In what our family is calling the ‘turnaround of the century,’ my mother is alive, and well, and doing what she enjoys the most…using her womanly wiles to entrap a man. I’m concerned that her latest victim, Ray, may be unaware of what he is getting into. And I have to admit this presents something of a quandary for me. Because setting her sights on Ray has become her most recent preoccupation (obsession, really) it reduces the daily phone calls and demands on my time. I am relishing the freedom but do feel a little sorry for poor old Ray.
I’m fairly certain sure she gets up in the morning and assesses her wardrobe to decide which color will put her at the best advantage, making sure it enhances her hazel eyes and snow white hair. She probably primps and fusses and then heads downstairs to the common area where Ray awaits having, no doubt, rolled out of bed, dressed without any concern for what he is wearing and strutted into the common area assuming he is a stud and all the women want him.
Given the ratio of men to women…he’s right. All the women do want him. It's just that some are more determined than others.
In her younger years my mother was quite a beautiful woman. She still is, although she spends an inordinate amount of time reliving her ‘glory days.’ Somehow she missed the feminist notion that a woman’s value isn’t found in cultural ideals of beauty. But, then that seems lost on a lot of us so, I really can’t fault her for it.
The troubling part isn’t so much that she was beautiful. The troubling part is that she bludgeoned people with it. My mother got what she wanted, when she wanted, how she wanted, where she wanted…because she was pretty. And beguiling. And bossy. I’m fairly certain she watched Gone With The Wind one too many times and started channeling her inner Scarlett to manipulate men and life into giving her what she wanted. And she’s been fairly successful. Perhaps not all that happy. But successful.
I thought she had given up on beauty and men after the daily medical dramas last summer but then, one morning (perhaps recalling the whole carrot scene when Scarlett musters all of her determination) my mother decided to stage a remarkable recovery and resolved that it was time to catch a man once and for all. I can envision her getting out of bed (all five feet of her), shaking her fist (dramatic music playing) and saying, “With God as my witness, I’ll never go manless again!”
Men are a rare commodity in her community. And men in possession of their mental faculties and bodily functions are even rarer still. As it happens, just about the time my mother decided she was going to continue slogging through this thing called life, in waltzed Ray who is, apparently, the cat’s pajamas. If you like your pajamas in the form of a short, gruff, codger with a New York accent and a pot belly.
It was on!
The competition for the few eligible and desirable men can be fierce with the elderly set. Middle schoolers could learn a few ‘survival of the fittest’ lessons from these women. The cattiness. The drama. The boyfriend stealing. I tell you, it gets wicked. Certainly no place for the faint of heart. And in the end, of course, it is the Queen Bee who wins.
Enter Mommie Dearest.
Anna and I went to visit her yesterday. She was busy holding court. She sat there in her bright blue sweater and pearls, flirting shamelessly with Ray while eight of her besties sat around them (seriously! I’m not making this stuff up!) enviously watching her preside. My mother, the 83-year old ‘popular girl,’ was in her glory. I found myself in rapt terror that the next words out of her mouth were going to be, “And then, I was like, oh my Gawd!”
It was disconcerting to say the least. We didn’t stay long. Just long enough for her to introduce me to Ray. She’s introduced us the last three times I’ve gone to visit. Yesterday I thought seriously about trying to find a discreet way to mutter out of the side of my mouth, “Run away while you can!” But then, I thought, hey, he’s playing Rhett to her Scarlett of his own volition. Who am I to dampen the embers of love? Besides, if I disturb what’s meant to be, I become the object of her attention, drama, and demands again. I am the one she calls when she is bored. The one she demands drop everything to take her shopping. The one she expects to entertain her.
Sorry Ray old buddy…you’re on your own!
In fact, I’ve been thinking I might just add a little fuel to the fire. Sort of seal the deal. Maybe the next time Ray and I are introduced for the first time, I’ll tear up, throw my arms around him and cry, ‘Daddy!’
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