Date with the PhotographerI had the photo shoot moved from Wednesday to Saturday because my mother said that would work better for her. When I talked to the woman who was scheduling the shoot, she said that the photographer would follow us around for a few hours while I aired my mother out. She also said we should ‘act natural’.
So, I thought, I should follow my mother around and make biting comments while she yells at the dog and the baby cries?
She wanted to meet at my mom’s house. I told the woman that was fine under the condition that no one photographed the couch. You see, my mother has this beat-up couch in the living room. It’s so bad that when you sit on it, you sink about a foot. You can’t get off it without help. I swear to God when I left my son off last Wednesday that he got sucked into the couch and I picked up a different child who had been living in the couch for years.
Charlie and I went over to my mom’s house just before noon. We were supposed to do some sort of airing-out activity that day, but I wasn’t sure what as it was raining heavily. As we waited for the photographer, I asked my mom how her interview went.
Mom: She wanted to know about clown college. I told her I quit because I didn’t want to clown for Christ.
Me: So you didn’t tell her that you really quit because you didn’t want to do a routine in front of people?
Mom: (disgusted face) The Clowns for Christ were creepy. (Pause) She also wanted to know what I thought of the blog, especially the parts where you wrote about how I walk the dog with no underwear in the nightgown.
Me: Well, you do. Did you tell her I gave you new nightgowns?
Mom: (Ignoring last comment. Looking misty.) I just told her, “I am what I am.”
Me: That’s so Popeye of you.
The photographer then arrived. Do you know how difficult it is to act natural when someone is following you with a camera?
He is a nice guy and has the patience of a saint because he dealt with my family for two and a half hours. He started by taking photos of us in the living room. Of course, my mother was sitting on the same couch she did not want photographed. I sat next to her, with Charlie on my lap. The photographer snapped away and asked us all sorts of questions. I thought I would have to call the fire department to have them bring the ‘jaws of life’ to extract me from the couch when it was time to get up. I handed Charlie off to my brother, held on to the coffee table and pulled myself out of the middle.
After about a half hour hanging out, I suggested that we actually go somewhere as I was supposed to be airing out Marlene. I told the photographer that I called taking my mother out “airing out” as I didn’t want her to get musty. My mother and I debated as to where to go. She wanted to go to Schaller’s, but I wasn’t too hip on it. We finally settled on Cheeburger Cheeburger in the ferry terminal.
As we ate lunch, my mother was obviously enjoying her moment in the spotlight. She ended up interviewed the photographer about his job and his family. She then started telling him the story of her life.
When my mom tells the story of her life, it usually revolves around college (not clown college, but her undergraduate years at Nazareth) and Simon and Garfunkel. She saw Simon and Garfunkel while she was at college. They played at the U of R for a dollar, as my mother keeps reminding us, especially when she sees current ticket prices for concerts. She then told him how she got to see Simon and Garfunkel in Buffalo on their reunion tour this past spring.
Mom: My one son, Matt, bought me tickets for Mother’s Day. Since he knows Buffalo pretty well, he drove us up there. He said, ‘Ma, we’ll park here and walk a few blocks’ to the…that place-
Me: The HSBC Arena?
Mom: Yeah, there. So we walked and walked and walked and it was like three miles from the car-
Me: Funny, when you called me in the middle of one of my library classes, you told me you just walked a mile.
Mom: No! Looking back on it, it was more like three miles.
Me: And was it up hill both ways? And did you have to share a bathroom with seventeen people? Did you walk there barefoot in the snow?
Mom: No, it was May. (To the photographer) So we got there and the seats were on the floor. And I really had to go to the bathroom. So I found this girl who was an usher and asked her where the bathroom was. She pointed up to the first level of the arena. And I’m like, ‘Why didn’t they get porta-potties for the floor? Look at the average age of the audience; they’re like, old. Our bladders don’t work that good anymore.’ And the girl looked at me and said, “Truth be told, we thought you’d all be wearing Depends.” That was the funniest thing I ever heard.
After we had eaten and my mother had exhausted her repertoire of stories, it was time to leave. The photographer thanked us for letting him take our photos. I really didn’t expect him to hang out with us that long. He either enjoyed my mother’s wit and wisdom or is a masochist.
After he left, my mother turned to me.
