Mom's scary memory

Mike and Dad found themselves watching Mom having thot-bubble reminiscences, and Mike lived 2 tell abt it:

April,

Formerly little sis. As I understand it, my muses of Sheilagh Shaunessy and Leonard Driscoll got into a little battle over my brain yesterday, despite your comment that you didn’t think my brain was anything to fight over. Somehow or other, my mother got involved with the situation and ended up braining me with a bathroom scale. That snapped me out of it, but then I became aware of my mother looking forlorn holding the scale and saying, “I wish I weighed now, what I weighed then!” Then thought bubbles starting coming out of her head and everyone rushed out of the house screaming, “Run away! Run away! She’s reminiscing!” I say everyone, but dad walked in at that moment, took a look at the thought balloons and said, “Michael. Do you remember that time we found your mother in the kitchen late at night almost choked to death on a chicken bone while also eating pie? I remember saying to her, ‘Next time, eat the pie and not the chicken. No bones about it.’” Then dad laughed and giggled to himself for a bit.

I said to him, “Dad. Is that the story these thought balloons are trying to tell?” Then dad looked at them, “I suppose so; but it is from your mother’s perspective and whenever she tells these old stories, she has a tendency to make it seem like I am a perfect ass. Let’s check them out together, shall we?”

So we looked at the first picture and it was of two legs standing on a green, furry bathroom scale, and a speech balloon with "Not bad honey! ...I'm down to 125!" I said, “I remember that scale. I loved it. You were never cold when you wanted to use it. What ever happened to it?” Dad said, “Destroyed in a fit of pique by your mother when she went over 140.” I said, “Kilograms?” Dad said, “No. pounds. Never did go for kilograms. I don’t know why.” Dad said, “Notice those legs, son. See the adhesive bandage. Obviously this story is set during a time when your mother shaved her legs and cared about her appearance, but not so much she painted her toenails. She was terrible at the shaving though. She usually had a few adhesive bandages on her legs somewhere. Maybe she thought she could shave off a few kilograms, I mean pounds.” Then dad laughed and giggled to himself for a bit.

So we looked at the second picture and there was dad, mom and me eating the heart out of some animal. Dad was holding a giant piece of pie, so I suppose it was really pie we were eating. Dad said, “Mmmm. Pie. Now, if you look carefully, son, you can see your mother’s method of cutting pie was to cut out noncontiguous pieces.” I said, “Noncontiguous?” Dad said, “Pieces that don’t go together. Kind of like an old story and a modern commentary on it.” Sure enough, the pie had two empty spaces in it, and they weren’t together. I said, “No, dad. Really, why did mom do that?” Dad said, “Well, my speech balloon gives you the clue. It says, ‘Are you sure you’re not going to have some of this great pie?’ So, the uncut piece between the two cut pieces was a symbolic indication of her will power not to eat any pie. It was her piece of the pie, untaken. It was as if she were making piece (peace) with the pie.” Then dad laughed and giggled to himself for a bit.

So we looked at the third picture and there was dad and mom, and mom sipped coffee while dad was eating the pie and letting a drop of his mouth saliva drip out of his mouth. Dad said, “You notice how you left your plate on the table, Michael? I think you were 25 or 26 when you finally started putting your dirty dishes in the sink or in the dishwasher. Your mom and I were so proud when you finally put a dish up all by yourself.” I said, “The same way you are proud of me for getting my book published?” My dad said, “Let’s look at the caption. I was saying, ‘I gotta admire your (chomp, drool) stamina, El…but you’re missing some fantastic stuff here!’” I said, “What is with the way you are holding the pie on your fork? It looks like you speared an amoeba.” Dad said, “Your mom’s pies did have a lot in common with unicellular organisms. Of course these days, a unicellular organism is a girl with only one cell phone.” Then dad laughed and giggled to himself for a bit.

So we looked at the fourth picture and there was mom, lying in bed with a come hither look. Dad was partially naked too, but he was talking to a clothes hanger he was carrying. I said, “Dad, do you have a lot of conversations with clothes hangers?” Dad said, “Don’t be silly son. They are just a bunch of hangers-on.” Then dad laughed and giggled to himself for a bit. I said, “Well your caption says you told the hanger, ‘After two weeks of weighing everything I ate and doing without my desserts – I’d go mad.’” I said, “Was mom mad?” Dad said, “Let’s look at the next thought balloon.”

So we looked at the fifth picture and there was mom, lying in bed, and looking shockingly like Elizabeth. Dad said, “*#@! Michael. I want you to know right now, I have never slept with your sister, or anyone who looked like your sister. I have not cheated on your mother.” I said, “No one’s accusing you of cheating, dad.” Dad said, “People ask me all the time, ever since September, if I am cheating on Elly.” I said, “I don’t know where they could have gotten that impression, dad.” Dad said, “Me either, but if I ever catch the guy who is spreading those rumours, I am going to show him exactly what a Patterson does when he is angry.” I said, “Write a scathing newspaper column using fake names?” Dad said, “What? No! Only an idiot would get revenge that way.” I said, “Let’s look at the next thought balloon.”

So we looked at the sixth picture and there was mom checking dad’s pulse, while “ZZZ” was coming out of his mouth. Dad said, “A woman who checks a man’s pulse when he is asleep is a marvel.” I said, “Well, that’s one word for it.”

Then we came to the final picture of mom, red-faced, with cross-eyed green eyes, and sweat or tears streaming off her body in all directions, all while grasping a piece of pie in one hand and in the other a piece of chicken. Dad said, “There she is, choking on the chicken bone.” I said, “Dad this is a horrible picture. It scares me just looking at it.” Dad said, “Well, Michael, you have to put things in perspective. Choking on the chicken bone didn’t stop your mother from finishing up that pie.”

I guess dad is right. Mom is one of those persons with a clearly-defined set of priorities, even from her earliest days.

Love,
Michael Patterson

Mike, while I was hiding from Mom's thot bubbles, I came across a foto album where Mom had a pic of that weird scale U described. It had a caption w/"Scale on which I weighed 125 on February 24, 1980. May it R.I.P." Mom is so weird. So is Dad, of course.

Apes