Decoding Mom: It Helps to Have a Bun

My mother’s voice was giddy. She had just returned from a restaurant opening and was checking in by phone. She’s 74 but sounded like she was 7.

She raved about the food, the wine, the décor, the flowers, the guests. On and on, cooing like a schoolgirl.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked when she finally took a breath.

She hesitated, then sheepishly uttered: “I have a bun.”

Me: “A bun?”

Mom: “Yes, a bun.”

Me: “A bun? Like a hamburger bun?”

Mom: “Yes, silly. A bun. I had two glasses of wine.”

Me: “Oh, you mean a buzz!”

Mom: “Bun. Buzz. Whatever.”

My own Mrs. Malaprop rarely drinks any wine, much less two glasses, but often mistakes one word for another. And the result is usually hilarious.

My favorite: One night she returned from a Chinese buffet with her brother, complaining about how stuffed she was. “We gouged ourselves!” she exclaimed, bringing to mind two senior citizens tearing at their eyes with chopsticks.

Then there’s the time a co-worker was telling her about getting a nut stuck in her throat. “Did they do the Heineken?” she asked.

Just last week, she helped me clean out a closet full of keepsakes and chided me for being too sentimental. “You’ve got a momentum for this, a momentum for that, a momentum for everything," she complained.

Mom's penchant for malapropisms began well before I was born. And she's a bilingual offender. Soon after my parents (both Greek) got engaged, my mom, who stumbles over tricky Greek pronunciations, held the requisite coffee for the elder ladies of the Greek Orthodox church. She faced the women and in her best Greek, asked whether they would like some sweets. There was a collective gasp. It turns out that the Greek word for sweets, with the accent on the wrong syllable, sounds like the Greek word for enema. I don't think Mom ever recovered.

So it’s no wonder that I love a good malapropism. Years after I hear one, I laugh out loud when it comes to mind. Some are so good they become lore among my friends, adopted into our regular banter.

“I can’t phanthom it!” we often say, in honor of the former co-worker who filled in the ghost for the word "fathom." And she did it a lot.

I like to recall the many callers at my former newspaper job, who complained about their local "physical court." I got a two-fer when they also asked to remain "unanimous."

I don’t even have to have hear a malaprop firsthand to love it.
There was the co-worker of my ex-husband who, during a meeting, chided someone for making a "mute" point. And the same man at the same meeting, after watching a woman eat several donuts, whispered, “Well, there’s no chance of her becoming dyslexic.”

I'm not alone in my malapropism fascination. A quick Internet search turned up some gems, many attributed to family members.

For all intensive purposes got numerous mentions. Others recalled talk of moving into a condom, people being self-defecating, writing off friends as persona au gratin, serenaded knives, civil serpents, plutonic relationships, nipping it in the butt and abstinence making the heart grow fonder. There was the man who gave his wife an organism. And the woman whose neighbor girl told her the story of Little Red Riding Hood with the phrase, "What big testicles you have."

My winner for the best new one I saw: "All the colors of the rectum."

Let's hope that my mother doesn't take up painting any time soon.

Friends, Family and Back Again

I’m wearing an orange XOXO silly band.

It was a gift from a 9-year-old, and an appropriate reminder of the week that he and his 10-year-old brother filled my home with hugs, kisses and the kind of wondrous inquiry seen only in adolescents.

I also got a few hugs and kisses from their mother – an old friend I never get to see enough.

We could have missed it all. Because the woman is my ex-husband’s sister and the boys are her sons.

They’re not technically my nephews anymore, a coworker reminded me as I was chattering on about plans in advance of their visit. She’s right. But Miss Manners be darned. We’re not going to let a technicality get in the way of this aunt/nephew relationship.

As for the relationship between Liz (yes, her brother married a woman with the same name, but we’ll save that exploration for a future entry) and me, we wouldn’t have it any other way. We've loved each other since the moment we met 24 years ago – she the 18-year-old who just graduated from high school and me the 22-year-old infatuated with her only sibling.

Like any long friendship, we’ve had our shared experiences: bridesmaid service times two, family gatherings in joy and sadness, a couples Caribbean cruise.

So it was only natural that we’d pick up where we left off. We had sushi, got a mani-pedi, saw a play under the stars and sipped midnight champagne in my best glasses. We also shared kitchen duty and laughed until we cried, just as we do every time we get together.

