Bless Me Father...

Last Friday, a young cousin of mine was married and because our family is insanely huge she invited only the old aunts which was just fine by me. However, my mother drafted me to be her chauffeur for the evening and so I had to accompany her to the church before entertaining her for 2 hours and hauling her off to the reception. Now, I knew my mission was difficult; however, my children have sufficiently broken me so I thought, "What's left of my sanity that my mother could actually break?" (Hint: never ask yourself that question sober!)

The ceremony at the church began at 5pm so it was completely logical that my mother insist we arrive at 4pm to get a good seat. Of course when we arrived the church was locked and therefore we did the next best thing--we walked around the cemetery for 30minutes which in itself is enough to bring your mood to suicidal, but when she stopped at my father's grave to tell him that the refrigerator he bought her 40 years ago finally broke and he did her no favors by building custom cabinets around the refrigerator because now she can't find a g-d refrigerator to fit the g-d space because they don't make that g-d size anymore...!--well, let's just say I was rummaging through my purse for any expired prescription drugs that may be rolling around the bottom of my bag.

Finally, the church doors opened and I convinced my mother to sit in the last pew because I had just come from the pool and a cover-up dress was not appropriate attire for a wedding. The real reason I wanted to sit in the last pew is because my mother is a devout Catholic who believes in confession. Not the "Bless me Father, kneeling in the confessional" confession, but the very loud, very public confessions made from her seat in the pew about the people sitting near and around her. Having not seen her extended family and old friends in quite some time I knew she'd have a lot to say.

As the church began to fill and strangers sat in the pews in front of us I thought we were safe from any family members who would be seated towards the front overhearing the comments I was sure she would make. And then the priest flipped on the two gigantic fans that sat right behind our seat in the last pew. I began to sweat because now the fans would push her comments to the front of the church amplifying her vitriol.

Her first victim was a young cousin of mine who, I admit, is amply endowed and wore a dress that accentuated her healthy cleavage, but my mother in her loud church whisper said, "Will you look at the size of her boobies!" My head snapped to look at my mother in disbelief. Now I'm sitting next to Theresa from Housewives of NJ? "Those boobies are enormous! If she coughs her boobies'll fall to the floor and then what will she do?! I thought your boobies were big, but..."

"Stop saying 'boobies' in church!" I seethed.
"Oh you're being ridiculous!" she snapped back.

I handed her the a copy of the wedding booklet the bride and groom had placed in the pews for guests hoping that it would amuse her. She idly flipped through it and without looking up said, "You should talk to her about her boobies. Tell her about your BREAST REDUCTION."

I nearly pushed her to the floor in matricidal rage. "Stop talking about boobies...her boobies...my boobies...stop!!!" Now I couldn't stop saying boobies and the people seated in the pew in front of us began to shift uncomfortably.

"I'm just saying that you should tell her about your BREAST REDUCTION because your boobies were humung..."

I pinched her arm like she was one of my children and told her if she didn't stop talking about overgrown body parts we were leaving!!!

I couldn't quell the nausea rising like the perfect storm in my belly as the grandmothers of the bride were escorted in. I could tell my mother was shifting her thoughts from boobies to whores when she pointed to a guest and said, "Will you look at her--in that outfit! You know she cheated on her husband in 1955! She always had a reputation as a ..."
Another pinch accompanied with, "DO NOT SAY IT!" Now STOP!"

Now, people were willing to ignore 'boobies' but words like 'cheating on her husband' and 'reputation' registers with people especially when they're directed at a seemingly harmless 80 year old woman.

Just when I thought there was nothing worse she could possibly say it was time for the vows. A hush fell over the congregation when the bride and groom stood to take their vows. I could see that my mother thought this was her cue to give a play-by-play commentary. The first pitch 'whispered' was, "She married someone who's bald? She's so beautiful!" The second pitch: "Why would she want someone who's bald? and is he Mexican or an Arab? I can't tell." The third pitch: "You see that old fat woman wearing that awful red dress with the knee-hi's? She was voted most beautiful in 1945. Look at her now! I hope they don't sit me with her--I'll never get anything to eat at the reception!"

