It was 1987, we were living in Memphis, and I had just completed my new look for Fall. I was proudly wearing Bugle Boy pants (pegged, of course), with my three-quarter high top, black Reeboks. I completed the wardrobe with a random assortment of colorful button downs with socks to match. I had long, blond bangs that Mama and Daddy despised. Mama would often say, “Rob, no Southern man would ever do such a thing. You look ridiculous.” I was happy to point out that no man, Southern or otherwise, would tolerate being treated like a dog either, but she didn’t seem to mind putting me in that position. I received a healthy slap to the face for that remark, but it was her way of letting me know I was right. I do love winning. It makes me feel pretty.
One evening, as I was obsessing over the right sweater-button down-tie combination, Mama asked me to come into her sitting room. As Mama had once told me, “A sittin’ room is a place for a woman to gather her thoughts, perhaps journal and read. It’s like your father’s study, but with a more delicate, feminine touch.” More accurately, it would be a place to watch Cagney & Lacey, eat Butterfingers, skim through an assortment of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, and discover the wonders of home shopping. It would also be a drug den. A safe place to take enough prescription medication to cease all higher brain functions without interference from other family members, or the law. For Mama, the sitting room was her Happy Place, like Disneyland, only much smaller, and with smokeless ash trays because, as she once said, “Oh, I do enjoy smoking, it’s just the smoke I can’t handle.”
The sitting room was specifically designed to allow for maximum accessibility while requiring the least amount of movement. Think Japanese/German efficiency meets Laura Ashley design. Due to the fact that we were a military family, the dimensions of the room were certain to change, but they always possessed three essentials; a love seat, lazy susan and a refrigerator. The love seat was important as it was just large enough for one person to lounge upon; thereby, eliminating the possibility of having to share the space. Mama would say, “It’s not that I mind sharin’, I just can’t cope with the inconvenience.” The lazy susan, while designed for the kitchen table, was important as one could easily access a variety of medications with a simple flick of the wrist. It was the Carousel of Inebriated Delight. The refrigerator was the ultimate necessity as it meant no more annoying trips to the kitchen. A slight bend at the waist with an outstretched arm would be all that was required to access a supply of Coca-Cola, an assortment of puddings, and a variety of Pepperidge Farm and Sara Lee cakes. It was as if she was preparing for a trailer park nuclear winter.
I heard the call, “RRR-AWW-BUH!”, unaware that I was just in the next room.
“Ma’am?!?” I asked, sticking to the script. I counted to five, and then...
“RRR-AWW-BUH!”
I brought my head out of my doorway, looked to the right, and said angrily, “Mama, I’m right here! What is it?’ She looked up as if she thought my voice was coming from the ceiling. She was doing that echo locating thing again. I shook my head. “Mama, I’m right here!” I stood in the doorway, my hands balled into fists of frustration.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were there.” She smiled at me, swatted at some imaginary flying insects, blinked, and kept smiling. It was creepy. Nora Desmond creepy.
“What is it?” I asked coldly.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I almost forgot.”
“Forgot? You just called me like...ten seconds ago.” I shook my head, rolled my eyes and waited.
“Don’t you be a smartass to me. You respect me, or else.” There was a dramatic pause. She shifted in her seat, adjusted her robe, shoved a Kleenex down her sleeve, swatted again at the imaginary insect and then...she was back!
“Now, I have somethin’ I want to show you.” She reached down, and from under the love seat, she brought out a bell. It was brass, and approximately six inches tall, possessing a hand-carved wooden handle. I had seen this knick-knack before. It was normally kept in the living room with the other vast assortment of decorative crap. Mama held it up next to her face, smiled at it and then back at me.
“What?” I asked. “It’s a bell.” I stared back, looking for an explanation that involved something more than creepy looks and jittery hand gestures. She looked like a drunk Vanna White clumsily displaying a vowel.
“Uh-huh.” she smiled and raised her eyebrows as if that would be enough of a clue.
I couldn’t say anything. If I did, it would just be cruel. I’m a bitch, but I do have a soul where Mama is concerned. Granted, it’s about as dark and dank as Charlie Sheen’s suite at The Plaza, but I do have one. I sighed, and waited for the explanation.
“When I ring this...” she picked it up and gave the bell a shake, because I had clearly spent my entire life without hearing a bell before. “You need to come to me.”
“What? Why?”
“This will make it easier.” she slurred. It was clear she had just had her Valium nightcap with a pudding back.
“Make what easier?” I demanded, but I was still whining.
