My mother has a very direct way of speaking. She doesn’t have the ability to bite her tongue.
When my father’s brother was moments from remarrying after his thirty-six-year marriage ended, my mother called my father and insisted that she speak to him since she wasn’t able to attend. My uncle no doubt thought he was going to hear “Congratulations!” or well-wishing of some kind. Instead, my mother told him that she was sorry to say it, but she thought he was making a huge mistake. He shouldn’t marry the woman he was mere moments from exchanging vows with.
I can’t imagine saying that to someone. I can’t imagine what it must be like to hear that when you’re literally minutes from tying the knot. But I can imagine my mother doing that, not only because I was at the wedding staring at my uncle as he took the call, but because my whole life my mom has said whatever is on her mind to me and everyone else.
Her justification for being so direct is that she can’t “not be herself.” I think the rest of us would be thrilled if sometimes she could stop being herself and become someone else entirely. She tells you exactly what she thinks about the way you look, what you’re wearing, what you’re doing in life, who you’re dating, how you should feel, your opinions, thoughts, career, and what you should buy her.
Literally today, the day I am writing this, she called to tell me that there weren’t any cars that she could find locally to purchase. That is, of course, not true. There are a dozen dealerships less than three miles from where she lives. If you understand my mother you’d know that this translates to, “Will you buy me a car?” My reply was, “Keep looking. I’m sure you’ll find one.”
My favorite asshole move of hers is when she tells you not to be upset about something. Maybe the dog jumped on your back and scratched you, or you just found out you didn’t get the job you wanted. She has this really spectacular talent for waiting until the exact worst moment, down to the second, when you’re completely frustrated, before she drops the always helpful, “Don’t be upset.”
It’s pretty cool!
If that’s a lot to take in, imagine if I were describing your goddamn mother, because that is mine. She is a tornado of tumultuous emotions wrapped in a petite Latina woman’s body.
She’ll look you dead in your eyes and tell you, “You don’t look good” while she’s wearing thirty-five-year-old pajamas and her hair looks like it has been set on fire. She’ll tell you that you’re wasting your money on something you want to indulge in for yourself, but she will follow that up by telling you that she “needs” the new iPhone. My favorite of her hilarious hypocrisies is her guidance on health and wellness. She will lecture anyone within earshot about what they should be doing to achieve optimum human performance. She will display a face of horror while you eat something that she finds unappetizing or unhealthy.
“How many pieces of bacon are you going to have? My god, you’re going to turn into a pig.”
“It’s only two pieces of bacon.”
“Yeah, but look how big they are. Those two pieces might as well be six pieces.”
That’s probably the nicest exchange you can have with her about what you’re eating. A lot of times it’s much more dramatic.
Cringe face followed by “Ugh, what is that? Yuck! You’re eating fish in a disgusting sauce? I want to vomit.”
Such a fun way to enjoy your meal, right? You’re just eating dinner and the commentary is free. Then there are her exercise opinions.
“You need to run and do some weights. Right now it’s too hot. Wait until after dinner.”
I should point out that she is small, five foot five, and maybe 110 pounds. You might be thinking, Wow, so she’s really healthy and just sharing her insights? Not exactly.
My mom eats like a toddler. I don’t mean that she eats exactly what a toddler eats. What I mean is that she eats what a toddler wishes they could eat all day. My mother begins her day by having two pieces of toast covered in butter and a super-rich jam of some kind. Apricot and strawberry jams have been a fixture in her diet for decades. That toast can hold her over for hours. She often skips lunch, but she doesn’t skip snacks. She likes pastries like prune bear claws, cookies, and a sweet Italian bread called panettone. These are the foods that fuel her midday. Once those nutrients are done being absorbed by her desperate muscles, it’s on to dinner. Here is where nine times out of ten her desired meal is chicken tenders, a small serving of rice, and French fries. I’ve seen her request this at Michelin-starred restaurants.
“Mom, this is one of the best restaurants in the world. Don’t you want to try their signature dish?”
“I want fries.”
Cheap date, sure, but how can you pass on this world-class food? For her this isn’t even a consideration.
As I mentioned before, she can be a real asshole. It’s actually impressive. She’ll ask if you’re dumb because you said something or did something that she simply doesn’t agree with. She’s called me every name in the book, which is sort of ironic given that she is such a devout Catholic, but I’m sure she asked for forgiveness and the big man gave it to her, so all is well. She often turns to “I have to tell you how I feel.” Uh, no, you don’t. You really can keep some thoughts and feelings to yourself. Thankfully, there’s some balance to her. Just when you can’t take her criticism any more, she’ll do something amazing like one of her widely celebrated farts.
Seriously. We, her family, have been in awe of her wind valve for decades. Early in the morning, late at night, and everywhere in between, this little lady can rip ass. It’s astonishing. Most people think it’s an embellishment and I understand why, but miraculously I captured one of my mom’s massive gas releases on video and shared it with the world. She’s understandably not thrilled about it, but I consider it payback for her way of interacting with the rest of us. It’s all over the internet and has been featured on dozens of channels because it truly is an other-level fart. A friend said he timed it at 9.12 seconds. I told him she’s had better ones. It’s true. I have an after-market exhaust on my car that I paid a fortune for, and it doesn’t come close to notes she can reach with her horn.
I can already hear how she’ll react to this chapter.
“The things you write about your own mother. Que Dios te perdone.” (May God forgive you.)
“You know I love you, Mom.”
“Yah, sure, Tommy.”
“Come on, Mom.”
“You’re going to have to pay for this one.”
“Oh yeah, what are we talking here?”
“You put it in a book, Tommy. I still can’t find a car.”