Reflections On A Middle-Aged Fat Woman (2 page)

MAFW: "What would you like for Christmas this year?"

Mom: "Well, I've been through so many Christmases that I already have everything that I could possibly need.”

Brother: "Did you find out what Mom wanted for Christmas?"

MAFW: "She said she had been through so many Christmases that she had everything that she could possibly want or need.”

Brother: "That's helpful!”

Sister: "Ask her again.”

MAFW: "Have you bought the turkey yet?”

Mom: "I don't think I want turkey this year. I might want to get a ham.”

MAFW: "Why do you want ham?"

Mom: "I just want to try something a little different this year.”

MAFW: "Mom wants to have ham for Christmas this year. She wants to try something different.”

Brother & Sister: "Is she sick? What's going on? You're supposed to find out what she wants for Christmas and now you tell us she wants ham instead of turkey. Do we need to come earlier than expected?"

MAFW: “Mom? Brother & Sister want to know if they need to come sooner for Christmas.”

Mom: "Lord, heavens, what for?”

MAFW: "To see if you need any help getting the tree and buying the ham.”

Mom: "You kids need to worry about your own problems, not mine. I've already got the tree up and decorated and I bought a turkey and a ham. See you on Christmas Eve!”

Holiday Concerts — December 10, 2008

I've taken a few days off to travel north into the frigid wastelands of southern Ohio to watch my niece perform in her Christmas school concerts.

At least I thought it was supposed to be a Christmas concert?

I watched the junior high chorus perform several selections, none of which I have ever heard before. Next, the junior high orchestra performed several melodious tunes that had Sister and me tapping our toes and clapping our hands in unison. You're right, we hadn’t heard of any of those "holiday" selections, either.

When I was in the band and the chorus we played Christmas songs at the Christmas concert. We played “Jingle Bells,” “Deck the Halls,” and of course, ended the program with all singing together, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

When the orchestra took its final bow I stood up ready to sing my favorite Christmas carol. I was the only one standing and my niece turned to look at me with a look of pure terror on her face as I began the opening verse of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Everyone turned to look at me and then my sister joined in as we headed into the main chorus.

Before you knew it, the whole auditorium joined in and we sang ourselves out of the room. I heard many saying what a good way to end the program.

My niece spent the next fifteen minutes explaining that the crazy lady that started the Christmas carol was her Aunt MA Fat Woman from Georgia and that's how they do things in the south.

O’Christmas Tree — December 6, 2008

I’ve been going to the same Christmas tree farm for the last fifteen years. We're not related but I’ve been such a regular customer that the proprietor of said farm lets me drive the John Deere tractor and wagon to haul my tree in after I have made my selection. For all of you city dwellers that think a Christmas tree farm is something set up on a vacant lot somewhere with a string of lights and overpriced Charlie Brown cedar bushes, you’re wrong.

An authentic tree farm is where the trees are still in the ground and you take an axe and cut down the tree of your choice. Now, before the tree-huggers start pelting me with bits of holiday fruitcake about the damage that I am causing the environment by chopping down a tree, let it be said that I recycle my tree every year. I take my used tree and drop it in my friend’s lake to give the fish some added protective habitat. I’m been doing that for about five years and I haven’t caught a fish out of that lake since. I usually lose my line several times though, probably on one of those dang trees.

When I went to get my tree this year, I thought I was at the mall. The owner of the farm saw me pull in and waved me over to the John Deere. “Can’t talk now,” he said. “This place is jumping.”

He was right. I counted at least four pickups, three minivans, two SUVs, and a brightly colored red Mustang.

I get the same kind of tree every year. My favorite has always been a white pine. There are several rules when choosing a tree. You have to walk through the entire field, up and down the rows, checking out each tree. I never choose one in the middle. It’s either all the way down at the other end of the field or it’s the very first one I see. In years past, I would take the handsaw and cut it down myself. Something has happened over the years though, if I get down on the ground I can’t get back up. No problem, the owner will cut it for me, load it into the wagon, and then let me drive it back to the car.