“Watch your tone with me, mister.” she paused and glared at me. I took a deep breath, folded my arms and glared back. She went on, “This will make it easier for me to call you when I need you.” What teenager wants to hear that their Mama needs them? It made me wince, like watching Whitney Houston attempting to dance.
Mama always needed something, but her needs were now becoming life threatening. Just a week earlier I was forced into rush hour traffic on a Friday, in a thunder storm complete with flash floods and tornado warnings. All because Mama was out of cigarettes, and because she’s a lazy, self-absorbed, potted-princess whose only pleasure in life comes from making others miserable, but she’s great at parties.
I was 16 and had little experience maneuvering an automobile in a natural disaster. I had even less experience dealing with a Southern Belle with a drug habit worthy of street cred. I was driving the’76 Mercury at the time; a massive automobile that when coupled with inclement weather, and a stupid teenager, became more weapon than car. Matters weren’t helped by my extraordinarily long, blond bangs and a defrost mechanism that was permanently set to Rain Forest. I remember wishing for a barrette, and a paper towel. I think I even cried a little, but I would cry more after a 1985 Honda Civic came hydroplaning into me. The Honda was totaled. The Mercury barely had a scratch. Despite the hard evidence that God did not want me on the road, I pressed on, and retrieved Mama’s cigs. Flash floods and tornadoes pale in comparison to Mama without her nicotine.
The bell would dominate my home life for more than a year until the Spring of ’89 when Mama entered rehab for the second time. The first time didn’t count as Mama thought she was on a cruise. Only my mother would confuse group therapy with shuffle board. After rehab, Mama returned home dried out and pissed off. She hired a private detective to monitor my father’s activities, filed for divorce, and began packing up our home for a destination unknown. “I just need to do somethin’ with my hands, or I will go kah-ray-zay!”
It was ugly, but Mama was a new woman, and she no longer needed me to butter her toast, pour a Coke, or check her pulse. She was getting out more, and had even taken to spending her mornings at a variety of Shoney’s Restaurants around Memphis with her Narcotics Anonymous sponsor, Marilyn. Marilyn believed that the Shoney’s Breakfast Bar (that’s an all you can eat buffet for the those who need to know) was a great place to meet available men, but this was too ridiculous even for Mama. She once told me, “Marilyn is very sweet, but she’s also an alcoholic. She’ll go anywhere with a bar. Even if that bar is only serving cheese grits.”
Mama had become unstoppable, and for a few months I had grown to love her again. She was vibrant, exciting, and we laughed all the time. I didn’t care that my parents were divorcing. It seemed to be the best thing for all of us. Then the magic that is therapy worked its wonders and Mama and Daddy reconciled. All it took was a few emotional outbursts, mediated by a round little man with unusually large pores by the name of Dr. Epstein, for Daddy to assume the position (on bended knee) and Mama’s resolve melted away. Soon after, she bought a new dress, booked a church, and skipped down the aisle. I didn’t care. The bell was gone, and I was college bound. I had no worries other than I was 250 pounds, gay and completely lacking any self-esteem. I was pathetic on a grand scale. I still had great hair, though. Is there anything else?
We would return to Stuckey’s nearly five years after the mechanical claw incident, but Mama wanted to remain in the car while I fetched her a Coke and some fresh packs. Perhaps she was just too ashamed to venture in, or she truly had no memory of what happened when she said, “Rob, I would never enter an establishment that sold ‘logs’ of candy. It just sounds tacky, and as a Southern lady I do not do tacky.” I didn’t say anything when she sneezed and "popped out" a little gas. There was a brief moment when we exchanged knowing looks. She glanced away, acting as if she had just discovered something of dire importance in her purse. I could have made a snide remark, but...that would have been tacky.
One evening, as I was obsessing over the right sweater-button down-tie combination, Mama asked me to come into her sitting room. As Mama had once told me, “A sittin’ room is a place for a woman to gather her thoughts, perhaps journal and read. It’s like your father’s study, but with a more delicate, feminine touch.” More accurately, it would be a place to watch Cagney & Lacey, eat Butterfingers, skim through an assortment of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, and discover the wonders of home shopping. It would also be a drug den. A safe place to take enough prescription medication to cease all higher brain functions without interference from other family members, or the law. For Mama, the sitting room was her Happy Place, like Disneyland, only much smaller, and with smokeless ash trays because, as she once said, “Oh, I do enjoy smoking, it’s just the smoke I can’t handle.”
