The Last Time I Talked To My Mother.

Occasionally, and from time to time, I will post on things that my mother has said. Usually these are odd things, embarrassing things, or jams that she has talked herself into. After all - her embarrassment is my delight. You can read them here, if you have absolutely nothing better at all to do.

I always label these posts "The Last Time I Talked To My Mother" because I have found that if you use a repetitive title then people get all excited and squeal with delight because they know, "uh, oh, Melissa's mom has done it again!" And then Chicago Tribune gets all excited and calls me up and Regis and Kelli try and phone me...it's all absurd really.

But sometimes a post isn't about my mother as much as it about her mother. And folks, these are even better.

Here is an email I received from my mom last night.

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Hey love,

I read your blog today. Truth hurts, little girl……

(I have no idea what "truth" she is talking about, but if it makes her feel better...)

I wanted to tell you something hilarious that Granny said today. I was afraid I would forget to tell you this week-end when I see you.

As you know she’s been really spoilt these last 2 weeks. I’m sure you’ve heard. She has actually stayed 10 days straight with me and the other nights I stayed down at her house.

I can get her to stay at her house as long as the following conditions are met:

1) I bring her HOT meals (and plenty of them.)

2) I bring plenty of reading material. Although I can not hand her anything with Micheal Jackson on the cover or she throws it at me. She says she is sick of him!

3) I have to listen to her read me the entire paper before I even get mine! She especially loves the obits and the forecasts.

(I would just like to note here that my mom is a newspaper Hitler. She like to read her newspapers on her time and on her turf. And she is obsessed with the obituaries. She gets all giggly and like to read them out loud to us. Hmmm...maybe the apple really doesn't fall far from the tree.)

4) I must screen all her phone calls allowing only those chosen few that she desires to hear from and then I am told to ignore the rest.

5) Once or twice every day, at any given time, I must answer these 2 questions: “Where is Bubba” & “Would somebody tell me again just exactly where Bubba works?"

(Note to readers: No one, I repeat, no one ever knows where Bubba is or what he does to make money. He no longer works at UPS and I have to admit, we are both entertained and concerned. More entertained than concerned, though.)

Soooo, anyhoo, yesterday I brought her a new installment of reading material. One was a book entitled, “90 Minutes In Heaven” about a man that - you guessed it - died and had an after life experience. So today I gave her a permanent...

(Holy stink! My mom just used the word "permanent." Chances are they were watching Dallas and drinking a Tab while they did it.)

...and I asked her if she enjoyed the book. She literally snarled at me! She said,

“Well first off, I didn’t enjoy reading about his so called 'horrible health' after the wreck. That was just gross! You know I don’t like books about sufferin'! I know a little bit about sufferin' myself but you don’t see me writing a book about you wiping my bottom do I ? No sir!! Secondly, he talks about himself too much. Me me me me! And how he overcame his handicaps! Blah,blah blah! I’ve gotta broke wrist – so I know a little about pain. Pain is my business and trust me, business is good!!!!! But most of all (and she leans way out of her chair for this declaration) the book is titled “90 Minutes in Heaven!" Come to find out, he didn’t even get past the gates!!!!! He should have titled it “90 Minutes Beating on the Door!"

Yep, it's just another day at the office for me.

I love you,
Mom

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Thanks for the letter, mom.

Something tells me that in a few short years I will be giving you a permanent wave, while you read how Velma Fay died down at Cherry's Grocery while trying to load 3 pounds of chipped beef in her backseat, all while I screen your calls from your sister and those women who you swear are using you for your potato salad recipe.

And believe it or not, I can't wait.