This Weeks' Mama Quotes:

"Hou ken yu say tis to me? I karried yu fo 9 manths...an yu vas HEAVY too!"

"Darlink...I jas vanna tell yu...yu look good. Jas super.......Don get fet"

I Can't Complain

I've had quite the day, dear readers.
My Mama had a mild stroke this morning, and through the help of some incredible EMS workers and medical staff at St Mike's, she's totally ok.

I'm not going to bore you with the whole ordeal..I don't have the strength.
But, I will tell you that everyone involved responded quickly, thoroughly and with compassion that makes me vaklempt.

One of the EMS guys who brought Mama to the hospital told me to meet them at the emerg, and when I finally found parking and made it to the emerg, he was waiting for me outside. He told me what was going to happen, what they were going to do, what his experience has been in these situations, and what I should do.

He calmed me down.

Mama received the injection, and by 3pm her speech was normal, and her motor skills were back.
So normal, that she told the woman who was whining about being hungry in the next bed to "SHADDAP!"

Around 4pm, the EMS guy came back to check on her!
He sat with her and gave her a little lecture on accepting medical help.
He told her that even if she was only feeling 99% ok, and 1% sick to accept the help...that they don't mind. He felt better to know that she averted a major stroke because she let them help her.

God bless you, Gary the EMS guy.

People can bitch and howl about our healthcare system...but what I saw today was compassionate and stellar.

I have renewed respect for the medical profession, from the EMS to Doctors...to St Mike's.

Thank you.

Conversation with Mama

"Ya, so Danica's daughter Tanja iz 25 an, she still no marry".

"So what?"

"Vell, she hev da boy she like, an dey suppose to marry...bah he vant her to move to Bosna..det's ver he from, an Buda (Tanja's father) no let her".

"What? Why?"

"Tanja hev her ovn business, she's da hairdresser..she hev da business in Becej, an da parents to help...she don need to move so far from dem"

"No, but what does Buda have to do with her decision?"

"Da boy's femily is very old feshion"

"So?"

"Da madder, she vash da feet from everybody before dey kam in da houz"

"So?"

"So, Buda iz no sendink his daughter who hev da buziness, an ken tekka ker aff herself to go an vash da feet of da people in Bosna".

"So? She can go if she wants to and if she doesn't want to wash feet, she doesn't have to"
(I can't believe I'm even having this conversation!)

"Vai mekka da trouble? Bedde no go attall".

Mama Shops

This brings new possibilities to "Ask Mama"



I like how she's enunciating for you.

Mama Sleep Talks

Mama goes to bed early, and gets up really early.
With the chickens, as they say.
She complains that I don't call her enough, but the reality is that I often don't get home until after 9:00pm, and she's in bed by then.
So, the other day I got home around 9:00pm and picked up a message from her. I settled myself in, and by that time it was 9:30pm...but I decided to give Mama a call anyway.
This is how it went:

Me: "Hi Ma. It's me."
Ma: "Eh?"
Me: "Did I wake you up?"
Ma: "Ya, bah eet's ok."
Me: "How are you doing?"
Ma: "Vat are yu doing mit dos shirts?"
Me: "What shirts?"
Ma: "Maaaaaah, da vans in da closet. Yu no gonna iron dem?"
Me: "Ok, Ma, You're sleeping...I'll call you tomorrow."
Ma: "Ver yu goink?"
Me: "I'm going to iron the shirts in the closet"
Ma: "Ok. Good. Don be so lazy."

Click.

Photo: Daily Blague

Mama's Vorry

In conversation with Mama, I commented on Montenegro separating from Serbia.

"Eh," She said, "Dey deedn't vant to stai vetch for a long time...leddem go...alveys complainink dey vanted to go...so naou dey gone. Don hev to lissen about haou dey vanna go no more."

Then, I said..."Next, Vojvodina..."

"Shaddap. Det's no fanny."

*Photo: Visit Vojvodina

My mother asked me to change the message on her call answer service.
I called her to ask for her password, but she wasn't home.
This was her message:
"Ahhhh, ahhhh, ok...tis is (her number), I'm nat home. Ehh...ahhh...leave da message. I gonna kall yu bek" and then just before it beeps, in Serbian, "Tis vas no goot. I screwed up."

Laugh?
I thought I'd die.

So, when she called me back and I got her password, I changed the message.
I then went into her calls to see if she got my message.
I picked up this message from a speed talking Serbian friend of hers:
First, she recites a cute Serbian limerick like poem using my mothers name, and then, "Change your message. Just say, 'Leev da message, I gonna kall you bek, dets all!', you don't need to say anything else. Finished." She goes on to tell her some other things and then ubruptly hangs up.
I wish there was a way to put her message on a wav file and post it here.
It's freakin' hilarious.
I could listen to her friend all day.

Dear Diary....



I’ve been a diary/journal keeper since I was eleven, or so.
Believe me people..... with a mother like mine, keeping a private journal was no easy feat, let me tell you.
Wherever my little mind thought was a clever place to hide said diary, was a piece of cake for KGB Agent Milinkov to find.
Hide it between books?
Behind the toilet?
Under the bed?
Under a floorboard?
Behind a loosened brick in the backyard?
In a shallow hole under a bush close to the house?

Yeah, sure.

Mama was a compulsive “thower-outer”, and she decided whether I needed something or not.
Saving those Teen Beat magazines because they have posters of Michael Jackson and David Cassidy? (Shut. Up.)
I was not allowed to put them up on the wall "bekaz da tep rooin da paint".

They would disappear in a military style shake down of my room.
With a “vy yu keepink det garbitch?” in passing, from Mama.

To approach her in this decades' teen style of:
“How dare you go into my room!!! I have a right to my privacy!!!!”
Would have resulted in a shpaff across the head, and a reminder of who I was talking to.

