Your Momma Don’t Dance, but Mine Does

Well, it’s Mother’s Day, and most of us have purchased our Mommas a card or a small token of our affection. But do many of us really tell our Moms how much we appreciate them on any sort of a regular basis?

My Mom has never failed to crack me up. You see, she’s a tad on the naive side. Unworldly, if you will. It’s one of the things that I love about her. She’s the sweetest woman in the world, and always willing to believe the best about people. Several Halloweens ago, I kept with my regular tradition of driving to my parents’ house and scaring little kids (answering their door) while my father grumbled and my mother had her own things to do. She was dressed for a party she had to attend for her job as an elementary teacher.

When I arrived, she was wearing hip waders, a vest with lures all over it, a hat with hooks in it, and carrying a net and a fishing pole. She said “Guess what I am!” I snorted and said “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess ‘fisherman.'” She rolled her eyes at me and said “No, I’m one of the VILLAGE PEOPLE.” (As if that were supposed to be obvious to me.) I said “Mom, the Village People didn’t have a fisherman.” She said “Really?” I say “Yeah, they had a cop, and a fireman, and an indian, and a couple of other dudes. One was a construction worker, I think.” She said sadly, “I thought that the Village People represented everyone in the village! As in, they changed costumes every show!” I shattered her illusions when I said “Nope, pretty much the same thing. Also, they were gay.” She said, in her low way, “You’re kidding me!” I cracked up. How could she not know that? Because it would have just never occurred to her at all. I say “Nope, they’re pretty darn gay, and there was no fisherman.” She says, incredulously “…I thought they were just festive!” You have got to love a woman who thought that the Village People were “just festive.” She was quite disappointed when she said “Well, I guess I’m just a fisherman…”

Pictured: Festivities. Not pictured: A fisherman.

She’s also famous for mis-hearing lyrics. Unlike Dad, she’s never particularly liked most of the stuff that I do. She’s also one of those people who thinks that Creedence Clearwater Revival is saying “There’s a bathroom on the right” instead of “bad moon on the rise.” I can’t even tell you how many songs she’s mangled. So imagine my surprise when I walk in one day and she’s listening and singing along (sort of) to R.E.M.’s “Man on the Moon.” I said “I didn’t know that you liked R.E.M.” She said “Well, I like this song. I can relate to this song.” Before your brain explodes wondering how my mother can relate to a song about Andy Kaufman, I will explain. You know the part where they sing “Eve was troubled by the horrible asp”? Mom says “You know the part where they say ‘Edith was troubled by her horrible ass?’ I like that part. I, too, am troubled by my horrible ass.” I didn’t bother to correct her. That shit is funny.

There are also those of us who are apparently not troubled at all by our horrible asses. On the bright side, it would be hard to be a Roethlisberger fan if you had a smaller one.

I also remember that she was so squeamish about blood that when I fell off my skateboard really badly as a kid, and a nice man picked me up and dumped me on my parents’ front porch and rang the doorbell, she answered the door, took one look at me with my leg very nearly scraped off (you could see bone in places), gagged, and slammed the door. She left me on the porch. I rang the doorbell again, and after a few minutes, my Dad came to the door instead and cleaned me up. Mom stayed away until I was all bandaged up. That night though, she and I stayed up all night and ate a whole bag of popsicles together and watched movies. We must have eaten thirty of those popsicles with the double sticks that are basically frozen flavored water. We made a game of counting the sticks. It was one of the only times I can remember that she didn’t limit me to one popsicle, make me go to bed on time, etc.

There are a lot of things my Mom has done for me that are more personal than I want to get on here. Suffice it to say that I’m lucky to have her, and lucky that she hasn’t killed my stupid ass. Particularly the time I sold the car in Los Angeles. Sorry, Mom. I’m willing to bet that there are a lot of you out there who are lucky that your Mom didn’t straight up murder you as well. Thank her today. She only has one day a year where you’re forced to appreciate her, but she’s nice to you ALL THE TIME.

About Miz Parker

I'm a musician, writer, web developer and avid reader who maintains two blogs. For Bucket List Book Reviews (formerly Bucket List Media), my goal is to read and review each book on the popular list "1,001 Books to Read Before You Die." This blog is intended to chronicle my experiences and thoughts on each, and share opinions with other bibliophiles. Bucket List Media is a semi-serious blog which is appropriate for all ages. For Live At E's (see the menu), I rant in general about pop culture, life, celebrities, and current events. Live At E's contains foul language and is deliberately offensive. Turn on your sarcasm detector.
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3 Responses to Your Momma Don’t Dance, but Mine Does

  1. Pingback: Your Momma Don’t Dance, but Mine Does | Kids say :

  2. Greg says:

    Sounds like you have a great Mom. I can never get the words to songs right either. The picture was a little scary whenever I hear that song that picture will be forever embedded in my mind.

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