know. It’s a beautiful coat.

MOM: The Salvation Army! Can you believe it? (pause) Guess how much I paid for it?

DELI LADY: I don’t know. It must have been expensive!

Rube! I thought. The deli lady never played this game before!

MOM: Eight dollars!!

DELI LADY: No way!!

MOM: Yeah! And guess what else---

ME: (interrupting) Did you tell her about the gloves?

MOM: No. (to deli lady) I found a pair of leather gloves in the pocket!

DELI LADY: They were probably worth as much as the coat.

MOM: (beaming) I know!

This exchange made my mother’s night! “She thought this was a real fur coat,” she beamed, as I walked with her. Marlene had finally won a round of “Guess How Much I Paid for This.”

A Brush With Pseudo-Celebrity

A few years ago, there was a woman who lived on Lake Ave. who we called "Troll Woman". Troll Woman was short, squat and appeared to be in her 60's. On top of Troll Woman's head was a huge, matted purple mess. She had so much hair. She or it looked like a Peter Max painting...or a Norfin Troll come to life.

One could not miss Troll Woman as he/she would drive down Lake Avenue. Troll Woman was the topic of many heated debates: my mom's next door neighbor swore she saw Troll Woman's wig (the neighbor insisted it was a wig) in a gutter once. The same neighbor also ventured that Troll Woman was not a woman at all...but was perhaps a Troll Man in drag.

All the speculation about Troll Woman was about to change.

One day, my mother went up to Wegmans. Yes, Gentle Reader, this is the same Wegmans where she was previously accosted by a man selling food stamps; the same Wegmans across from white-trash house. As you may remember from a previous entry, my mother followed Arthur Shawcross' girlfriend around the drug store. On this day, my mother would track her ulitmate prize: Troll Woman.

Marlene said she noticed Troll Woman come into the store while she was looking in the video section. She went right onto Troll Woman's trail. She tediously followed Troll Woman up and down the aisles of Wegmans, mentally cataloging everything Troll Woman put into her cart.

She noted the way Troll Woman carefully placed her purse in the cart's child-safety seat.

She walked up behind Troll Woman in one aisle to settle one of the many Troll Woman-centered debates: it was indeed a wig Troll Woman wore. My mother even noticed that Troll Woman's ears were double pierced.

After tracking her around the store, my mom followed Troll Woman to the register. According to my mom, all that Troll Woman bought were some cans of cream of mushroom soup.

To hear my mother tell the story, this was probably the most exciting day in her life. She was extremely proud of herself for tracking our neighborhood celebrity around Wegmans.

Troll Woman hasn't been cruising around for a few years. Each of us has our theory of what happened to her. My mom's neighbor thinks she was locked up. Amy thinks Troll Woman moved away. But I don't agree with any of these theories...I think she became a mushroom.

For more information on Peter Max see:

www.petermax.com

A Brush With Celebrity
About 12 years ago, my mother had a brush with celebrity. I happened to be with her.

We went up to the local Fay's Drug Store on Lake Avenue. My mother was in full shopping mode. What I mean by full shopping mode for Marlene is this: she picks up items in a store, looks at them with amazement and puts them down. It's like watching someone who came from an Eastern Bloc country go into a Western store for the first time. Shopping with Marlene is a time-consuming process.

My mother walked slowly up and down the aisles of our local Fay's, stopping to sniff perfumes or touch knic-knacs. I walked with her--I was in a sullen teen state. I probably went with her to get out of my house.

It was then my mom saw her. Serial killer Arthur Shawcross' girlfriend.

She was possibly the most famous person my mom had run into in all her years shopping at Fay's Drug. My mom was able to instantly recognize her face from hours of watching the trial on TV.

"Kim!," she exclaimed in a loud whisper while nudging me. "Do you know who that is?"

"No," I responded, petulantly.

"It's Arthur Shawcross' girlfriend!" Marlene was excited. Before I could say anything to her, she had turned her cart around in the aisle and was on pursuit of the girlfriend.

I reluctantly followed her.

"Are you sure, Mom?" I asked. God, this was embarrassing!

"Yes!," she hissed, watching the woman.

"His girlfriend...or his wife?" I wanted to get the story straight. Between snow days and banging in sick, I watched the entire Arthur Shawcross trial on TV during my sophomore year of high school.

"His girlfriend," my mom answered in an impatient whisper. She suddenly bolted the cart forward as the girlfriend left the aisle.

I quickly lost interest in my mother's cat-and-mouse game involving the serial killer's girlfriend. I went to the magazine section and absorbed myself in the latest exploits of Guns-n-Roses.

