Momma
By Angela Arlia

aaaahis afternoon I received a text message from my husband stating: Bware ur mom's outside.
I know you are thinking this is some special lovey-dovey language between two newlyweds. But it's not. It's a warning signal.
aaaaNow don't get me wrong, I love my mom in a she-held-me-for-nine-months way. But I acknowledge wholeheartedly that she's a thorn in the sides of many--a thorn the size of a California Redwood tree. She's controlling and very old-fashioned, just like a lot of immigrant mothers are, only worse.
aaaaI, unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on the situation) live next door to my parents. By "next door," I mean that they live literally in the next apartment building over from hubby and me. Coming from a small town in Italy, my mom is used to being outside and saying hello to everyone who walks by. We, of course, live in America, specifically in New York City, where people are in a rush to get to their destinations, especially me. aaaaThat doesn't stop my mom from trying to have a lengthy conversation with me when I walk past in the morning. I could walk around my neighborhood with a bag over my head, earplugs in my ears and a limp, and somehow, my mom would always know it was me. She needs to ask me if I've moved my bowels that morning, why I'm not wearing knee socks under my skirt, tell me to tuck in my shirt, to eat a banana for potassium, all in the span of time it takes to come out of my building and walk past her.

aaaaMost people would just ignore this barrage of unsolicited chatter and walk on by. I would love to do that but, try as hard as I can (c.f. bag over head, earplugs and limp in previous paragraph), my mother somehow finds a way to get these messages in during the day. She will either call me at work, where I've not picked up the phone or have disguised my voice as a man's, or accost me on my way home from work. Hence, the text message I received from my hubby this afternoon.
aaaaDue to the fact that my mom comes from a small town in Italy, where everyone knows one another, she believes she must continue this practice no matter how big the size of the town in which she's currently residing. Obviously, she doesn't know everyone in New York. But she does know everyone on my street. And, like most of small-town-raised individuals, my mom is an inveterate gossiper.
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aaaaEvery day she is out and about (despite recently having hip surgery) outside the apartment building, seeing where people are going, who is coming home with whom, and deciding who, among those she sees, is a "witch" or a "bum". It is really quite fascinating to hear her criteria for those monikers. Pretty much anyone whom she doesn't like, who has ever talked back to her, or who is an independent thinker falls into those categories. Basically, few people in my neighborhood haven't been christened with those choice nicknames.
aaaaWhat's most amazing about my mom is how upset she becomes when people know our family's business. If she really didn't want it to be information for the town crier, she probably shouldn't be a gossip-monger. Obviously, that's too logical. What my husband and I find most baffling is that she tells all her business to the biggest gossiper (whom we will call "Big Mouth") and yet doesn't seem to think that Big Mouth isn't telling the whole world-the world, to my mom, being the neighborhood.
aaaaJust the other day, hubby, who works in the neighborhood, walked outside to find my mom talking to Big Mouth. My mom was discussing, rather loudly, an incident that had happened the week earlier involving one of our neighbors, a man hubby and I have christened "One-toothed Man" (that story will have to wait for another column). Hubby really wasn't in the mood to hear my mom complaining about another incident, so he yelled out to my mom, "Momma, I have diarrhea!"
aaaaThis news immediately made my mom straighten up like a meerkat. "What? You have diarrhea!" She began to hobble down the street, leaving Big Mouth most likely dejected, I'm sure.
aaaa"I can make you chicken soup and bring it over," she whispered concernedly.
aaaa"No, that's ok Momma. I'm just going to go inside."
aaaa"I can bring you toast."
aaaa"No, I'm good. I just wanted to tell you."
aaaaHubby turned around and went inside our building's vestibule, happy to have pulled my mom away from the gossip circle. Of course, he was secretly giggling within himself. When I heard the story, I couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Then again, when it comes to my momma, a lot of what she does is just pure ridiculousness.