I introduced her as my former sister-in law/the sister of my ex-husband/my son’s aunt/my good friend. And then we’d laugh.

I didn’t divorce her or her kids when I ended my marriage. But the way I see it, that doesn’t automatically keep my place in her life – or hers in mine. We got there through intellectual and emotional honesty, like you earn, and continue to earn, any friendship. We got there by enjoying each other’s company because we enjoy each other’s company, not because of family obligations.

I reaped my reward with her last week, and with my nephews, Louie, 10, and Dino, 9. And to think, I might never have gotten an XOXO silly band, tasted lemon custard ice cream or gotten misty-eyed at Ramona and Beezus.

I might never have seen loveable Dino stroking the velvet ears of my beloved dog, Annie, or heard precocious Louie point to the pill next to his cereal and volunteer, “This is a dietary supplement.”

We could have missed it all. I’m surely glad we didn’t.

Monday in Kauai

My sister married her longtime fiancé on Monday, on the Hawaiian island of Kauai. She wore a sleeveless off-white cotton J. Crew gown and a lei of fresh flowers. He wore a shirt that matched the color of her gown, and dark tan trousers.

I was in my pajamas.

In fact, in light of the time difference from the 4 p.m. ceremony, I was washing my face, brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed. Pretty much what most of the couple’s Kentucky friends and family were doing at that time, given their last-minute decision to make their wedding a truly personal experience. In other words, we weren’t invited.

So while our special couple was saying their vows, exchanging rings and starring in the video that will be the centerpiece of the celebration we’ve planned for their return, we were letting our pets out one last time and turning out the lights. We were thinking of them, for sure. Our 76-year-old uncle lit a votive candle in their honor at exactly 10 p.m.

In spirit, we were in Kauai.

In spirit, I was the maid of honor, staring on adoringly at my little sister – my only sibling – who has grown from my childhood nickname of “Baby-faced Finster Child” (too much Bugs Bunny, I presume) into a woman who is refreshingly authentic (OK, quirky, but the good side of quirky) – whether she is chasing around her two energetic Jack Russells or struggling to help adults catch on to long division in her adult ed/social work job.

Our mom was there too, along with Joann’s nephew (my son), her two uncles, her three best friends who have been a foursome for decades now, her beloved boss and her close group of work friends. And since they were there, so was our Dad, who passed away in 1992 and couldn’t be there any other way.

I don’t believe in the kind of heaven that I learned about as a child, but just this once, I’m OK with imagining that the father of the bride and the groom’s mother, who passed away last year, watched the nuptials together, perhaps with other family and friends who have passed on.

My fantastic brother-in-law – “Baby Joe” to all in his Catholic family of eight – had attendants too. Among them: His retired state police colonel dad who liked to pull up behind his wife and flash his lights to get a rise out of her. And his older siblings who were in their teens when Joe was a child and carted him everywhere, a captive audience for his impressions of “the Fonz” and renditions of “Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown.”

Also there: the other three-fourths of the Mojo Tones, the blues band where Joe sings and works the harmonica, and his giant group of friends collected over his southside Lexington childhood, through Henry Clay High School, the University of Kentucky and beyond.

We were all there Monday in Kauai. We couldn’t be happier for the happy couple. They're soul mates for sure – starkly complementary in some ways, indistinguishable from each other in others. Even their names are in harmony. He’s Joe. She’s Jo.

We’re looking forward to raising a glass in their honor. And no one had to rent a tux, buy a hideous dress or stand in uncomfortable shoes.

It doesn’t get much better than that. In spirit or otherwise.

Letters from Camp

When I was a teen away at camp, I was truly away. For the most part, I was in charge of how much, or what kind of information, got back to my parents. I wore what I wanted, ate what I wanted, hung around with whoever I wanted. There weren’t cell phones, or even land line calls allowed in non-emergencies. And depending on how long your stay was, it might not even be worth the effort to scribe a few cheery lines in an old-fashioned letter home to Muddah and Fadduh.

Flash forward 30 years. My 16-year-old son is away at camp for three weeks. His iPhone appendage was relinquished to his counselor, only to be brought out for 30 minutes a day. I get a quick phone call, an e-mail or a text, like this one, presented here in its unedited entirety: “Hey mamasita. Love ya. Check yo email. Lovin everything.”

