We Are Legion

So, the voices on the subway... not the ones in my head, but the ones that tell where the train is (supposedly), where it's going (eventually), and to step back from the doors... they're automated these days. When I first started taking Septic... err... SEPTA (south eastern pennsylvania transportation authority), they were driver initiated - what you could hear through the static. It was rather Charlie Brown Teacher like back then.

But the automated voices are clear, precise, and usually correct. Sometimes, they put the wrong soundtrack on. Sometimes, they get off by a stop or two. Today, they had on BOTH soundtracks (west and eastbound) at one time - just a pinch of a second off of one another. It was as though the demon voices from the Exorcist had taken residence. And the driver never bothered to fix it.

I always thought when that lady held up the placard in Girard station, the one that said "You're on the Express Train to Hell!", was being metaphorical. Mayhap no?


~~~~~

So, my Mom is staying with us this winter, though it is not nearly so cold or snowy as the ones in recent past. We've been doing well this year. I let her boss me around, mostly, but then I fight back. Nothing like being with your mom for a few weeks to make you feel like a petulant teenager. I don't want fricking butter on my fricking vegetables, woman. I know that's how you roll. I am fat. I prefer my tastiness in dessert. Vegetables are penance, and not meant to be fatty.

In the end, I have to remove my vegetables before she can touch them, and put my hands over them to stop her putting butter on them.

She is very easily offended - any time I do something differently than she would or ignore her passive aggressive suggestions (I would think that Timothy would be practicing his piano now, not reading...) she gets all huffy and closes herself off. I, however, am not so easily insulted, and give her 10 minutes before barging in and asking if she would _____ (some household chore I hate but she will groove on being able to do for me). And all is well again.

In the end, I feel bad. She wants to work; I do not. She cannot work; I can. It frustrates the crap out of her, this being old. In a strange turn, I think my laziness actually encourages her, because she doesn't feel guilty that I'm working so hard when I get home. But still, she harkens to the days of milking in the morning, cleaning all day, and collapsing in an exhausted heap in the evening.

She cannot accept time with any grace whatsoever. She wants it to be 1979 forever.

I wonder what year I will yearn for if I ever have to be that old.

I did take her to see the new Dolly Parton movie this week, and it was an experience. Let us just say that I am glad that people look with bemused tolerance.

She doesn't know how to whisper, and she has no filter.

(when a rather well-endowed young lady is messing around in the kitchen in a housecoat after some... happy times with a young man)  "Wow, she's a biggie! I thought for a second that was Oprah!"

(when another gospel music song was being done, complete with dance moves) "Those black people sure can dance!"

et cetera, et cetera (as yul would say).

The first few times, I cringed. Then, I realized, she's *that* little old lady! Not mean, certainly not malicious, just... out of it!

That can't be my mom.

Alas, it is.

Mostly, we're having fun, though John's presence still scares her away. I told him to stop beating her, but there you have it.

And now, it's time to teach the kiddies. Have a good day, and pass it on.

(*)>