E is for Episode
Sometimes my mom (hereinafter referred to as “E”) will surprise me and say or do something funny that gives me a glimmer of hope that we may actually be related. Blood related.
I often wonder about my ancestry and I just don’t see the connection.
Sesame Street used to have a segment – not sure if they still do – called One of These Things is Not Like The Other, I think. Anyway, a Muppet would compare four items, but one of the items doesn’t belong because it’s slightly different from the others.
There was even a jingle:
One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn’t belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?
Well I’m the slightly different object. Odd man out. The one that doesn’t belong. This is not a sit on the couch moment and E nor anyone else ever made me feel that way. I adopted the notion on my own and I wear it well.
She showed no favoritism among her children, just what we imagined, and we imagined my brother as her favorite. We add no animosity to it. But since I’m the closest to E, in proximity, in my mind, only I can collect brownie points and that puts me at an advantage over what anyone else believes.
I’m just saying when E does flaunt humor, she’s playing my song. I feel a connection, where I belong. West Virginia.
Anyhoo, we don’t have too many conversations on the phone because I’m a low talker and I hate the phone. Occasionally we’ll talk after Jeopardy but we don’t engage in small talk. She can’t hear me and I can’t speak up.
Regardless of infirmities, young or old, everyone receives the same amount of decibels from my larynx, I show no partiality. I can’t talk loud, scream or yell. If I ever got mugged, I would have to Tweet a scream because no one would hear me. I’ve never had an argument, but discussions. There is no yelling to my kid down the street to come inside, I’d have to send a messenger. And my kid doesn’t go down the street.
So I use the phone for its intended purpose: to impart information and hang up.
One evening E and I spent at least 15 minutes on the phone and she told me about an incident that happened at work. E works in a department store and has to deal with the-customer-is-always-right-and-knows-better-syndrome. One customer in her line was giving her the run around, trying to find a loophole in the system and make a purchase without following the procedure. Until she met: By the Book E.
So the woman says to E, “You don’t know what you’re doing.” Now if I was in the store, I would have let out a low growl to indicate my displeasure in her speaking to E that way, but I wasn’t. Or I would have taken a step back and let E handle it, and she did. So she says to the woman: “I don’t know what I’m doing because I’m listening to you tell me what to do.” And she went off on the woman.
E is smart and good at whatever she does, once she learns how to do it. When she’s not looking for the glasses she’s already wearing or the pocketbook she left in another department and then frantically calling her kids claiming it was stolen, she has a brilliant mind. All cashiers are not obtuse – forgetful but not dumb – don’t assume people can be treated that way because of their job.
So, E completed the customer’s transaction and handed her the receipt. Then she says, “Hand me the receipt back so I can write my name on the bottom and you can tell Department Store who gave you outstanding service.”
I was tickled and proud at the same time.
She said the customer stood there with her mouth open, shocked, and the people behind the woman behaved like they were being served by the Soup Nazi. It’s nice to be able to control a crowd with an act of lunacy.
I think news of E’s going off spread across Department Store’s floor like wildfire. She was untouchable for the rest of the day. I could enjoy that kind of authority, when people get ready to disrespect you, and then they remember “the incident” and think better of it.
The funny part is, the people standing in line behind the woman said, “Aren’t you Valerie’s mother?” They were friends of mine from my side of town. I said, “You told them no, right?” Neither one of us wants to be embarrassed by the other, we value our reputation. Mine is slightly more tarnished than hers, but I still like to keep what I have left, “spit-shined”. I’m sure if I was out in public causing a commotion, she would deny knowing me too. Nothing personal.
She answered in the affirmative, but assured me she did not use any profanity during her tirade. Like what was I going to do if she did. I still wish I could meet the woman who disrespected my mother, I won’t use any profanity either, but I do have a few choice words I’d like to share with her.
