The Linguist

My mother is a really fun person. She's the one who'd let us eat pizza for breakfast, or go without making our beds, or eat a bunch of candy then go to bed without brushing our teeth. She was the counter, in many ways, to my ball buster father.

But chances are, if you have a mom like that, she's also a little cracked.

One of my mom's most endearing quirks is her cadre of accents. Speaking normally, she has that flat, midwestern accent reflective of her Oklahoma upbringing. Every now and again, a bit of my dad's West Texas sneaks in. But having a normal conversation with her, you would not pick up a discernable accent.

Unless you are, say, a Mexican. Because then she starts talking like a Mexican, or at least how some middle aged white woman from Oklahoma who has difficulty pronouncing 'agua' would talk like a Mexican. More accurately, like an Oklahoman Mexican who was raised in Germany. "Ya?" she'll say "Can I get the car-nay asad-ya, with a side of hallepeynos, homes?"

(My mom can also never order straight off the menu. She always has to get something substituted, or on the side. She's never ready to order when everyone else is, and she always has a question about the menu. She is like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally, but with a Mexican-German accent.)

She is a verbal chameleon, unconsciously picking up the accent of the person she's talking to.

Living here in the south, particularly the rural south, the accents tend to get a little thick. Even more awesome than listening to my mom at a Mexican restaurant is hearing her go all Reba McEntire on someone. "Laws, y'all! I done told them young 'ens to keep outta that fishin' hole!" (That might be a slight exaggeration. I don't know that I've ever heard my mom reference a fishin' hole.) She's a hairdresser, so chances are she'll have to switch accents four, maybe five times a day, depending on the nationality and/or regional dialect of her clientele.

Do you know what kind of skills are required to go from Southern to Mexican to Yankee to German, all in the course of a single day?

She is no ordinary woman. She is wunderbar. And loco, yo.

Under the Knife

My mom went in for surgery today, and she was more than a little nervous. She made arrangements for transportation and someone to stay with her overnight, froze meals for her recovery, filled out the required paperwork at her job. She is kind of a wonderful person, and very well loved, and as a result, there has been an outpouring of support.

My brother called me, all nerves and anxiety - "Call me when she gets out, and let me know everything is okay."

"She'll be home by lunch."
"Yeah, if she makes it out. You know how old people are - they go in for a surgery, then never make it home from the hospital. Their bodies just can't take it."
"She's FIFTY-EIGHT."
"Well, when they open you up like that..."
"It's arthroscopic surgery!"
"Yeah, but when they start messing with your heart..."
"It's SHOULDER surgery, you dummy."
"I know, I know! But there's always a risk..."

Several of my friends called me this morning, "Any word on your mom? Can I bring you anything?" Now, my mom's friend has been with her all day, as I had other commitments. For instance, I had to go to Target. But who am I to turn someone down if they want to help? I think my friend Y- was a little surprised when she showed up at my house with my Jimmy John's and I was watching Oprah. Alone.

"Where's your mom?"
"I don't know? Damn it! I TOLD YOU no cucumbers!"

But, I am thankful that she is so loved and well taken care of, I'm afraid she wouldn't fare as well if it were only up to me. She is home now and resting after a successful procedure. Tonight, after the kids are settled, I'll walk up the road and take her something sweet to eat and ooh and ahh with proper respect at her wee incisions.

I should arrive just in time for the candlelight vigil.

Badass

In the year after my dad died, my mom went a little crazy. She quit her high powered corporate job and went to beauty school, she bought a Harley, she spent hours and hours rearranging furniture and tearing out bushes. One day she took a sledgehammer to her front porch, tearing it down piece by piece, swinging the hammer and beating the shit out of grief. I wonder what the neighbors thought as they drove by that day, watching her cursing and crying and sweating and swinging. They probably thought the same thing I do:

That chick is Badass.

She married, lost a baby, divorced, remarried, had two babies, moved out of the country and back again (twice) before she was 25. She went from high school dropout to hotel front desk clerk to the only woman at her level in a multimillion dollar, international organization. She cuts hair, cooks like a fiend, wields power tools with ease, drinks men under the table and swears like a sailor.

Like I said, Badass.
 
And, the most sensitive person I know. She takes (frequent) ribbings with good humor, is generous in every way, gives affection freely and openly and willingly. She is given to weepiness. If I made a list of the 10 nicest things anyone has ever done for me, she'd hold at least half the spots. If you know her, chances are she's on your list as well.

She's a Badass with a sensitive side. Kind of like a hooker with a heart of gold, except without the sleeping with people for money.

She is brave and courageous and daring and smart and funny and beautiful. When my heart hurts the most there is no one I want more than my Mommy. She is my best friend, and inspires me every day to be a better mother and a better person.

I love you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day, you Badass!


(My mom asks that you please go vote for me on Circle of Moms. Did I just use my mom to pimp myself out for votes? Yes, yes I did!)

You Wanna Piece of Me?

I am non-confrontational. Exceedingly so. I avoid rocking the boat, making a fuss, causing a stink, being a squeaky wheel. I would rather suffer in silence (or, bitch incessantly to my husband) than mention a problem.

It causes me anxiety. I get all panicky and short of breath and shaky and I get that big lump in my throat that make me feel like I'm trying to talk with a grapefruit stuck in there. GAHHH CAAAHN I PLEEAZZE TAHHHK TO YUUUU? I have a hard time articulating my thoughts. I tear up. I might cry. No, I will cry. I get the hot face.

To avoid confrontations, I am - generally - a really nice person. I try to be helpful and friendly. So when I learn that someone is talking smack about me, my first thought is "Why would anyone not like me? I am really fucking likable!" My second thought is "That really pisses me off!". My third thought is "I can't wait until Sean gets home so I can take it out on him!" Poor guy.

I could take a lesson from my mom.

The other day we were leaving the mall, mom was finishing buckling up Julia. An elderly woman had pulled up behind us, waiting for the spot. She honked.

"Did she just honk?" I said.

Mom replies, "Yes, she did. I think I'll just stand here for awhile."

Now, here is my chance. I can say "Hell YES. Make the old bat wait!" or, I can freak out and hiss "GET IN THE CAR!" What do you think I did? Mom gets in and rolls down her window.

"OMG. What are you going to do? Are you going to flip her off?"

"Maybe."

"Stop! Roll your window up! Are you 12?"

I pulled out of the spot and had to restrain myself from giving the woman an apologetic wave. What I should have done, what I would have done if I had any balls, was go over to her and give her the old what for. Old ladies don't scare me (okay, a little bit). It's not that I'm scared of people, it's just that I'm scared...of...of...I'm scared they won't like me.

I'm scared that some random stranger out there in the world won't like me. That is sick. Maybe I do need to go back to therapy.