The sitting room was specifically designed to allow for maximum accessibility while requiring the least amount of movement. Think Japanese/German efficiency meets Laura Ashley design. Due to the fact that we were a military family, the dimensions of the room were certain to change, but they always possessed three essentials; a love seat, lazy susan and a refrigerator. The love seat was important as it was just large enough for one person to lounge upon; thereby, eliminating the possibility of having to share the space. Mama would say, “It’s not that I mind sharin’, I just can’t cope with the inconvenience.” The lazy susan, while designed for the kitchen table, was important as one could easily access a variety of medications with a simple flick of the wrist. It was the Carousel of Inebriated Delight. The refrigerator was the ultimate necessity as it meant no more annoying trips to the kitchen. A slight bend at the waist with an outstretched arm would be all that was required to access a supply of Coca-Cola, an assortment of puddings, and a variety of Pepperidge Farm and Sara Lee cakes. It was as if she was preparing for a trailer park nuclear winter.
I heard the call, “RRR-AWW-BUH!”, unaware that I was just in the next room.
“Ma’am?!?” I asked, sticking to the script. I counted to five, and then...
“RRR-AWW-BUH!”
I brought my head out of my doorway, looked to the right, and said angrily, “Mama, I’m right here! What is it?’ She looked up as if she thought my voice was coming from the ceiling. She was doing that echo locating thing again. I shook my head. “Mama, I’m right here!” I stood in the doorway, my hands balled into fists of frustration.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were there.” She smiled at me, swatted at some imaginary flying insects, blinked, and kept smiling. It was creepy. Nora Desmond creepy.
“What is it?” I asked coldly.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I almost forgot.”
“Forgot? You just called me like...ten seconds ago.” I shook my head, rolled my eyes and waited.
“Don’t you be a smartass to me. You respect me, or else.” There was a dramatic pause. She shifted in her seat, adjusted her robe, shoved a Kleenex down her sleeve, swatted again at the imaginary insect and then...she was back!
“Now, I have somethin’ I want to show you.” She reached down, and from under the love seat, she brought out a bell. It was brass, and approximately six inches tall, possessing a hand-carved wooden handle. I had seen this knick-knack before. It was normally kept in the living room with the other vast assortment of decorative crap. Mama held it up next to her face, smiled at it and then back at me.
“What?” I asked. “It’s a bell.” I stared back, looking for an explanation that involved something more than creepy looks and jittery hand gestures. She looked like a drunk Vanna White clumsily displaying a vowel.
“Uh-huh.” she smiled and raised her eyebrows as if that would be enough of a clue.
I couldn’t say anything. If I did, it would just be cruel. I’m a bitch, but I do have a soul where Mama is concerned. Granted, it’s about as dark and dank as Charlie Sheen’s suite at The Plaza, but I do have one. I sighed, and waited for the explanation.
“When I ring this...” she picked it up and gave the bell a shake, because I had clearly spent my entire life without hearing a bell before. “You need to come to me.”
“What? Why?”
“This will make it easier.” she slurred. It was clear she had just had her Valium nightcap with a pudding back.
“Make what easier?” I demanded, but I was still whining.
“Watch your tone with me, mister.” she paused and glared at me. I took a deep breath, folded my arms and glared back. She went on, “This will make it easier for me to call you when I need you.” What teenager wants to hear that their Mama needs them? It made me wince, like watching Whitney Houston attempting to dance.
Mama always needed something, but her needs were now becoming life threatening. Just a week earlier I was forced into rush hour traffic on a Friday, in a thunder storm complete with flash floods and tornado warnings. All because Mama was out of cigarettes, and because she’s a lazy, self-absorbed, potted-princess whose only pleasure in life comes from making others miserable, but she’s great at parties.
I was 16 and had little experience maneuvering an automobile in a natural disaster. I had even less experience dealing with a Southern Belle with a drug habit worthy of street cred. I was driving the’76 Mercury at the time; a massive automobile that when coupled with inclement weather, and a stupid teenager, became more weapon than car. Matters weren’t helped by my extraordinarily long, blond bangs and a defrost mechanism that was permanently set to Rain Forest. I remember wishing for a barrette, and a paper towel. I think I even cried a little, but I would cry more after a 1985 Honda Civic came hydroplaning into me. The Honda was totaled. The Mercury barely had a scratch. Despite the hard evidence that God did not want me on the road, I pressed on, and retrieved Mama’s cigs. Flash floods and tornadoes pale in comparison to Mama without her nicotine.
