Shopping With Mom, Part Kazillion

In my continuous efforts to save my mother money, I made the mistake of taking her to a different grocery store than the one she's accustomed to. I never learn.

With great trepidation, I called her the next day.

"Well, I don't think those chicken tenders you made me buy were real," she said.

"What?" (Sigh.) "I didn't make you buy--"

"I think the tenders were squirrel or cat."

"Mom, they weren't--"

"I KNOW what they were, I know what I know. It wasn't real chicken, that's for sure. I have a tummy ache."

First of all, if you've lived ninety years, you shouldn't be allowed to say "tummy." Second of all, really, "squirrel?" Third, she thinks Trump's a "God-fearing man," so credibility kinda goes out the window.

"Fine, Mom, we'll go back to your expensive grocery store," I said.

"I know what I know." End of conversation!

My mom knows what she knows and is a tad peculiar, but nothing's more peculiar than this: 

"I was blown away by Stuart R. West’s writing in Peculiar County. The dialogue is colloquial and fresh and full of fun descriptive phrases. I’ve read a few of his other novels, and they definitely deliver a hypnotic and horrifying read. Get ready for enough twists and turns to upset your stomach when you pick up Peculiar County." 5-star review from thriller author MJ LaBeff. Just click already.

Let's hold up on the senior discount a bit longer...

Just like Winter on Game of Thrones, old age is coming.

Writing's on the wall and, man, I'd sure like to scrub it off.

The other day I took my mom to get her hair cut. In front of Great Clips, I kicked her out of my car, parked the vehicle, then ran inside to make sure she hadn't started some sorta race riot or something. Everything seemed relatively peaceful, so I took off to run an errand.

When I came back, one of the hair stylists (are they "stylists" if they work at Great Clips?), mumbled, "Welcome to Great Clips, can I help you?"

Well. One look at my shaved pate clearly supplied the answer. But things got worse. MUCH worse.

One of the other "stylists" said, "He's here to pick up his wife."

A great big A-OOH-GA horn blasted my skull to bits. A firing squad unleashed a torrent of bullets into my heart. My chest clenched up like a mean, coiled fist.

"Um...she's my mother," I squeaked, very much a cartoon mouse voice.

The offending stylist took a long, gawping look at me, then my mother, highly amused with herself. Doubtful looking even.

Good Gawd a'mighty! Do I really look like a doddering old man? Have I turned into my mother's peer overnight? Will I ever be able to scrape the horrific ramifications of what the anti-stylist said from my brain?

Mom, of course, was oblivious to the entire exchange. Just sitting in her Great Clips chair, with her Great Clips bib tucked beneath her Great Clips chin. When I later told her about the nightmare, she hooted. Loved it. Went on to brag about how someone couldn't believe how old she was the other day. She missed the sheer terror of it all completely.
  Several nights prior, I went to a movie with a buddy of mine. The ticket girl asked my friend if he wanted a senior ticket. He took offense, corrected her. As it didn't pertain to me (at the time), I laughed it off, chucked him in the shoulder, said, "Does that really bother you?"

He said, "Not really, but let's not rush things along."

Indeed.  

Apparently Karma decided to rush my comeuppance for teasing my pal. At Great Clips, of all places. Stupid Karma. Karma probably even gets her haircut at Great Clips, too.

Kids today think anyone over say, 30, is ancient. And they can't be bothered to try and make an accurate age assessment. Just too much darn work.

Great Caesar's ghost! I didn't realize how late in the day it's getting on. I'm gonna miss the early bird supper down at the Shady Ache's home if I don't get my electric scooter in gear!

Nothing old about my newest book, the third in the Zach and Zora comic mystery series:

Do an old man's heart some good and click to buy.

Swimming in Sewage

Nothing brings a family together more than a time of crisis.

Well. Maybe not my family.

Couple Fridays ago, I got a call from my mom.

"Something terrible's happened. My apartment's flooded."

Naturally, I thought it was case of Negative Nelliness, a curious illness my mom's prone to. Sure, Kansas City'd been struck by horrific storms the previous night, Noah's Ark worthy floods. (The weather forecast had called for "a slight chance of rain."). But my mom's a "Drama Mama."

Except this time she hadn't exaggerated. If anything, the situation was far worse. Everything was soaking wet, half her stuff destroyed. Cars were playing bumper pool in the parking lot. The entire lower level of the apartment complex had been devastated. Not just by the rains, either; sewage had backed up.

I know, right?

We had to move fast. My brother, his wife and I packed all her crap up and moved her into a new apartment in three days.

