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rue-madame's Diaryland Diary


Mother is a bad word (by no means an exhaustive list)

My mother coughs without covering her mouth. She thinks that because it is an asthma cough—and not one brought on by a cold—it is ok to spray her microbes into orbit.

My mother thinks she is the only one on the planet who TRULY appreciates music. To show the world that she is the only authentic connoisseur, she sings, whistles or snaps loudly to get people’s attention. I was treated to not only her snapping along to the Greek music at lunch, but also arms in the air dancing à la Zorba the Greek when she returned to the table after the bathroom.

My mother has a way of making moral judgements on inanimate objects. This is hard to describe without the benefit of an mp3 file of her tone of voice.

My mother discriminates against fat people, but she herself is huge.

My mother mutters under her breath outloud. Usually about people in her immediate vicinity.

My mother refuses to acknowledge that she has jet-lag because she equates jet-lag with psychological weakness.

My mother huffs and puffs walking around, and when you ask her if she’s ok, she says she has a problem with her shoes.

My mother thinks that because she is studying Italian, she is free to insinuate herself into Italians’ conversations in order to practice her skills. She only wants to eat in Italian restaurants, see Italian films, and call people by the Italian equivalent of their names. Her friend Cathleen is now Caterina.

My mother used to smoke a pack a day, and now is one of those holier than thou anti-smokers.

My mother is manic-depressive and doesn’t take her meds.

My mother likes to take credit for her half of my genetic makeup, but only the half that outwardly showcases her magnificence.

My mother, when hot, will attempt to make you take off your sweater, as if somehow that will cool her off.

My mother has to tell every waiter that she can’t drink red wine because it gives her allergies.

My mother takes bites of your food without asking. When I was a kid, she would inhale her ice cream, saving a little piece of the end of the cone, and would come after me and my 2 sisters (we still had tons of ice cream left.) I ate the slowest of all 3 daughters, so I suffered the most ice cream deprivation.

My mother wants to be my friend.

My mother calls herself “The Authoress of Your [My] Days.”

My mother doesn’t like it when I disagree. Sometimes she’ll just turn around and stomp off in a huff.

My mother “adopts” marginal students, calls them her sons and daughters, offers them unconditional love.

My mother gives me gifts that say “I don’t know you.” When I don’t react appropriately, she sulks. Two days ago, I got a blue Murano glass (hey, it’s Italian!) heart-shaped pendant. Of course I will never wear it.

My mother wants me to have a child for her, so she can “hold a grandchild in [her] arms.” She didn’t like it when Terence said there were a lot of orphans that needed hugs.

My mother uses her pinky nail to dig underneath See’s candies, to find out what’s inside. Then she puts her rejected chocolates back in the box, eviscerated side down.

My mother despises her sister for having had the money and the nerve for a facelift.

My mother bitches about relatives, but sifts through their belongings with a fine-tooth comb when they’re dead.

My mother thinks that Costco makes good cashmere sweaters.

My mother is a type A, compulsive, workaholic overachiever who can’t stand the fact that my father kicks her ass—without breaking a sweat—in all of their Italian classes.

9:49 p.m. - 2001-09-15



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