momfoolery

So today, on the first year of our lord, 2022, I decided to commit a very benign (I believe) crime. I love those types of crimes, the ones that hurt nobody and could occasionally be interpreted as serving the higher good. I could even be moved to make the comparison to beautiful Robin Hood.

But then I get anxious. I struggle with tone when I write about myself, which I do often since I don’t have a lot of material besides myself and my family, whom I exploit shamelessly. In the traditional shape of a story there is introduction, conflict, and then resolution. (Maybe a denouement was worked in there at some point? I forget. God, what a crappy English major I’ve become.} But my point is, that in the way a story is told, I, as one of the main characters could either end up as the hero or the villain. Of course, I, like most people, I imagine, is comfortable with neither role (am I non-binary??) so I’ll go with hero by default, since who the hell wants to be the person who has everybody’s sins dropped at their feet.

So. Hero Stephanie decided to do a crime. I was fueled by the adrenaline from the benign crime I committed one night ago. Yes, on the night of our lord one day ago – the last day of our lord in the year 2021 – I celebrated New Year’s Eve by ninja planting a tree on public land. Me and my new friend (grammar error completely intentional – makes me sound more street) rushed through traffic, hauling a small tree and a bunch of gardening tools between us, and then argued bitterly about how deep to dig the hole and where the stakes should go. But we managed to compromise, and there is an illegal avocado tree currently making itself at home at an undisclosed block on Venice Boulevard. High fives to all of the ninjas (there were many) involved in pulling off that caper.

But I digress. Today, I had a different crime in mind. Somebody, who will remain nameless because I actually don’t know their name, knocked down the street sign at the end of my block. I’d been watching it for a few days now and felt like given the city plenty of time to claim it if they’d wanted it. And some official person had come at some point and put up a temporary stop sign, which dragging my street sign to the side and cordoning it off. I felt like I was maybe getting what I wanted, plus doing the city a favor, since they wouldn’t have to send out one hundred minions to drive out to our corner, pick up the sign, crush it into a cube, dispose of it, and then file all the appropriate paperwork. Then I thought I could take it to the next level.

I’d involve my mom.

Was gonna drag her over anyway to have dinner at my house, so I thought I could sweeten the pot, for both of us, by offering her an opportunity, at her advanced age, to take part in an illegal activity. And, as I’d hoped, she couldn’t say no. I called her up beforehand.

Me: Mom, I need you to help me do a crime.

Mom, asking no further questions, but with a heavy sigh: Ok, fine.

I arrived at her house and then took the opportunity to force her into and out of the shower and then into fresh clothes. There’s a win right there. It was only a matter of a few steps further to wrangle her into the car and off we went.

I explained to her on the way that I needed her help.

“To do what, honey?” she asked, a bit testily.

Me, “Well, I need to do a small crime.”

Her, “Oh, God, what now?”

So I retold her the story (we have so many recycled conversations that annoy me a bit, but then actually just being able to fall into that easily repeated story makes my life easier so I think I’d better shut up about that) of the caper we were about to do.

“Remember, mom?” I said so very patiently. “I want that street sign because of whatever stupid reasons I have going on in my head but it is heavy so I need you to help me carry it.”

“Fine,” she sighs. And I park the car.

Turns out, that sign was really freaking heavy, so there was no way that my mom and I would reasonably be able to drag it up the block. As if there were any reasonable way for that to happen. So, I just made her walk home with me.

My favorite part of the evening was when she gasped, “Stephanie? Why couldn’t we have parked the car closer?” and I said, “Remember Mom? We were gonna commit a crime.”

She resigned herself immediately. “Oh, yes. That’s right.” My gun toting, sass talking, bitch mom who made my life miserable more than once when I was growing up ‘cause she could be as mean as the scorpion who once bit her on the toe in summer camp, understood that once you’ve crossed that line and agreed to do a crime with somebody, you can’t back out. So she held my arm, and made it up the walkway and through our front door.

So that’s the story of how I managed to get my ancient mom to walk a block, which any reader out there who has ever tried to exercise, and ancient person knows is not an easy task.

Postscript. I then went back down the block with my son to try and get the sign, and also to move the car out of the red zone. Kid balked at hauling the sign, so I drove him around the block and re-parked the car properly. Then I went back and dragged the impossibly heavy sign all the way up the block, down the driveway, and into my backyard. The lesson here is that when you’re doing something stupid and embarrassing and possibly illegal, just look forward and act natural, and if you’re a middle-aged white lady (we fly under the radar) you just might get away with it.

Post Postscript. A sense of place matters. My mom has lived in California for more decades than she has lived anywhere else. But she is still a Texan straight down to the bone. When I was very young, she shopped for groceries exclusively at Gelson’s. This was a pretty high end store at the time when we were a pretty medium end family when it came to income. But Gelson’s was the only place in town that carried Dr. Pepper, and that, for a Texan, is non-negotiable.

I have lived in a bunch of places, but I was born and raised few blocks from where I now live. This place matters to me. And now I have the sign to prove it.