Friday, February 28, 2014


     Have you ever wondered why so many things can go wrong at once? Sometimes life cycles just bring you shit. For example, the other day, our dryer died, the refrigerator began leaking liquid mold, my bathroom sink wouldn’t drain and two nails on my left hand split right down the middle. wtf? After serious pondering over my peanut butter, I figured out that it’s all because I sassed my mother. Mr. Wonderful claims it is just a coincidence. wdhk? (what does he know?)

     I began sassing my mother at the age of twelve. This means I sassed my mother for more years than the age of my youngest child. Never mind.  My mother used to say, “I hope I live to see the day when your kids sass you.” I detected some bitterness in that statement. 

      My mother was a pioneer. She worked full time in the days when most moms were home baking chocolate chip cookies and leading Brownie troops. I never appreciated how much courage it took for her to work in the corporate all-men world; all I wanted was the cookies. She worked all day and came home to a sass-mouth. I was a teen-ager; and teen-agers sass. It’s the American way. Kids don’t learn to sass; we are born with the gene, and it takes flight around 12. My mother took me to the doctor at age 12 to tell him I was too fat, so he put me on a diet. I don’t know if that’s when my sassing actually started. If so, it was probably because I was hungry, and 436 calories a day didn’t satisfy my growing hormonally-hyped-up body. Maybe every time I said, “I don’t want to do that,” or “Just leave me alone,” I was actually saying “Feed me!” 

     The irony of all this is that I became my mother. I worked full time when many of my peers stayed home with their children. I couldn’t live with the guilt of not being there, so I became “Super Mom,” and did it all. After a few years of that, I began sassing myself.

     I promised myself when I became a parent, my children would never sass me. They didn’t. Now I worry that when they reach their forties, they’ll be sitting in a shrink’s office saying, “We were never allowed to sass. Our mother would always say that if we sassed her, she would not buy us a car. We are both still waiting for the car.” 

     Now that I occasionally hear one of my grandchildren sass, I cringe. I want to tell them that sass is bad. I want to warn them about how shit can happen if they don’t respect their mothers. They would just say what they always say to me, “You’re crazy, Mémé. Be quiet, and pass the peanut butter.”