My mother must have spent at least a half hour following this woman around the store. I think she was trying to track her consumer habits: after all, I'm sure people have always wondered what a serial killer's girlfriend buys at Fay's Drugs.

I spotted my mom in line, ready to pay. I brought the magazine up to the register with me to slip it into my mom's order. She didn't notice. She was behind the girlfriend in line.

On the drive home, my mother chatted away about Arthur Shawcross' girlfriend. She had a list of what the woman bought, but I forgot what it was.

I guess my interest in the purchasing habits of serial killers' girlfriends is not as strong as my mom's.

A Reaction to Fame

A friend of mine who lives in Washington, D.C. called to tell me how much she enjoys "Life With Marlene".

I called my mother to let her know.

Me: Mom, you are a cult superstar!! People in the Washington D.C. area have been reading your blog!

Mom: Don't give a bullshit!

I don't know what that even means.

The Death of Mr. Potato

Many of my readers might think that my mother is a lovable, bumbling clown like Lucille Ball. But I must tell you she has a sadistic side. Because of this, I was a warped child and am now a very warped adult.

Case in point: When I was a child, Mr. Steak Steakhouses were very popular. I remember the commercials; they were stop-action like a Harry Hausen movie. They featured a real steak and potato dancing. One particular commercial had a chorus line of steaks dancing. The stars of the Mr. Steak commercials were, of course, Mr. Steak and his side-kick, Mr. Potato.

One evening, my parents went out to dinner with my great-grandparents to the Mr. Steak Restaurant on West Ridge Road. I don't really remember the dinner. All I remember from that night was sitting in the back seat of the car with my mother and Nana. We had parked the car in the back of the restaurant. As my father pulled the car around the restaurant, we passed the dumpster. A baked potato was lying smashed next to the dumpster, still in its foil jacket.

I didn't notice it until my mom said: "Look, Kimmie, Mr. Potato died. It looks like he was run over by a car."

This caused me to freak out. I cried. And cried. And cried. I could not believe Mr. Potato had been killed.

I don't think Nana had heard my mother because she couldn't figure out why I was crying. It took me awhile, like until I was in middle school, to figure out that it really wasn't the Mr. Potato behind the dumpster. It was a dead imposter.

The White Trash House

My mother is fascinated with this double house across from the local Wegmans. She calls it the "white trash house". I am not sure as to what the house actually looks like; I've never seen it. All have is my mother's description of it.

Marlene gets fixated on weird things. The white trash house is just one in a number of my mother's obsessions. She also gets fixated on squirrels and the Salvation Army Thrift Store.

According to Marlene, she was loading the trunk of her car a few weeks ago when she noticed a dog on the roof of the porch of a house across the street. She watched the dog wander around the roof before she realized the dog got out of the house through a broken second story window.

The next week, my mother went back to that Wegmans. She said she wanted to "check out" the white trash house to see what was going on. The broken window was boarded up. The residents had placed Christmas lights over the boarded window. My mother told me the white trash house was "festive".

What I really don't understand is why my mother keeps going back to that particular Wegmans. She never has a good time. I remember once when I was in high school, she was upset for a week about shopping there. Someone had offered her $40 in food stamps for $30 cash.

There was a period of time when she was fascinated by this person (I think it was a woman) who wore a royal purple cape and crown when shopping. My mother would follow her around the store.

However, my mother was most upset when she was flashed. She was sitting at a red light on the corner of Dewey and Driving Park. A woman was dancing on the corner, according to my mother, and her (the woman, not Marlene) tube top fell down exposing her boobs. My mother said she was so mortified by the topless woman that she could not complete the errand of grocery shopping and had to go home. My mother talked about this experience for months.

Reposting from Previous Blog

Dear Readers,
As many of you know I have another blog...one that is probably not of interest of you because it is of my humble life...not the exploits of a celebrity, like Marlene.

I posted two messages from my other blog here, for your enjoyment. Sorry if it is a repeat for some of you.

Enjoy.

The Salvation Army part II

I just reposted a story about my mom at the Salvation Army a few months ago. Just thought I would update on Marlene and her love affair with America's favorite thrift store.

Yesterday, I went over Mom's house for dinner. She was dressed in a cool velveteen sweater vest. I commented on how much I liked it and then inquired if she purchased it at the Salvation Army. She proudly said she did.

"I gotta show you something," she said, walking to the front hall.
She opened up the front hall where she keeps her coats. She rummaged around and took out a fur coat. She put it on and turned around, displaying it like a fashion model.