The field was crowded with folks searching for just the perfect tree. A lot of people had already been there and the selection of white pines wasn’t as good as in past years. I had narrowed my choice down to three different trees and was trying to decide. I was on the opposite side of the field when an older lady and gentleman sidled up to one of the trees that I was considering. Before I could take one step in that direction, that old man had dropped to his knees and started cutting down my tree. I turned to look toward the other tree that I had been considering and it was gone too. I guess I was going to take the one closest to my car, the very first tree that I had looked at. I started to walk away from my chosen one when I heard something from behind me. It was a little boy standing excitedly beside my tree exclaiming that was the tree he wanted.

He didn’t get it.

I caught the eye of the owner of the farm and he walked over and asked if I had made my selection. I pointed to my Christmas tree and he chopped it down. The little boy was standing there as his parents walked up to a freshly cut tree stump. They looked at me and I looked at them and then we all looked at the owner of the Christmas tree farm. “Sorry folks, you’re too late. My niece has been watching this tree grow for the past five years.”

He looked at me, gave me a wink, and proceeded to carry my new Christmas tree over to my car.

Sometimes, it helps to know the owner.

The Couch Strikes Back — November 22, 2008

It seems my family has a thing for couches. A while back I told you about the ugliest couch in the world, and now, my mom has gotten a new couch. She didn’t pick it out, my sister did, thus requiring removal of the old couch and so this is where the story begins.

Different state, different house, different couch…same story.

My mom was beginning to get panicky because Thanksgiving was getting closer by the day and she needed to get things spiffed up around the house. She mentioned that she wanted to get rid of the old couch and I volunteered to help. She thought we might get it loaded up onto Dad’s old temperamental Chevy

Pickup and haul it off to the dump. I had my doubts.

I asked one of my friends to come along just in case we needed an extra hand. You see that couch is really heavy and Mom only has one good arm. My sick family member (Brother) is hooked up to a machine that has to go wherever he goes and he’s still pretty weak from spending a month in the hospital.

When we got to my mom’s house she mentioned that there had been a slight change in plans. She now wanted to take the couch to the local thrift store because someone might need it and she wanted to load it onto my brother’s fifteen foot trailer that was parked in the yard in front of the pickup loaded with landscaping equipment. And while we were here could we put the camper top back on the back of Dad’s truck.

At this point I pretty much pitched a fit. Why did everything have to be soooo complicated? We had four different supervisors offering four different ways to do the exact same thing and no workers to pull it off. My friend and I decided to just get the couch outside to begin with. We slid it over to the French doors, picked it up and stepped outside. We made it about ten feet before my arms gave out; it was way heavier than I thought.

Since we were going to use the trailer now instead of the truck Mom decided to move the old truck which is a good thing because she is the only one that can start it. My friend and I were trying to hook her truck up to the trailer so we could maneuver it closer to the couch. We couldn’t get it attached right so up walks Brother with his machine to see if he could get it connected properly.

Meanwhile, my mom, who was tired of waiting on us decided to back the truck up closer to the couch. Did I mention it was up a hill and the grass was wet?

Periodically, between muffled curse words and shouted expletives as we struggled with the ball hitch on the trailer we would hear mom in the truck and the ever present sound of spinning tires that sounded just like a squealing baby pig. After several attempts she gave up and we all stepped back to analyze the situation. We struggled back in the house with my sick family member throwing up the whole way; the hitch wasn’t going to work on my friend’s truck.

We rested awhile and then decided to use my brother’s truck to haul the trailer and the danged couch. We unloaded the lawnmowers and weed eaters and other garden tools and somehow wrestled that beast up onto the trailer. By this time I had worn mom down enough that she agreed that we would take the couch to the dump instead of the thrift store.

