The text messages I get from my mom could be a comedy skit. I’ve considered emailing Netflix to see if they will allow me, an unknown in the stand-up world, to do a one-hour comedy special like Dave Chappelle or Bill Burr where I stand on stage in an intentionally dimly lit theater in NYC or perhaps Chicago and just read my mom’s text messages to a seated audience.
That’s what the special would be.
Me standing on stage with my iPhone in hand reading text message after text message from my mom.
Her texts are long and excruciatingly detailed yet full of nonsensical autocorrect typos one after the next like her telling me about the “french drugs” she just ate on a chicken dish she recently made, per my wife’s recipe.
Over time, I’ve learned to decipher her autocorrected text as if a young Indiana Jones in search of the holy grail.
“French drugs” translates to “French dressing.”
When you hear the ding on your phone, you truly have no idea where it’ll take you. It’s like a Choose Your Own Adventure novel in the palm of your hand because my mom, and if you’ve ever talked with her for some time you’ll know this, is a master of digression.
You may think there is no interrelationship between the various subjects she talks about. Where did this story end and this transition begin? But you’d be wrong. There is a connection somewhere. That’s part of the allure of her texts to me.
Solving the mystery.
Connecting the dots.
Her latest text exchange with me is as follows, and I may add, used with her permission. I don’t want any of my friends or family to assume that if they text me it will one day be placed on the world wide web for the global universe to see. It’s possible, of course, but only if you give me the thumbs up.
She, and this is something I assume (potentially wrongly) other parents do with their children, texts me her medical test results without any context — usually at 5:15 in the morning. Trained as a nurse who went to nursing school as opposed to college out of high school, her medical test results make complete sense to her. And considering it’s her health, and as the individual who schedules her exams, she has an understanding here I lack.
When I receive these screenshots of her latest screening results, I never know if my mom is dying of a rare disease or is healthy as a horse.
Replying back, I immediately receive a text in response that says, “Driving, can’t text. Sent from MY MURANO.”
Even though, only five minutes before, it was my mom who texted me while I was still asleep. Somehow, between 5:15-5:20 AM, she was already on the road melting her tires to nubs.
I think, if Netflix did indeed take me up on my offer, this would be the name of my one-hour special: “Driving, can’t text. Sent from MY MURANO.”
“The good news is,” she texts me after she reaches her destination “I don’t have an aneurysm.”
And here my wife wonders where I get my random bouts of hypochondria from.
“That’s good,” I text back.
“My mom thought she had an aneurysm,” I tell Allison.
“Why’d she think that?”
“No idea,” I say.
My mom doesn’t like taking bad photos either. If you take a photo of her and everyone else in the photo looks great but she doesn’t, she’ll have you retake it. Then if everyone else in the photo looks like hell warmed over with half-shut eyes and jawlines set at odd angles and she looks great, she’ll post it on Facebook.
If my sister is reading this right now, I’m assuming she was nodding her head vigorously as she read that last paragraph.
As someone not on Facebook, I’m slightly terrified in thinking about what photos of me she has taken while visiting that are plastered in her photo gallery. She probably looks like a young Ava Gardner whereas I look like Marv from Home Alone after a hot iron lands on his face from one story up.
Which is why I am sharing this selfie my mom took of herself and texted me. I have no idea why she sent this to me. It was included in a string of texts she sent me about a month ago. She also didn’t refer to it as a selfie but as a “selfish.”
Autocorrect strikes again! Or “aurora correct” as her autocorrect autocorrects her spelling of “autocorrect.”
Of course, none of this is a way of saying I want my mom to text message me less. Oh no, I want more. If I’m having a rough day and get a text from my mom, it’s like a moment of comedy relief. There’s gold in them there texts.
Thanks for reading. You may also like this Mother’s Day tribute I wrote last year: Look Down at Your Bellybutton.
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