The moving task seemed endless. How many boxes of back-breaking China does someone need anyway? Mom continued to offer China out like it was candy. I declined (as did everyone else). She lamented that today's youth just don't care for China. I kinda think that goes for everyone under the age of 80.

Anyway, the last day of moving got off to a bad start. A team of smarmy insurance people dropped by, said they wouldn't pay for any of Mom's personal loss. Just the apartment's structural damage. I raged, ranted, chased them down the sidewalk. Hulk smash!

Which just primed me for the main event to come later with my family. Tempers boiled, voices rose into screams, and curses were flung. Making sure Mom's new neighbors got a good first impression. We were three folding chairs shy of a full-fledged Springer show. Wallowing in sewage for three days has a way of doing that to people, I guess. Family togetherness.

Mom's now farther away from me than she was before. Waaay out South. She just called, said she can't operate the TV.

Gotta run. Another emergency crisis.

Lightning Struck

Not too long ago, I told my mom I took the dog out for a walk between our frequent Midwest storms.
She said, "You shouldn't do that. You're gonna get hit by lightning."

Huh. "Mom, are you really worried I'll get hit by lightning?"

"Why, yes!" She punched it hard, emphasizing my naivete.

Just this week, I had a bout of nausea. Since the well eventually runs dry on things to talk to my mom about, I shared it with her. We love to share ailment stories.

She said, "I hope you're not having a heart attack."

Wha? After I pooh-poohed that idea, telling her I walk many miles four times a week, she replied, "Maybe you're walking too much."

Sigh. Still on the case, she followed up with, "Maybe you should take a suppository."

Gah! No thanks. As a child, suppositories had been one of my mother's favorite forms of torture hiding under the guise of "medicine." All the abominable "pills" ever did was make my stomach more upset and cause me a year's worth of humiliation. Never again. 

Of course my mom knows no better. After all, her parents fed her spoonfuls of kerosene (KEROSENE!) when she was sick.

Anyway. I come from a long line of worriers and negativity. If there's nothing currently wrong, my family will work hard to find something to worry about.

My grandmother was the same way. While I was in junior high, she lived with us. Every day I'd rush home, amped up that I'd survived another school day.

"Hi, Grandma," I'd say, "how was your day?"

"Long and boring. Can't see nothin', can't do nothin'. May as well be dead."

Buzz-kill, Grandma.

It's a can't win situation. At times, I find myself falling into the same hole. Quickly, I try to dig out. I know all too well how unpleasant it can be to hang around negative people. Daily, I struggle to look at the positive so as not to punish my loved ones.

So, the next time my mom hammers me with her usual diatribe, "The world's terrible, everything's going to pot, everyone's out to rip you off."

I'll respond with, "Yes, but at least we have twerking." Maybe I'll even demonstrate a little.

For something even more terrifying than suppositories, check out my newest book,  Ghosts of Gannaway. 

"Huh."

Recently, my wife brought to my attention (and it takes a lot this side of a tire iron upside the head) that I've been responding by saying "huh" a lot. One little word. Not even a word, really, more like a caveman's grunt. Where'd I pick up this habit?

Lightning struck me, not the usual cartoon bulb of enlightenment either. My mother uses the word, wielding it like Thor's hammer.

Mom will ask me, "Are you going to church tomorrow?"

"No, Mom, sorry. Other plans."

"Huh."

Boom! There it is. Hauls more weight than a big ol' sixteen-wheeler careening down an ice-covered highway.

Joan Crawford: Founder of the Clever Mother Society

As a writer I'm ashamed to say I can't conjure up any wordsmith that could possibly match that one word's severity. It's a sound that makes me grind my teeth.

But the word works on me. Oh, yes, it works.

"Mom, we really need to look into your TV options. You can't get free cable forever."

"Huh."

I think Mom just lucked into this superpower. It's not intentional; she's a loving, kind person. But it's definitely my Kryptonite. Sure Mom uses other catch-phrases, all of them potent, such as "I think it would be nice if...." and "I think it'd be fun for you if...(and, of course, this leads into a suggestion that is usually anything but "fun")." But those I can deal with. Just not "huh."

It's the sound that destroys worlds, reverses face-lifts, causes dolphins to bark,  turns lima beans yummy, makes kangaroo pouches envelop their owners. The utterance that has won wars.

"Huh."

My mom's a better writer than I am with one simple word.

For something even scarier, check out the trailer (provided by author extraordinaire Meradeth Houston) for my new suspense thriller, Ghosts of Gannaway:

Get the book here:  Ghosts of Gannaway and others at my Amazon author's page.