I love my mom. Always have, always will. But the dear old lady has a penchant for turning phrases around or just getting things wrong in the most humorous of ways. I, along with my brothers and sisters, have always said that we need to write theses things down. Tonight, I start. I expect that I will continue to have revelations as time goes on. When those occur, I will be sure to throw out a quick post with whatever the new momism of the day is. Most certainly, new ones are to happen, as well.
I start with a few quick hits, and end with the most embarrassing momism on record.
First, some quotes:
“Well, you know what they say. You can lead a cow to water, but you can’t make it drink.” Perhaps this is to be forgiven, since she has spent her entire married life on a dairy farm.
For my non-farm friends, a little explanation is in order for the next momism. When farmers make the first hay of the season, it is called “first crop.” Then, the hay will grow back so that later in the season it can be cut again as “second crop.” In some years, if the growing season is long enough and weather allows, the hay may reach harvest-able height once again, for “third crop.” Logic dictates that you cannot have third crop until a second crop has occurred. Logic is not my mom’s strongest suit. And so the next momism happened in a year where the weather was not cooperating, and the first crop hay was being harvested much later than usual: “Boy, by the time you get the first crop hay in, you’ll have to go straight to third crop!”
This is an adult-oriented story. I apologize in advance for something that may not be appropriate for all ages. But the story is a true momism, and one that must be shared. I trust you will understand.
My mom has a standing hair appointment at 10:00 am on Friday mornings. This has been a staple of her existence for as long as I can remember. I long ago stopped trying to figure out what the draw in this is, but I think it has more to do with the fact that the hairdresser in the small town in which I grew up is the hub of all information much more than it actually has to do with getting her hair done.
On one of these many days, my mom had gotten a wash or something. All I know is that the woman was blow-drying her hair. My mom apparently thought she was doing a fine job, and said, “Boy, you sure give a good blow job.”
The place erupted into laughter. My mom, who didn’t have a clue what she had just said, wanted to know what was so funny. It didn’t take them long to realize that this dear old woman truly didn’t know what a blow job was.
And, so, my mom came home trying to figure out what it could possibly be. The first victim was my older brother, who refused to answer her question, and was horrified that she had asked him such a thing, and also that she had said such a thing in public. Well, I guess that made her figure out that this is probably a bit too sensitive for a mother-son conversation, so she asked my dad. I did not witness that, but word has it he busted out laughing that she actually made this statement, and then shared with her the embarrassing details of it all, which she was then shocked and appalled at.
But she wasn’t done. Here I was, probably 13-14 years old at the time. I remember lying on my back on the kitchen floor tossing a ball up into the air (trying to see how close I could come to the ceiling without touching it. Man, I was a crazy kid…). Who would have guessed that my mom, who was standing there with a contemplative look on her face, would utter the question, “Joe… Do you know what a blow job is?”
I was raised to be honest. But I wanted to lie. I wanted my words to be, “Why, no mother. I have never heard of such a thing. Has it, perchance, anything to do with furnace repair?” But I did not. I stammered. It was obvious that I knew, I could not hide it. At this point, I had not heard the story of my mother’s embarrassing appointment. I did not know where this was going, and didn’t particularly want to get involved in this conversation. But I finally responded, “Uhhhhhhhh… yeah…”
What followed was a confusing verbal chastisement about how I shouldn’t know what that is. She was angry. I know she wasn’t angry at me for having heard of it, she was angry at society for making me aware of it. I see that now. But as a 14 year old, I was freakin’ confused about why I was getting yelled at. She finally must have felt like she needed to share the story with me as to what brought all this up. I remember thinking it was funny. I’m not sure she appreciated that. But I was also relieved at that point to know why this had suddenly become the Saturday morning post-breakfast subject of choice.
I am not quite sure I have done justice to the story. This has lived in infamy. Despite its adult subject matter, it has been a story long told at Thanksgiving tables or family gatherings (usually just among the adults, of course). One thing about my mom is she’s a good sport. She knows she has her moments, and she laughs at herself.
Personal Diatribes 