On Sunday mornings, I like to do a Theodore Roethke and take my waking slow. The Gummer usually feeds Jack breakfast, and the two of them have crazy conversations which remind me why we moved back here. Usually. Today, not so much:
"Jack, there is an Easter Egg Hunt at my church. Do you want to go?"
(Pause while Jack consults The Big Book of Duh) "Yes!"
"Okay, then tell your mother to take you."
What?! I was getting drafted to an Easter Egg Hunt. Sorry, Mr. Roethke, but I am going to have to shift to waking spastic. I have to go. I went upstairs. The Gummer was standing in front of the sink, as per usual. Considering how often she chooses to stand there and the gravitational pull (Grandmatational pull?) that apparently emanates from the sink, one would think this would be The Gummer's happy place. One would be wrong. More often than not, it is her crazy place.
"I can't take him there, Mom. It's not a public Easter Egg Hunt." I was picturing Vince Vaughn with an Easter basket. "We can't just crash an Easter Egg Hunt. It's trashy."
"You just don't want to go." She was doing that ghetto-fab cobra thing with her head again.
I could hear something beeping. It was my Gummer Decoder Ring. She was not really talking about an Easter Egg Hunt. She was talking about organized religion. (The beeping of the Gummer Decoder Ring flipped my internal Mtv switch, and the words "subversive element" started flashing in my head like a concert backdrop from 1989. I was experiencing complications from JDS (Java Deficiency Syndrome))
The Gummer is inclined to perceive her opinion as fact, thus she has decreed that I want nothing to do with anything that has anything to do with organized religion in any form at all ever. That isn't true. I've told her this a million times. I just don't like it when religious groups organize themselves into a flight formation and then turn into some kind of attack squadron. As long as things are positive and people stay in the "live and let live" range, it's fine. Good churches do good things. Personally, I prefer a more disorganized approach to religion. Jack recently asked why The Gummer has a picture of Qui-Gon Jinn on her wall. "Um, Jack... that's Jesus." So, yeah, we aren't exactly churchy.
The beeping continued. My Gummer Decoder Ring was picking up another signal: The organized religion issue was a cover-up. The Gummer didn't want to take Jack to the Easter Egg Hunt at her church because she was making deviled eggs.
Oh, wait... no. I'm not making a joke about organized religion and deviled eggs. She was making deviled eggs to take to an Easter celebration at her friend's house. Case closed, Nancy Drew.
One of The Gummer's friends hosts a dinner party on every holiday, presumably so that the widows in the group know that they are not alone. (Cue the Michael Jackson- "You Are Not Alone") (Ick! Make it stop. Cue Social Distortion's "Ball and Chain" instead. Yes.) These little celebrations are great, except The Gummer isn't even sorta-kinda alone. We moved back to Collinsville so Jack and The Gummer would have family. If we are going to live in The Horseradish Capital of the World, then let's do the damn thing.
If the families portrayed in the board game commercials of the early 80s were based on actual familes, they certainly didn't include us in the focus group. Obviously, the Milton-Bradley family depicted in the commercial is an extreme, but we were definitely on the other end of the spectrum. There just wasn't a lot of conversation or connection. Our family vacation to DisneyWorld sort of explains everything: When we went to Epcot, my brother and I were told that we could go whereever we wanted and then meet back up at a certain time. We were going to spend our big family vacation in different parts of the world. (For the record, I did stay in Germany with my parents. My brother, on the other hand, went looking for the secret underground passageway to global subculture because he wanted to tour Fire Island, Bangkok, and Thailand.)
Yeah, I don't think so. These are different times. Jack and I might be a teeny-tiny family, but, damn it, we can both shout "You sank my battleship!" with the best of 'em. We laugh a lot and emote relentlessly. Despite her complaints about the chaos, The Gummer has gotten tangled up in the way we are. She loves it. When my father died, Jack continued to drag springtime into her house. Along with those Sunday morning conversations, she and Jack have lightsaber battles and their own little Ultimate Fighting Championship. He will tell her about Bakugan and Lego Star Wars on Wii, and the boy does not give a shit if she wants to hear it or not. He has changed her. (Yes, this is the Renaissance Gummer.) Even her Easter card to me showed signs of growth: On the inside, she had written "I do love you--"
We were going to this egg hunt.
The three of us walked into the recreation hall at the Mother of Perpetual Help Catholic Church. There was a marble statue of Jesus in the entryway. Jack asked, "Who is that guy with the beard?' I laughed.
The Gummer, who obviously didn't even hear Jack's question, responded, "Don't say anything dirty."
There, in The Mother of Perpetual Help, was The Gummer of Perpetual "Lah-rie!"
Yeah.
It's not like all life can be new. That's not good for anybody. My lunatic mother, with her cryptic communication style and impossible, surgically-sterile definition of "clean" is here and healthy and as Gummery as ever. Life is good.