Wait a minute – Is this academic camp or gangsta camp? Isn’t mamacita spelled with a 'c'? Aren’t you going into Spanish IV? But I digress.

The 30-minute “awkward phone time,” as my son calls it, is not all there is. Not by a longshot.

This camp has a daily blog complete with photos, candid and posed, of hundreds of campers. For three nights after he leaves, I peruse the previous day’s offerings. I flip through the line of tiny photos, looking for his familiar frame, that profile, those big brown eyes. I spot him, playing some kind of ice breaker game on Day 1, hamming it up at a meal with three other boys and at some kind of assembly another day. Sure, they’re only snapshots (literally). And it’s not like I’m watching live streaming video. But somehow, I’m an intruder, a voyeur, peeping into a world where I’m not a legitimate participant.

A little part of me is sad about that. As odd as it sounds to some, my son and I are tight. Since my divorce from his dad six years ago, we’ve built a relationship filled with laughter, love and mutual respect. He’s got his own life – and so do I – and on the outside, we’re very different people. But we’re close. And I miss him.

Of course I’m happy to see that he’s happy. I want to know more: I wonder what kind of pasta is in that bowl? Who is that kid sitting next to him? What game are they playing?

Then my mind starts to wander into judgmental territory: He would look better if he stood up straighter. He should be having water instead of soda.

It’s so absurd it gives me a jolt. What am I doing? How’s that for a question? You’ve got your own life (you just said it), so go live it. And let your 16-year-old live his.

So I decide to write a letter of my own:

Dear Camp I Shall Not Name (Except to say that it’s in Bowling Green, KY, and has a name that sounds like a blood-sucking reanimated corpse):

Thanks so much for creating a blog for us parents to follow while our beloved campers are in your care. It’s well done and I’m amazed at how many of the 200-plus campers you’re able to capture on film. When my son gets home, we’ll have fun viewing the photos. We might even order a couple.
But until then, sign me,

One mamacita who’ll be getting her news the old-fashioned way



P.S. to My Intro Post: I was remiss for not thanking my friends for their encouragement and putting up with my frequent declarations of “I really should write about this.” So thank you for your subtle and not-so-subtle (do it already!) prodding. Thanks to my friend Ron for the title and to my sis for her design expertise. Just so we're clear: none of this buys you any mercy in future posts.

P.P.S. Given the questions, I should have included that I don’t plan to post every day, maybe not even every week. I imagine the timing will be something more along the lines of twice a month. I know, but you’ll just have to wait….

Who, What, When, Where, and most importantly, Why

I’ve poked around a few blogs. I know the drill. Please consider this the requisite “Why I Decided to Start a Blog” entry. Here goes:

I think it would be fun. A pleasant hobby. And like anyone who puts a piece of herself into public view, I think I’ve got a few things to say. Maybe good for a laugh or two, or on another day, a couple of tears. In my dreams, I’m a cross between David Sedaris and Anne Lamott. In reality, I’d settle for a pleasant diversion for myself, my friends and a couple of deranged shut-ins.

What I’m not trying to do: Become the next great American novelist. Create cerebral prose that’s tightly edited into perfection. Showcase breathtaking photos. Or devise cutting edge graphics. I’ll leave that to the experts, and those with no day jobs to contend with.

About me:
I’m 47, divorced, mom to a really cool 17-year-old who didn’t get the memo that he is supposed to be surly and uncommunicative. Was a newspaper journalist for the first 18 years of my working life. For the last seven, have been a human resource professional for a technology company. I’m a Greek Orthodox turned Unitarian Universalist a decade ago. I’m grateful for so much in my life, and I’ve been lucky to find humor in the rest.

I’ll likely write about what occupies my days and my thoughts: The aforementioned 17-year-old, my terrific and colorful friends and family, my spoiled but loveable dog, my fascination with studying Buddhism, my adventures in djembe drumming and my frustration with trying to lose (and keep off this time, I swear) 100 plus unwanted pounds.

The fine print:
Everything you’ll read is true (you can’t take the journalist out of the girl), but sometimes, with notice, I’ll change names to protect the innocent, or as often will be the case, the guilty. My hunch is that some of the content to come won’t be suitable for the very young, very sensitive, or very conservative. No apologies. I’m nothing if not myself. And after all, you get what you pay for.

Thanks for reading. I’m looking forward to writing, and to hearing what you think - especially if you think I’m fantastic.