I’ve written a lot about my mother, but don’t fret.  She loved attention, so now that she’s deceased these stories make her eternal.  Kind of like Evita.  She had this uncanny ability to stump me with one liners:

 

Don’t unplug the crockpot.  If you need toast use the other outlet.  (while vacuuming)

I was saving that tea bag for later.  Jesus, don’t touch my stuff.  

We’re outta gin?  Jeffrey go to the liquor store.  Here’s a permission slip.

 

After spilling an entire pill bottle of muscle relaxers on the kitchen floor:

What’s wrong with the dog.  She’s shitting all over the goddamned place.

 

Serving spaghetti to a party of eight because one of them was Italian, and overcooking the pasta so it looked like a brain:

Would anyone like more spaghetti?  

(My Uncle Doug). Sure Janny I’ll take another slice.

 

Your father and I will be in Venezuela.  Here’s our hotel’s phone number, but don’t call. It’s long distance.

How long will you be there.

Well how the hell is that relevant?  A while I guess.

 

After all I’ve done for you, you won’t make me some toast and a Tom Collins?

Mom, I have school.

Oh you can be late for that.  You’ll just miss the pledge of allegiance.

 

You’re not wearing THAT are you?

Ummmm, probably not?

 

Kids, you’ll be spending most of the summer at Camp Calumet in New Hampshire.

Mom, I’m only six years old.  I don’t want to go.

I know, but I need a break too.  No one ever thinks of me.  I called ahead and told them you were eight and scrawny. 

 

(after leaving a Christmas dinner)  Who eats dinner before nine?

(me in back seat). Anyone with a cocktail hour that only lasts an hour.

 

Just wait til your father gets home.

Well when’ll that be.

Oh, who the hell knows.  I can’t keep track of everyone’s schedule.