Well, it's good enough.
Usually.
"Jack, there is an Easter Egg Hunt at my church. Do you want to go?"
(Pause while Jack consults The Big Book of Duh) "Yes!"
"Okay, then tell your mother to take you."
What?! I was getting drafted to an Easter Egg Hunt. Sorry, Mr. Roethke, but I am going to have to shift to waking spastic. I have to go. I went upstairs. The Gummer was standing in front of the sink, as per usual. Considering how often she chooses to stand there and the gravitational pull (Grandmatational pull?) that apparently emanates from the sink, one would think this would be The Gummer's happy place. One would be wrong. More often than not, it is her crazy place.
"I can't take him there, Mom. It's not a public Easter Egg Hunt." I was picturing Vince Vaughn with an Easter basket. "We can't just crash an Easter Egg Hunt. It's trashy."
"You just don't want to go." She was doing that ghetto-fab cobra thing with her head again.
I could hear something beeping. It was my Gummer Decoder Ring. She was not really talking about an Easter Egg Hunt. She was talking about organized religion. (The beeping of the Gummer Decoder Ring flipped my internal Mtv switch, and the words "subversive element" started flashing in my head like a concert backdrop from 1989. I was experiencing complications from JDS (Java Deficiency Syndrome))
The Gummer is inclined to perceive her opinion as fact, thus she has decreed that I want nothing to do with anything that has anything to do with organized religion in any form at all ever. That isn't true. I've told her this a million times. I just don't like it when religious groups organize themselves into a flight formation and then turn into some kind of attack squadron. As long as things are positive and people stay in the "live and let live" range, it's fine. Good churches do good things. Personally, I prefer a more disorganized approach to religion. Jack recently asked why The Gummer has a picture of Qui-Gon Jinn on her wall. "Um, Jack... that's Jesus." So, yeah, we aren't exactly churchy.
The beeping continued. My Gummer Decoder Ring was picking up another signal: The organized religion issue was a cover-up. The Gummer didn't want to take Jack to the Easter Egg Hunt at her church because she was making deviled eggs.
Oh, wait... no. I'm not making a joke about organized religion and deviled eggs. She was making deviled eggs to take to an Easter celebration at her friend's house. Case closed, Nancy Drew.
One of The Gummer's friends hosts a dinner party on every holiday, presumably so that the widows in the group know that they are not alone. (Cue the Michael Jackson- "You Are Not Alone") (Ick! Make it stop. Cue Social Distortion's "Ball and Chain" instead. Yes.) These little celebrations are great, except The Gummer isn't even sorta-kinda alone. We moved back to Collinsville so Jack and The Gummer would have family. If we are going to live in The Horseradish Capital of the World, then let's do the damn thing.
If the families portrayed in the board game commercials of the early 80s were based on actual familes, they certainly didn't include us in the focus group. Obviously, the Milton-Bradley family depicted in the commercial is an extreme, but we were definitely on the other end of the spectrum. There just wasn't a lot of conversation or connection. Our family vacation to DisneyWorld sort of explains everything: When we went to Epcot, my brother and I were told that we could go whereever we wanted and then meet back up at a certain time. We were going to spend our big family vacation in different parts of the world. (For the record, I did stay in Germany with my parents. My brother, on the other hand, went looking for the secret underground passageway to global subculture because he wanted to tour Fire Island, Bangkok, and Thailand.)
Yeah, I don't think so. These are different times. Jack and I might be a teeny-tiny family, but, damn it, we can both shout "You sank my battleship!" with the best of 'em. We laugh a lot and emote relentlessly. Despite her complaints about the chaos, The Gummer has gotten tangled up in the way we are. She loves it. When my father died, Jack continued to drag springtime into her house. Along with those Sunday morning conversations, she and Jack have lightsaber battles and their own little Ultimate Fighting Championship. He will tell her about Bakugan and Lego Star Wars on Wii, and the boy does not give a shit if she wants to hear it or not. He has changed her. (Yes, this is the Renaissance Gummer.) Even her Easter card to me showed signs of growth: On the inside, she had written "I do love you--"
We were going to this egg hunt.
The three of us walked into the recreation hall at the Mother of Perpetual Help Catholic Church. There was a marble statue of Jesus in the entryway. Jack asked, "Who is that guy with the beard?' I laughed.
The Gummer, who obviously didn't even hear Jack's question, responded, "Don't say anything dirty."
There, in The Mother of Perpetual Help, was The Gummer of Perpetual "Lah-rie!"
Yeah.
It's not like all life can be new. That's not good for anybody. My lunatic mother, with her cryptic communication style and impossible, surgically-sterile definition of "clean" is here and healthy and as Gummery as ever. Life is good.
Well, it's good enough.
Usually.
Hi Laura - I finally got a chance to really read your blog. Love it! You are creative and hilarious with just the right about of sentiment. Keep it up!
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