"Guess how much?", she asked. This is her favorite game. You are supposed to guess how much she paid for something. The thing is you are supposed to over-guess the price, then she tells you the price and you are supposed to be surprised. It's like a bizarre "Price is Right" game.

I knew how much the coat cost because my dad told me on Sunday when we went out last minute Christmas shopping. According to him, she bought the coat on Saturday and was so amazed at the price and quality of the coat that she wore it around the house.

"Seven bucks," I said. I thought that was how much Dad said.

She made her face. "No, eight."

I could tell she was disappointed that I had guessed near the price.

"And in the pockets...guess what I found." Okay, time for round two.

This I had no clue about. "Um, ten dollars."

"No," she said, pulling something out of the pocket, "Leather gloves."

"Wow."

"And it only cost eight dollars...with my senior discount."

2003-07-30 - 3:41 p.m.

Senior Day--a continuation of the Salvation Army entry (a Marlene joint)



I forgot to add in my last entry about Senior day.


Wednesday is Senior Day at the Salvation Army. There were a lot of old ladies there.


As I went up to pay, I realized the true magnitude of having a Senior Day. Mom was behind me with her cart, which included the sugar serving set and cow salt and pepper shaker. The cashier looked at her and said, "Oh, would you like the Senior Discount?"


I thought Mom was going to wring the cashier's skinny tatooed neck.


"No," my Mom said in her fake-nice voice. "I'm too young for the Senior Discount."


Trying to calm the situation, I jumped into the conversation. "I would like the Senior Discount," I said quickly, "I just happen to look really good for 55."


The clerk did not give me the discount.


"You know, you really make me feel good," Mom said to the clerk.


I decided at this point to peruse the religious literature in the rack at the door.


"She ruined my day," my mom said as we left the store. "I can't believe she thought I was 55. What's her problem?"


We were quiet for a moment as we got into the car.


"You know, I woulda saved $2.00 with the discount," Mom said.

Marlene vs. The Squirrel

My mother hates squirrels. I suppose she has good reason to with all the abuse they put her through. But I think she antagonizes them to the point where they want to harm her.

Case-in-point: one spring, when I was home from college, I made a cake, using canned frosting. I cleaned up my mess, putting the empty frosting can in the garbage. I suppose that evening my mother did not want to venture all the way to the garbage can in the back of the house, so she put the garbage bag outside next to the back door. The next morning, a squirrel ripped open the side of the bag and sifted through the trash. Through the kitchen window, my mother watched it scavenge. A battle of wits was developing between my mother and the squirrel. I was not sure who had the upper hand here. Doing the least practical thing possible, she threw on a pair of slippers and ran outside to yell at the squirrel.

"You stupid squirrel!" she yelled, opening the screen door.

The squirrel saw her and scampered up a big tree. It had the frosting can in its teeth. I never knew squirrels were sugar-junkies.

Marlene ventured outside, under the branch of the tree where the squirrel was actually nibbling the frosting can.

"You stupid piece of crap," she yelled, "Get down here with the frosting can!"

"I hate you, you stupid squirrel!" Marlene shouted.

What happened next is probably the most amazing thing I've ever seen an animal do. The squirrel stopped chewing on the frosting can, held it in its front paws and then threw the can at my mother. It hit her on her head.

I laughed. The squirrel scampered further up the tree, unhampered by the cumbersome can. My mother stood looking up the tree, dumb-founded.

It is obvious who won the battle of the wits.

The Chair
-Or-
Altar of a Goddess

In my mom's living room, there is a chair directly across from the t.v. A coffee table covered in scented candles, crossword puzzle magazines, candy and an ashtray is in front of this chair. The table reminds me of a Mexican Day of the Dead altar because of all the different artifacts and candles. This is my mom's little corner of the living room.

There have been many a night when I was home on a college break and I would return from a date with a container of left-overs. My mom would be slumped forward in her chair with her mouth half-open, snoring. Two candles on either side of the coffee table would be blazing. The whole scene reminded me of a pagan altar to the domestic goddess. As the deity slept, I would place the styrofoam containter on the table between the two candles and steal away into the night. The next morning, I would come downstairs to see if my offering was accepted. Usually it was--unless it was seafood. Then the container was in the fridge.

My sister told me yesterday that when my mom falls asleep in the chair, she plays a game with her. Since they have the super-deluxe digital cable, my sister will put on one of the Music Choice channels as mom "rests her eyes". Mom then starts to shake her leg and her head in time to the music--while she is sleeping. I suppose she is like one of the dancing flowers which were so popular a few years back.

I wonder if I can market a "Dancing Sleeping Marlene Doll." It would have "super leg-jiggling action". Maybe it will be a hot toy next Christmas.