The bell would dominate my home life for more than a year until the Spring of ’89 when Mama entered rehab for the second time. The first time didn’t count as Mama thought she was on a cruise. Only my mother would confuse group therapy with shuffle board. After rehab, Mama returned home dried out and pissed off. She hired a private detective to monitor my father’s activities, filed for divorce, and began packing up our home for a destination unknown. “I just need to do somethin’ with my hands, or I will go kah-ray-zay!”
It was ugly, but Mama was a new woman, and she no longer needed me to butter her toast, pour a Coke, or check her pulse. She was getting out more, and had even taken to spending her mornings at a variety of Shoney’s Restaurants around Memphis with her Narcotics Anonymous sponsor, Marilyn. Marilyn believed that the Shoney’s Breakfast Bar (that’s an all you can eat buffet for the those who need to know) was a great place to meet available men, but this was too ridiculous even for Mama. She once told me, “Marilyn is very sweet, but she’s also an alcoholic. She’ll go anywhere with a bar. Even if that bar is only serving cheese grits.”
Mama had become unstoppable, and for a few months I had grown to love her again. She was vibrant, exciting, and we laughed all the time. I didn’t care that my parents were divorcing. It seemed to be the best thing for all of us. Then the magic that is therapy worked its wonders and Mama and Daddy reconciled. All it took was a few emotional outbursts, mediated by a round little man with unusually large pores by the name of Dr. Epstein, for Daddy to assume the position (on bended knee) and Mama’s resolve melted away. Soon after, she bought a new dress, booked a church, and skipped down the aisle. I didn’t care. The bell was gone, and I was college bound. I had no worries other than I was 250 pounds, gay and completely lacking any self-esteem. I was pathetic on a grand scale. I still had great hair, though. Is there anything else?
We would return to Stuckey’s nearly five years after the mechanical claw incident, but Mama wanted to remain in the car while I fetched her a Coke and some fresh packs. Perhaps she was just too ashamed to venture in, or she truly had no memory of what happened when she said, “Rob, I would never enter an establishment that sold ‘logs’ of candy. It just sounds tacky, and as a Southern lady I do not do tacky.” I didn’t say anything when she sneezed and "popped out" a little gas. There was a brief moment when we exchanged knowing looks. She glanced away, acting as if she had just discovered something of dire importance in her purse. I could have made a snide remark, but...that would have been tacky.
Grits-n-Gossip Bonus Feature:
Buried Culinary Treasures From Mama's Pantry to Yours...enjoy.
Kentucky Colonels
1 box confectioners sugar
Bourbon (just bring the bottle)
1/4 pound butter
1 tablespoon undiluted evaporated milk
1 pound bittersweet chocolate
1/4 block parawax
Pecans
Combine in mixing bowl the sugar, butter, and milk. Shape by hand this fondant into balls about the size of a small English walnut. With the little finger, shape a cavity into the ball of fondant, making sure the sides and bottom of the ball are not broken. With a medicine dropper, fill the cavity with Bourbon - do not fill too full - pinch top together (extra fondant may be used to seal cavity)(bourbon must not spill out). Melt bittersweet chocolate with parawax over hot water. Chocolate mixture must be deep for dipping fondant balls. Place a bourbon-filled fondant ball on a fork and dip into melted chocolate. Remove from fork and place pecan half on top.
Kentucky Colonels
1 box confectioners sugar
Bourbon (just bring the bottle)
1/4 pound butter
1 tablespoon undiluted evaporated milk
1 pound bittersweet chocolate
1/4 block parawax
Pecans
Combine in mixing bowl the sugar, butter, and milk. Shape by hand this fondant into balls about the size of a small English walnut. With the little finger, shape a cavity into the ball of fondant, making sure the sides and bottom of the ball are not broken. With a medicine dropper, fill the cavity with Bourbon - do not fill too full - pinch top together (extra fondant may be used to seal cavity)(bourbon must not spill out). Melt bittersweet chocolate with parawax over hot water. Chocolate mixture must be deep for dipping fondant balls. Place a bourbon-filled fondant ball on a fork and dip into melted chocolate. Remove from fork and place pecan half on top.
Once again, you made me laugh out loud ... confusing rehab for a cruise is utterly priceless. PRICELESS!!! I do so enjoy your humor!
ReplyDelete"and the only thing worse than being tacky is being called tacky." I do so love your momma. And for everyone else, the Stuckey's incident is much funnier (though this one did force me into an unladylike snort) live w/ hand gestures.
ReplyDelete