Mom: What a nice guy! He took a lot of photos. You know, that was a nice lunch. He was very interesting.
Me: Yeah. You told him your whole life story.
Mom: Yeah. (pause) Now, what was his name?
Mother’s DayA few Sundays ago I was up around 6 a.m. with Charlie. As Charlie hung out in his chair, I read through the paper. I saw an article looking for “Mama’s Tales” or wisdom one received from her mother. The reporter was soliciting these anecdotes for a special Mother’s Day article. Now, I know the newspaper was probably looking for timeless advice passed down from generation to generation or heart-warming stories of mothers and daughters, but I couldn’t resist. I just had to send in the web address to my blog.
As you know, dear reader, my mother is a font of wisdom. After all, she is the one who taught me not to microwave Pop-Tarts because “they are very dangerous”. She taught me optimism when she scoured Charlotte Beach on a warm day in winter while looking for “treasures”. But, most importantly, she taught me that when one reaches a certain age, she can do or say whatever she wants because “I want to”.
I really did not expect an email from the reporter.
A few hours after I sent in the stuff about my mother, I received a phone call. The reporter wanted to know more about “Life with Marlene” and what would possess me to write it. We set up a phone interview for the next day.
The reporter asked me questions about where I lived, what I did for a living and why I set up the web journal. After chatting for a few minutes, she asked me if my mother knew I submitted the website to the newspaper. I never told Marlene because (A) I never thought the reporter would respond and (B) she would probably kill me. The reporter wanted to talk to my mom about her reaction to her weblog. I promptly gave her my mother’s work number and prayed that Marlene and I would still be on talking terms. The reporter said she was going to call after she hung up with me.
I hadn’t heard from my mom for awhile after I hung up the phone. The guilt started to eat me up. I tried to busy myself by playing a computer game, but I was distracted. “This is it,” I thought. “I’m totally dead.” I really expected her to call me after the interview because she would be either excited or pissed. The silence was killing me.
I finally bit the bullet and called her at work.
“She’s sitting her in stunned silence,” said one of her coworkers when she answered the phone. “Good job, Kim. You gave us our laugh for the day.”
She handed my mother the phone.
Me: Hi Mom.
Mom: I’m shocked.
Me: Listen, I’m sorry I submitted “Life with Marlene” to the newspaper. I didn’t know she would call.
Mom: Well, that’s it. I’m not watching Charlie anymore.
Me: You gotta watch Charlie! I’m going back to work in a week.
Mom: Well, when they answered the phone, they said, ‘Marlene, it’s for you. It’s the Democrat and Chronicle’. And I thought, ‘Oh shit, they tracked me down at work because I didn’t pay my subscription.’ (pause) Anyway, I have a phone interview on Saturday and they want to do a photo shoot of us on Wednesday.
Me: That’s cool.
Mom: Maybe we can do the photo shoot on Saturday. (pause) Yeah, Saturday is better for me. Will you call the lady and tell her we want Saturday?
The article probably won’t appear in the paper anyway. They never printed my letter to the editor about the guy who jumped your brother on Halloween. They never printed the article about the pediatric office. I think they just don’t want to print anything about me.
Me: Who knows?
Next Up: Date with the Photographer
FAQS About “Life With Marlene”I’ve gotten a lot of feedback from friends and acquaintances on “Life With Marlene”. However, the same questions keep coming up about my weblog. I hope this FAQ will answer your most burning questions.
Q: Why start a weblog about your mom, Marlene?
A: Why not? If you were a loving child, you would dedicate web space to your mother.
Q: Your write some embarrassing things about your mother. Isn’t Marlene offended by the stories on “Life With Marlene”?
A: Ah, dear reader, Marlene subscribes to the same theory as Oscar Wilde: The only thing worse about being talked about is not being talked about. She loves her weblog. In fact, I’ve been with her in public when she’s bragged to people about having her own blog.
Q: Is Marlene really that funny? C’mon, you have to be making stuff up.
A: Everything on the weblog is 100% true. Besides, how can anyone make up stuff like this?
Q: Now that Marlene is a celebrity, how can I get in contact with her?
A: Good luck! Until she gives me the go ahead, I will not give out Marlene’s email address. Don’t even bother calling the house; no one will answer the phone. I know because I’ve been trying to get ahold of her for three days.
