I would like to take this moment to wish SlackMom a very happy birthday. Also, to thank her for not strangling me when I was 4 9 13 17, oh hell, at any point when I was growing up.
Me-n-SlackMom, Russian Christmas 2007
In honor of her birthday, I'd like to share a couple of my favorite SlackMom stories.
Am I Adopted?
Your father plays Tetris much better when he's naked.
I am sitting in my parents' bedroom with my mother engaged in
head-to-head combat with her new SuperNintendo version of Tetris 2. The
game system and the game itself are both presents to my parents from my
brothers and I. My parents' Nintendo had given out just a few days
previous, and they were suffering from severe Tetris withdrawal.
I freeze in terror as my mother manages to destroy her last few blocks, edging me out of my Tetris crown.
She's quite the clever adversary.
Good tactic, mom. I begin to reset the game.
No, he really plays better naked. It's fascinating.
I drop the controller and flee in terror. She calls out after me, her
throaty voice echoing down the hallway. Come back! You have to play! I
paid for your education!
The House of Fuck
I was five years old and in kindergarten, wearing my red, black and
yellow argyle wool dress with a white blouse, thick black nubby tights
and patent leather mary janes, my long black hair hung to my waist in
two thick, shiny plaits. The entire class was seated at two long
tables, seventeen sets of eyes all on the substitute teacher. We had
never had a substitute teacher before, and in my childhood mind, this
was my idea of intrigue. Drama. I didn’t know how this woman was, but
now she was going to lead our motley group in Arts & Crafts!
She was blonde, and I remember her as pretty, although I remember
everyone as pretty back in those days. Her too-big adult hands worked
the pint-sized scissors through a thick piece of construction paper.
She folded and cut and unfolded and cut some more and suddenly she had
in her hands the form of a round-bellied little person.
You’ll decorate them to look like you! Won’t that be fun?
This is where she lost me. I didn’t appreciate her patronizing tone.
My mother didn’t use it. My father, when I saw him, didn’t use it.
Out-Sick Mrs. Parmeter never used it.
Besides, I would have rather decorated them to look like someone
else. I was just a five year old with a big brain and long black hair;
that wouldn’t take long to do. I wanted to decorate my paper doll as
Famous Writer or Famous Veterinarian. Or Lost Russian Princess, sitting
on a wine-colored sofa in front of a roaring fire with a fur blanket
pulled around me for warmth.
But this wasn’t an imagination drill, so I’d toe the party line like
I always did, and leave the imaginationing to my brain, which always
worked overtime in such cases.
We formed a polite kindergarten line to receive our materials,
having been taught the Rules of Polite Society by our Mrs. Parmeter.
First the twins, Alice and Sarah. Then Amy. Then Jay. Then me.
She handed me a piece of thick white construction paper and a pair of scissors with green rubber gripping on the handles.
Those are lefty scissors, I told her.
There are other kids waiting in line, she told me brightly.
I'm not a lefty.
The other kids are waiting.
That was it. I’m not a fucking lefty, I told her. And those are fucking lefty scissors.
All color left her pink face and her mouth formed a round O. I
shrugged and dropped the green-handled scissors into the box where she
had gotten them from, and selected a pair of regular scissors. I
grabbed them by the blades, point down. Safety first and all that.
I returned to my seat and began working on my doll.
Later that evening, my mother attended a PTA meeting. I was at the
kitchen table, reading a book and eating crackers when she came home.
She made herself a cup of coffee and asked if I wanted one. I did. She
sat down at the kitchen table and shook out a cigarette from her
package of Newport Lights, stuck it in her mouth, and lit it. I sipped
my coffee and watched as she inhaled deeply through her nose and
exhaled through her mouth. I loved the smell of my mother’s cigarettes.
She finally spoke. Did you say fuck in school today?
I thought back. Yeah, I did.
What happened?
I told her about it. The paper dolls, the patronizing tone. The sheer lack of imagination. The lefty scissors.
Am I in trouble?
She tapped an ash into the ashtray on the table. No, no you are not.
It suddenly occurred to me that I might be in trouble. I looked at
her nervously. She smiled, shaking her head which made the afro-like
curls on her head bounce.
Language like that we should only use at home. That’s not for school.
Oh. I didn’t know.
I know you didn’t. It’s not your fault.
I’m sorry.
Don’t be sorry, you didn’t know. Now that you do, I know you’re
smart enough to figure it out, kid. I just forget that you’re five
sometimes, and not forty.
It happens. I shrugged.
She laughed and tapped out the cigarette on the green glass ashtray,
this time resting it on the notched edge so she could pull out her
double deck of cards. She shuffled and began laying out a game of
solitaire.
I watched, mesmerized, as I always did. I took a sip of the sweet, hot coffee. Mom selected a card and began to play.
What the fuck, mom?
She laughed again, not one of those aren’t-you-adorable? laughs, but
a real, throaty, adult laugh. She took another puff on her cigarette.
Yeah, kid. What the fuck?
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