I can’t have a normal day even if I tried; why should Mother’s Day be any different? For the past week or so, I mulled over what to get the woman who has an opinion about everything. I could get a card, but she’d just rip open the envelope and shake it by its spine to see if any errant bills fall out. She completely tripped last year when I got her an FTD bouquet (quote: Don’t you know about my allergies?). The year before that I got her a George Foreman grill after she gushed about how having one would simplify her cooking time and whatnot. I got her the damn thing and she still hasn’t taken it out of the box. Like an idiot, I asked her if I could have it since she wasn’t using it. Then I got an earful to the tune of this-ungrateful-son-of-mine. Can’t you just hear the harmonica?

I figured the best thing to do was just give her a call, wish her happy Mudda’s Day, and continue fighting the mutant squirrels trying to take my trash as their treasure.

You know, for a moment there, I thought it would be that easy.

I gave Death-Phoenix a call, but Husband #3 picked up the phone. He told me she was at Ma’dea’s house. I was sure the thunder I heard outside my window came from their meeting. This would mark the first time Death-Phoenix, Estranged Aunt and Ma’dea would be under the same roof at the same time voluntarily.

<backstory>

To say there’s been a struggle of wills between these three women is an understatement. Estranged Aunt ran away from home when she was sixteen and made it across the country to California and this is her first time back to Alabama since then. Estranged Aunt and Death-Phoenix do not get along at all. Estranged Aunt is still a little bitter about that. She’s been milking money out of Ma’dea for over 30 years now with promises of coming home to visit. Did she come down to Alabama when her father was in the hospital having quadruple bypass surgery? Or when her mother underwent chemotherapy for breast cancer? Or when her sister couldn’t walk for two months? Or when her nephew laid up in the hospital with a broken elbow? Nope. It’s all about her. She’s approaching 50, no kids, no assets, nothing to show for herself and going from man to man in a small rural town like the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. Sloppy. Just fucking sloppy.

I even tried to visit her when I lived in Cali; me and Twin went to her place, a seedy part of Sacramento. Can you believe this heifer wouldn’t even answer the door (when we saw her in the house)? Then had the nerve when I got back to Atlanta to ask me to send her a Morehouse sweatshirt. The unmitigated nerve….

</backstory>

So I called over to Ma’dea’s house and Yes Man picked up on the first ring.

“Hey grandaddy.”

“Hey there Karsh, how you doing? You wanna speak to ya mamma?”

I heard arguing in the background. “What’s going on over there?”

“Oh, ya mamma just hit Estranged Aunt and now ya grandma in the middle of it.”

“Umm…shouldn’t you be helping to break it up?”

“Oh no…I ain’t gettin’ involved in that. Here come ya mamma now.”

Smart man.

“Hey Karshie!” How uncharacteristically happy.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Death-Phoenix. Tell Ma’dea I said ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ too.”

She turns from the phone and repeats what I just said. Estranged Aunt picks up the other phone and says, “Oh what, you can’t say ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ to me too? Huh? Can’t you?”

“Well I honestly don’t see the point. Now if you don’t mind….”

“Death-Phoenix, let me tell you what your ungrateful ass son did when I called him last week.”

“Ungrateful?” we both said. Death-Phoenix put the phone down and they started arguing. Something to the tune of her being 45 going on 17 and not doing anything with her life but hopping from bed to bed luring men and being a lush. Then there was “Bitch, you wish you could have my carefree life.” Then I heard a dish break. Someone picks up the phone.

“Hell-loo?” The candied-sweet-potato voice belongs to Ma’dea. We talk for a minute about my new job and then she comes out with “I want Estranged Aunt out of my house. But I just can’t do that to my baby.”

“Ma’dea, she’s a grown woman. I’m sure she can take care of herself.”

And as I heard a scream, another slap and more profanity in the background, I just laughed and ended the call. My hat goes off to you, Death-Phoenix, for knowing when to smack a bitch for talking shit.

A son can only be so lucky.