Dont Mince Words

It is always special when my nephews decide to call me. Tonight Dave, my 2.5 year old nephew, asked his mom to dial. He had something to tell me.

“Aunt Mah-na? I went pee in the potty,” Dave announced.

“You did? Does that mean you are a big boy?” I asked.

“Yes, and I have pull-ups,” he said.

Sam got on the phone and confirmed that his little brother did, indeed, use the toilet. He was the piss validator in that kid rite-of-passage.

Then I began to wonder, why was I chosen to be told this wonderous news out of the combined roster of aunts and uncles? Why me? Is it because I giggle when they fart? Did Sam tell Dave that I am Cool Aunt Marna and I’m the one that likes bodily functions? It really makes me wonder.

Will I be the one they call when they need to get bailed out of jail on spring break? Will they call me when they smoke their first joint or buy their first pack of condoms? I hope my early influence will prompt them to keep the calls coming.

Next step: I need to tell Dave that a coiled turd in the toilet is called a cobra. Maybe that will make him sit on the pot longer…

I got the call a little after 6 a.m. Grandma passed away after midnight. In March she was 92. She had her share of recent health problems; however, she really didn’t start living until Homer, her husband and my grandfather, passed away years prior.

It was a remarkable transformation. She cut her waist-lengh hair short so it would curl. She got out of Kannapolis, North Carolina and travelled with my Aunt Gloria to regularly enjoy the beach at Top Sail island. Grandma took her first plane ride to Florida to attend my brother’s wedding. She danced with a black man–something she could never get away with in Kannapolis. She looked so alive and happy.

There are two things I’ll always remember about Gladys. Her homemade biscuits were great. My brother and I would foam at the mouth once we crossed the NC boarder. Mom would get her grits and scrapple, we would get the biscuits.

The other thing I’ll never forget about my grandmother was a comment she made to me at my brother’s wedding. It was the first time I had seen her since my wedding reception. She gave me a hug, pulled me to the side, and held my hand and whispered, “He was no good. You look happy and much better off.” Someone had obviously told her I got a divorce.

Gladys, I hope you turned cartwheels going through the gates. There should be a fruity, umbrella drink waiting for you and a nice, cabana boy ready to give you a rub down.

In the dating world, I would be considered the Dating Sensei and my mother would be my Grasshopper. She could learn a thing or two from me, and yet, she continues to wallow in semi-happiness and complacency. She has not learned from my lessons, but I have learned from hers.

“This is all your fault,” she squawked to me last night on the phone. I continue to be blamed, four years later, for placing the personal ad that yielded her an old man she respectfully refers to as Mr. Harris.

“He thinks going to the pool is bathing and he’s cheap. He lives with me and won’t consider buying ½ a car with me, but it is OK for me to chauffeur his ass all over town and put miles on MY old car,” she said.

“Well, mom, why don’t you go retro on him and quote him rates. Hookers have base rates and a la cart price lists. Tell him it is $2.00 to get in the car and $.35 each quarter mile,” I suggested while she laughed.

It pains me to see Mom in this situation. Dad has been gone nearly nine years. She had an adjustment being alone after being an old man caregiver for so long. It was fun to see her excited about dating, but she didn’t broaden her sample size prior to settling for this dirty, alcoholic, and cheap old man. Now she is complaining and realizing she compromised standards and yet she can’t give this bad habit up. The fear of being alone grips her again.

I asked her if Mr. Harris has ever told her he loved her, but I quickly told her I didn’t want to know. I know the answer is no. They care for each other in their own weird help-I’ve-fallen-and-I-can’t-get-up way, but there’s no love here. I guess codependency breeds contempt.

I continue to learn through my mother’s bad examples and she won’t listen to me. Why be bothered if you aren’t having fun? If you don’t smile and receive joy from your partner, love will never grow.

Why waste your time?

NEXT.

Move on and never settle for a bad definition of happiness, grasshopper.