If I had a Nose Full of Nickels

..it might mean that I actually won something at Cousins Day, but no. This was not one of my "winning" months. Of course The Queen Bee (my mother) complained the whole time that she only won two or three--or was it eight?--games, and she had to go get a bigger container to hold all of her winnings, while my piddling little plastic baggie got lighter and lighter.

But am I complaining? Noooooo......... I'm a good girl, I am. I suffer in silence.

Yes, our "April" Cousins Day took place on May 1. We had actually scheduled it for a week or two earlier, but Kathy was not feeling well, so rather than go ahead without her, we waited till she was feeling better, and of course, that was best. Without any one of us it would just have been a "visit" but having all four of us there made it "Cousins Day."

These things have taken on a real routine. Kathy picks up Peach and while they drive here, the two of them rehash the highs and lows since our last time together. Then they get me and I go over my own highs and lows and they repeat what they've already talked over for my benefit. By the time we've gone through the recitation, we are at my mother's. We move our stuff (overnight clothes, books, food, booze, and Kathy's oxygen tanks) into the house, settle in with a cup of coffee and then do the whole thing all over again for my mother's benefit, while she adds her own.

(This time she had lots to share because she'd just had houseguests, who left an hour before we arrived, and she was still reeling from four days of little kids in the house.)

By the time we've finished the final sharing, it's time for lunch. This time my mother made a salad with huge shrimp on it (is "huge shrimp" an oxymoron?), along with crackers and grapes and then, as we began to slow our eating, the leaped up to grab her pencil to sharpen it, Peach cleared away the plates, I moved the placemats and Kathy started shuffling the cards. The "65" marathon had begun again.

As I said, this was not my month. Last month I did surprisingly well, but I lost every game this time around. It costs $1.15 to play each game, which consists of 11 hands, and if you win a hand you get .20. I don't think there was a game that I didn't win at least .20, but at the conclusion of the game, the winner gets whatever is left over and I never won the big pot.

However, the purpose of the game is not to win money, it's a great vehicle for conversation, laughs, and serious talk, in addition to complaining about who is cheating, who has won what, and who is angry with whom for discarding the wrong card.

At the end of 3 or 4 games, we decided that even though the clock didn't say 5 p.m. yet, it was time for drinks. This was Peach's month and she made something called Moscow Mule, which is some sort of a passionfruit drink mixer, with ginger ale, vodka and slices of fresh ginger and a spring of mint. Very refreshing. Much too easy going down. We had a few of these while we played another game and then retired to the living room to talk again while my dinner baked.

I brought an enchilada casserole which was much better tasting than I had expected it to be. I didn't take shortcuts this time, and the real "making it from scratch" thing showed in the taste. Fortunately it was much too much for us, so I brought half of it home and will have it for dinner tonight.

After dinner there was another game of cards, but Kathy hit the wall and we called it a night in time to watch "Survivor" and "CSI."

My mother watched "Without a Trace" and I was going to watch it with her (Peach and Kathy had retreated to their respective beds), but I got under a blanket, took off my glasses and wasn't aware of anything from about 2 minutes later until I heard Kathy moving around in the family room around 6 a.m.

It turned out poor Kath had a bad night, and spent most of it draped over the toilet in the bathroom. Not too much booze. I talk a good game, but we don't really drink that much and the drinks are usually more mix than actual booze. But she didn't sleep more than maybe an hour all night long.

My mother made French toast for breakfast, after which the cards came out yet again and the others had one more chance to humiliate me before we left for home.

Oh--and the boob. My mother had it at the start of the game, left over from our last round of play, but it got passed back and forth all evening last night (and this morning) and I think I was the last one to "win" it.

ADDENDUM:

I wanted to add something that I would LOVE to blog about, but that I can never add to Funny the World because my mother reads it. But she doesn't really understand about links and stuff and I know would never find this one.

I wanted to mention breakfast this morning and why I developed a weight problem early in life. She made French toast for us all. Two pieces each of something called "Texas Toast" bread, which is about 1-1/2" thick. One piece was a hefty meal. But she made an extra piece for Peach and for me. (Kathy had opted out of eating breakfast since she was so sick the night before and my mother knew she couldn't eat two pieces herself). Peach declined her second piece and my mother went on and on and on about how she had cooked it and was Peach SURE she didn't want it, and how she hated to throw it away because she'd cooked it, and teasing her because she wouldn't eat the french toast. Truth to tell, I was full too, but rather than make her feel bad for refusing to eat her french toast, I ate it.

My mother was raised in an era when the greatest sin was NOT to be hospitable. You cannot walk through her door without being offered food or drink or both. A family member has, within the last several years, finally sobered up and is working the AA program, but my mother always offers booze because that's the hospitable thing to do. Don't want a drink of hard liquor? How about wine or beer? Are you SURE you only want a soft drink? I have other kinds of liquor. I finally said one day, "don't you realize that XX is an alcoholic?" She said that yes, she did know that, but she was just trying to offer options.

I remember a friend of hers, a priest, who died recently. Before he developed cancer and became so sick, he would spend at least night a week having dinner with my mother. She always worried about him because he drank so much and "could hardly walk out to his car" and she was so afraid he'd have an accident on his drive home on the freeway. I always asked her why she gave him so much to drink and her answer was always "well--he wanted it."

When I was dieting, she would fix my favorite meals because "I know you aren't supposed to eat it, but I know how much you love it and you can have just a taste." Well...no, I can't have just a taste. It's like being alcoholic. If I have a taste of "my favorite" food, I will then eat more and more and more and be raiding the fridge at night sneaking more tastes of it.

I don't know why she is like this. I know it comes from her big heart and her desire to make everybody happy, but I see her sabotage more people's dieting or sobriety efforts by encouraging them to eat more or have a drink. She can't throw away food. If there are potatoes left over, someone has to eat them so they won't go to waste (instead they go to waist). And you can bet she won't ask the thin person if they want more to eat, she asks the heavy people to help finish the potatoes.

I love my mother and I would never intentionally hurt her by telling her all this, especially because she wouldn't really understand, but when I watch her doing things like trying to force Peach to eat more than she wants to eat it just drives me crazy because I realize she has done that all of my life, all the while tsk tsk'ing about how much I weigh.