Tuesday, August 19, 2014

The Pot and The Kettle Walk Into A Closet

The rainbow has nothing to do with this post other than I'm so goddamn optimistic.

     I talk on the telephone with my mother almost every morning.  If I don't call she'll either call me or call my brother's wife and have her call me to find out why I didn't call.  If I just go ahead and call mom, I at least can control when we're talking.  This morning our conversation revolved initially around her weekend trip to see her sister in beautiful and historic Latrobe, former source of Rolling Rock Beer, before it was snatched up by the evil folks over at Anheuser-Busch (now InBev) and beer production was moved to Camden, NJ.  Yes, who wants beer crafted from mountain spring water when you can get a beer made from Camden tap water?  Only whiners complain about the toxicity of their beer! 
     We no longer drink Rolling Rock Beer, having switched to the new product produced by Latrobe Brewing Company, Duquesne Beer.
     Anyway, I am really allowing this narrative to get away from me...Mom came back from her trip and was pretty exhausted, so she got into her nightie around 5pm last night, right after supper.  Not long after that her phone rang and it was the daughter of one of her friends, explaining that they'd been shopping at the mall (daughter, mom/friend, and two daughters/granddaughters = 4) and mom's friend needed to use the bathroom and could they possibly stop by and do just that, they'd be there in less than two minutes, thanks?  Mom said yes, of course, and in less than two minutes they were all standing in  her kitchen, except for Bernice (mom's friend) who was in the toilet.  I'm assuming that everything was fine between Bernice and the commode, though I didn't hear another word about any of that.  No, mom launched into a very un-Christian (she is very Christian, typically) rant about the tops Bernice purchased with her hoard of Macy's gift cards, how Bernice already has every closet in her house (widow, lives alone) stuffed with clothes she doesn't wear and has no place to wear them, and how Bernice should've given the gift cards to her daughter and granddaughters (who likely were the ones who gave her the gift cards in the first place), and finally, how Bernice needs more clothes like she needs a hole in the head, which is a little tacky because she does have a slow growing brain tumor.
     As my mother gets older (she isn't super old, mid-70s), she is less tolerant and more vocal about that intolerance.  OH!  AND every closet in her house (widow, lives alone) is stuffed full of her clothes.  Clothes that she continues to shop for endlessly.  I haven't gone clothes shopping with her in decades because I honestly lack all appreciation for the subtle differences between the shades of taupe and coffee in pantyhose.  It's infuriating, on so many levels. 
     After we hung up this morning I had that awful metallic taste of irony in my mouth and it just won't go away.

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