At this point my mom conveniently drops her tissue, bends down to pick it up so that when everyone finally turns around to see who's been spewing all these comments I'm the only one standing. I thought the crowd was going to attack me there and then, but thankfully the priest pronounced the bride and groom, man and wife, and there was no time for retribution of the masses as the newlyweds kissed.

By the time the bride and groom made their way down the aisle, I was hoping to get my hands on some of the sacramental wine because I was done! I made my mother wait until everyone left the church because I wanted to leave by the side door afraid that I would be assaulted by the crowd. However, before I could make my get-a-way my mother said, "Wait, I want to go light a candle. Here-- take this dollar, it would benefit you to light one too. Oh, and don't forget to talk to your cousin with the big boobies about your BREAST REDUCTION!"

"Bless me Father..." I said as I looked up towards the statue of Jesus who, unless my eyes were deceiving me, seemed to be smiling just a little.

Bernie's Dead and Your Library Books are Overdue

I love my mother, I swear I do, but sometimes I feel like the Ethel Mertz to her Lucy Ricardo. Let me 'splain. My mom works at the Fort Lee Library and Monday night's are her late night--she works 1pm-9pm and goes home for a dinner break from
5pm-6pm. I tell you this because it's relevant to my story.
Tonight, like almost every Monday night, I took the kids to visit Grandma at the library. Tonight was different though. As she checked out the books I was taking out she said, "You have two books that are overdue, which reminds me--I think Bernie's dead--go to my house and check."

"'Scuse me?" Now, Bernie is my mother's tenant. He is eighty years old and hasn't missed a day of mass since Prohibition was rescinded. Everyday he has his routine--he goes to mass, he sings in the choir, then he goes to the liquor store, and has what I am sure is, a lovely afternoon. He naps around 2, then goes for a walk. Life is good for Bernie--I think I want to be Bernie. But my mother received a very worried phone call from Bernie's sister (who doesn't live in the area) earlier in the afternoon--she had received a phone call from 2 other church goers worried because Bernie missed mass. My mother told the sister that she had talked with Bernie yesterday and he was fine.

To which I replied, "Mom, that was yesterday. A lot can happen in the life of an 80 year old overnight. Why didn't you just go and check on him?"

"Why? And find him dead? I don't need that at my age."

Oh dear God.

She continues, "Take the kids and go up to the house and check on him. If the porch light is on when you get there, then he's ok, but if it's not on, call 9-1-1."

That won't scar my children too much. So off we trekked to the north part of Fort Lee, known as Coytesville to us natives. I pulled the mini van up to my mother's house. No porch lights. Jack broke the silence by saying, "I guess Bernie's dead." I inform him that we're going to knock on Bernie's door. Katie, my little adventuress, is all for it--Jack wants no part of it. "I'm too young to see a dead man," he shouts, "Even if Grandma wants you to!"

With heavy feet and heart I climbed the steps of Bernie's porch and knocked. Sensible Katie says, "If he's dead, how can he answer the door?" Now I'm freaked out and start banging on the door and shouting, "Bernie, Bernie!!! Are you okay? It's me; it's Ann!" I repeated this a number of times when suddenly the porch light snaps on. Before I have a chance to react, I hear Jack scream from the comfort of the mini van that he refused to get out of. I'm too scared to scream and Katie, being Katie, is disappointed, "Darnit, no dead Bernie." (She knows he has a pink bathroom; pink is her favorite color. She has dibs on his bathroom when he departs this earth.)

Disheveled, but very much alive, Bernie looked at me like I was crazy. I told him everyone became worried when he missed mass, and when I didn't see his porch light on I thought the worse. He laughed, told me he stayed in today because he threw his back out. But he thanked me for checking in on him, and as I walked back down the steps, he shouted, "God Bless You!"

I immediately went to the library to share the good news of Bernie's being found alive with my mother. "Oh, I'm so glad that Bernie's not dead," she said, "Now what about your overdue library books?"