When I was a kid growing up in a blighted burg in the least interesting part of Connecticut, my mother's take on the world was also my take on the world. She had me when she was just a teenager, and I was super plugged into her.
Never at a loss for words, mom kept up a running commentary on our lives using a particularly colorful lexicon of expressions. Only now that I've opened the door to my 40s have I gotten an appreciation for these mom'isms. There were many mom'isms, but none matched the intensity of "What am I, an asshole!"
"What am I, an asshole?"
"What am I, an asshole?" is the exclamatory footnote to unthinkable rudeness. Loosely translated, "I am not some idiot, a lowly servant, some slave here to cater to greedy users who take the mile once given an inch, and at the expense of my family." "What am I, an asshole?" happens whenever someone acts inconsiderate, or rudely takes advantage of her warm generosity, or tries to pull one over on her by lying to her face. Let's make it plain: the in-laws tried it all the time. For example, that one aunt who showed up to a sit-down dinner with four extra people. FOUR. STRANGERS.
"Can you believe her? What balls! I've never in my life. Who does that? Without asking? What am I, an asshole?"
This would be a rant that could go on for
hours. Sometimes just inside her head, even. A whole afternoon could pass without a single word...as she went about the house, scrubbing this, sweeping that, the extra-loud slam of cabinets and a ruthless attack on the baseboards with the vacuum gave away that she's silently stewing. Then out of nowhere, "ALSO," as though appending a sentence she'd just said a moment before. "ALSO, she never even THANKED ME!
What am I, an asshole?"
The rant had phases. First, the act itself. That would be, for example, to boldly surprise my mother by bringing four strangers to a sit-down dinner. Consider as a metaphor that the event itself, the dinner fiasco, was a big rock heaved into the middle of a pond. It makes a sound, it makes a splash. It's startling. Then it gets to be old news. By the time it's just a wet slap on a frog's rear end, the only person still ranting about that Thing That Happened is my mother. She has told EVERYONE by now. Everyone except the Offendor. That's who she really wants to tell off, but that never seems to happen until it's way too late and then BOOM !"What am I, an ASSHOLE?!"
By 1970s standards when it seemed like even rich people were poor, four people REALLY is a lot of extra places to set and that really is a thing to talk about. The headlines for a few days went big like "SHE KNEW I WAS SERVING SHRIMP DOES SHE KNOW WHAT A POUNDA SHRIMP COST" But by day five we were well below the fold with "AND she wore those red shoes! She only BOUGHT those shoes because she saw them on ME, and how did she know I wouldn't be wearing MINE? I should have KNOWN not to tell her where I got those shoes! What am I, an asshole?"
I mean, it would get super intense.
Other Mom'isms
"You can't bullshit a bullshitter."
"Oh, PLEASE."
"My fucking word!"
"You don't know because you haven't lived." How that one, in particular, would rile me.
"You don't know because you haven't lived" was just for me. A mom'ism that emerged in my pre-teen years right after Barbie dolls, but before dating. Eleven, twelve. You know, when we know absolutely everything about everything?
Whenever I was mouthing off about some social issue, "you don't know because you haven't lived" would throw gasoline on my fire. We lived in a pretty rough neighborhood in Waterbury, Connecticut. My mother was on full alert to shield me from making mistakes, mostly concerning which people I should trust and which people I should avoid, or if not avoid, at least be wary of; naturally, being an expert in all subjects the world over, having met at least, oh, 30 or 40 people by then and having traveled in the backseat of the family car over 75 miles away from home that one time, I would haughtily inform her that she didn't know what she was talking about. Turns out she knew was she was talking about. Which, if you think about it, is astonishing. She got pregnant with me when she was 17 years old. She was a baby when she had a baby. Mid-20s and she was dealing with two kids, serious money problems, family on both sides crazier than ten lunatics riding pink elephants in hell, and on top of it all, that bitch came over with four extra people and gobbled up all the shrimp, AND SHE IS WEARING THE SAME RED SHOES.
Oh yes, the red shoes. Those red shoes were a big deal. HOW DARE that bitch go out and buy the same red shoes! THE GALL. I must have heard this red shoe story for about six straight months I swear to God. Shoes, though, right?
My mom might have fucked up here and there, definitely used me far too much as a housekeeper when I should have been studying, making it really hard for me at school to keep up. And she made an unholy mess of the "sex talk" like you wouldn't believe. And she had zero sense how to budget or handle money and if I'm honest she's still a mess in that department, but not the worst, and she somehow makes it all work. But you know what. Bitch, here I am. I'm educated, I'm well-read. I have the best friends a person could have. I have the courage of my convictions, that's pure Mom. And I have a rock solid, super strong work ethic and a deeply held belief system made of respect and love. That doesn't just happen, does it? She done good.
Now that I'm in my forties, I know for a fact that I would have stumbled a lot more if I'd had to walk a day in her red shoes. I would have fallen flat on my stupid face on a daily basis. Damn if she didn't manage to pull it off, the fiery, stubborn little thing.
No mom, you're not an asshole. Those shoes, by the way, they were more of a deep burgundy, with gold heel detailing. Stiletto. Christian Dior. Yes, she should have paid the oil bill or the rent instead of buying them. But they
were fucking fabulous. ðŸ‘