The dump, which has the best view in town, is only about three miles from her house so we were there rather quickly. We pulled up to the pay window and the lady inside was just beside herself with the fact that we were throwing away such a perfectly good couch. Little did she know that when you sit on the couch it goes to the floor because all of the springs are broken and it didn’t have any legs?

It was going to cost eight bucks to dump the couch and I saw the woman digging around in her purse for something. The lady looked at my mom and said she would give her the eight dollars if we would take the couch over to her truck and load it up for her. I looked at my friend and my friend looked at me and we both looked at my mom. Mom looked at me and then turned to the lady and said, “No way! That thing’s going into the dumpster”.

“Hurry up,” mom said, “Before I change my mind.” We had that couch offloaded in a single flip and sent it spiraling down into the dumpster fifteen feet below.

Finally, the couch was gone!

I had to go into town later that evening on my way home and stopped at a local convenience store to get a Diet Coke when a pickup truck pulled in to the gas pumps. In the back of the truck was a sofa that looked pretty much like the couch that had tormented us for three hours earlier in the day. Out jumped the same woman from the dump and we saw each other at the same time. Before I knew it she was heading my way and walked up to me and handed me something. “Give this to your mom,” she said.

Yep, it was the eight dollars!

Potty Mouth Of The South — January, 27, 2011

Last weekend, Mom and I had plans to go to Harrah's Casino in Cherokee, North Carolina, for a night on the town. I had procured last row seats for us to watch a live cooking demonstration by the charming and butter loving Queen of Southern Cuisine, Miss Paula Deen. Mom and I weren't totally in the back row (third from the back) but we were far enough away that you had to watch one of the large projection screens to see what was happening on the stage.

I'm not really sure what I was expecting, but I was definitely surprised at what I got. Somewhere between calling a few ladies in the audience "Bitches" to discussing "things" that she blew with her son, I began to squirm and feel uncomfortable in my seat. Mom noticed I was uneasy after another colorful off-the-cuff remark and said, "Ain't she funny. I heard she was raunchy."

Raunchy! My mother just said the word raunchy. I'm no prude by any means but is raunchy really the word you want to hear your mother say? What about funny? What about, 'What's she cooking next?' Maybe even the true and tried favorite: Hey Ya'll! But definitely not the word raunchy.

And so the show must go on. Me, in a state of total disbelief that my favorite TV chef was no longer the Queen of Southern Cuisine but had morphed into the Potty Mouth of the South. Mom, sitting upright, erect with nose peeled to her binoculars totally transfixed by the sights and sounds emanating from her hero, Paula Deen.

Paula didn't do any cooking. It seems that one of the chefs that works for her prepared the meal while Paula paced the stage and took questions from the audience in a Carol Burnett Show fashion. Several of her family members were there including her Aunt Peggy; brother, Bubba; husband, Michael and son, Bobby. It was funny to watch as they all sat on the stage shaking their heads as the TV chef peppered the audience with as much fire that is found in her signature hot crab dip.

One of the highlights of the show was when Bobby spoke about a couple that he had met the night before in the new Paula Deen Kitchen restaurant. The man, having been injured in an accident was now wheelchair bound and relied heavily on his girlfriend of many years as he continued his recovery.

Paula asked the couple, who were seated in the row right behind us to come down to the stage. Once there, the man proposed to his girlfriend (she accepted) and they got to sit at the table with the other guests. It really was an awesome moment!

Later, as we stalked Paula around the casino (she was hanging out in the high roller section) and were waiting in line to eat, we overheard a group of Seniorly, cackling old bitties complaining about the fact that she hadn't cooked and had used such salty language. Mom, who had removed her Walkman to listen, just shook her head in disgust. "I don't understand what was so bad about it," she said. "Them women been blowing stuff probably their whole married lives. Friggin' prudes!"

Whatever you say, Mom!

Fire On Cherry Fork Road — November 6, 2008