I had the easiest out in the world: write something nice every day, to get in the habit of writing again, following the cliche practice of giving thanks this month only (the rest of the year we’re all stone cold bitches, apparently). And then, my mother came for a visit from Georgia and we just ended up sitting around for three days drinking enough coffee to vibrate through time.
It took all of five minutes being reunited with ma to remember just how terribly funny she is, and I took notes of her best momisms throughout the visit. Now, you have to imagine a 6-foot tall, wispy, almost non-existent woman with baby-fine hair, a southern accent, and a voice that you are constantly trying to turn the volume up on.
We’re vising your grandparents in Tennessee for Thanksgiving and…I guess we’re driving two cars home because we’re trading pecans for the Oldsmobile. Your grandpa is a trip.
I have old lady hands…they’re like vapor.
I was the first one awake this morning and I was sneaking down the stairs and wisping through the house like a ghost only to have that giant of a cat come and blow my cover with his fat ass meowling for breakfast. You fat bastard, shut the fuck up!
She came with me to my hair appointment and was offered a facial while she was waiting. How much should I tip that guy? $100 doesn’t seem like too much, because that shit was amazing.
But really though, that facial….where did all the bumpy things go? And the wrinkly things? I mean, they must still be there because wow old but damn…
I asked for a handful of sugar packets for my coffee and I got like, six. Do you have minuscule hands?! SHOW ME YOUR FUCKING HANDS, MAN, AND GIVE ME MORE SUGAR.
She’s gone back to Georgia now, but I am still terribly grateful for all the conversation that we were able to have this weekend. At one point I mentioned one of my friends might be taking a job in Alabama, and she immediately fell into a story from years ago when her and some friends were “looking for a good time” in the state. They ended up in line for a bar called The Cotton Club with a friend’s dad “keeping the party going” with his pocket beers…and he had like 12 pockets. I got to hear stories about my grandparents, my childhood (previously unheard of), and have conversations about life. What a great weekend.