Mind you, what was so private in the diary of an eleven or twelve year old?
Page after page of “Richard(names interchangeable) said ‘hi’ to me in the hall today outside of Mr. Murrins’ room...he's sooooooo cute”?
Or
“Lisa said that Keshra is a snotty bitch, and then Keshra told me that she’s not Lisa’s friend anymore, and then….”?
Or…
Endless laments and bitches about my mother?

Bingo!

One time, after a particularly percolated tongue lashing from her for Ican'trememberwhat…. I wrote all about how much I hated her, and what a bitch she was, and how unfair my life was, and how much my life sucked, and then promptly hid my journal between my mattresses

Genius!

My eleven year old mind thought.

Until I got home from school the next day.

Even when I think about it now, my ass smarts.

Get Ready My Darlinks


My mother who is not very into the social scene, has agreed to go over to my mother in laws house for a "Big People Party".
This may sound like not much, but my mother in law loves music, loves to dance, likes to have a drink or two and a smoke. In short, my mother in law likes to have fun.

My mother enjoys nothing listed above, least of all fun.
I'm going over there to help out with the food.

Originally, my mother wasn't going to go, but when she found out that I would be going anyway, she decided to come.
Yesterday my mother called in a panic and left this message on my answering machine:

"Sine, vat tim are ve goink? Vat does she drink? I hev to by a battle. Pa, don be dis vey...yu hev to tell me...yu no I don lik dis 'et da las minuta' tings...don be smart. Call me ODMA (right away)"

So, later today...I'm headed over there with my mother.
This should make good blogging material.

I just came back from having lunch with my mother and her friend Dusanka who is visiting for 6 months from Serbia, and going back in a couple of weeks.

My mother is already consumed with Christmas issues.
She says:
“Evo Bozic, samo sto nije!”
Literal translation:
“Here’s Christmas, it’s just that it isn’t”

December 25th, not January 7th.
“Vat to by for Da Meester?”
“Vat to by for Baba? (The Mister’s mother)” and so on.
There is no convincing my mother that no one needs her to spend her money.
Dusanka has the right idea.
The problem is that Dusanka has the Serbian idea of Christmas.

Dusanka says:
“Go mit da big battle ov goot Konjak, an a nice cake”

My Mother says:
“Ma, yu kan doo det! Tis is no hou da Kanadian pepl do dis!”

That started a long diatribe on North American life.

See, Dusanka has been here for about 6 months.
She’s been observing and making comparisons, as visitors from other countries are wont to do.
Now, it’s natural to look for the negatives in the country you are visiting because, after all, you’re used to something different.

The problem is that as I sat there listening, I recognized me, and my whole life as seen through her eyes.
My life and maybe yours too…

She said:
“Back home, we work to live. Here, you live to work.
I watch you, my daughter and the people here, running, running, running. You drive one hour in traffic to work, you work 8 hours, and then another hour in traffic to go home…that is 10 hours, then you cook and clean when you get home, another 2 hours. That’s 12 hours before you can sit down and even consider yourself human.
If you have children to take care of, not even then. Then you get up before dawn to run to the gym to exercise and do the whole thing again.
Then, Saturday comes and you spend Saturday and Sunday running to do the things that you didn’t have time to do the rest of the week.
Yes, maybe you have more things in your life, nicer things in your house, but when do you enjoy them?
Back home, we don’t live like this.
I get up like you, I work until 1pm and then I come home and lay down until 4 and then I work again until 8…not all this run, run, run…and I retired at 50 and collect my pension. Here, you can’t live long enough to collect the pension you pay in to all the years you work, and even if you do collect, it’s not enough for a human to live on.
If this is your Capitalism, Jebo te Kapitalisam (translated literally = Capitalism fucked you.) then you can call me a Communist!

But I am a Communist with a life.
You are a Capitalist with no life.”

Ouch.

"Please Leave a Message After the Tone..."

All messages are one after the other.

Message #1
In Serbian:
"Sine, it's yu madder. I kal jas to hear yu voice. Kal yu madder ven yu get hom"CLICK

Message #2
"Ver ar yu so late? Yu hev a meetink? Kal me ven yu kam hom"CLICK

Message #3
"Ma, pfffffttt"
CLICK

Message #4 (in English)
"My name isss Radmila, an my fon numbe iss for-van- seex-bla-bla-bla-bla. Taaaannkk yuuuuu, good-byyyyee"CLICK

I called her back.
Holy shit, Ok?

Radmila's Mom on Football

"Da CFL hev latsa maney. Dey hev enuf maney to buy everbady a baall, so dey don hev to fight for van baall"

Lunch With Mom

My mother came to meet me for lunch yesterday.
We met at the usual place and talked about the usual things.

Prologue:
This is a few days before Orthodox Easter.
We go to my Uncle and Aunt's house every Easter.

This conversation happened:

Me: "Ma, when do you want us to pick you up on Sunday for Easter Lunch at Uja's?"

Mom: "Uja's?" with this surprised look on her face.

Me: "Yeah, ma...for Easter Lunch.

Mom: With an indignant look on her face, "I don no...nobady invite me..."

Me: "Ma, we go there every year for Easter. You know that!

Mom: "I don ker....no body invite me. I no invite. I no go"

Me: "Oh for God's sake!"

I stopped by my Uncle's store on the way home to drop off some stuff and tell him to please call his sister and invite her to Easter lunch on Sunday.

Uja: "Oh for God's sake!".

He called her right away....and get this....he had to convince her!

Geeeeeez.

On an Engrish note:
I was talking to Uja a couple of weeks ago and he was telling me about some billionaire he read about in the newspaper.
He referred to this Billionaire as a Big Typhoon

You have got to love him!

Don Ekt Stoopit

It's been a really hectic week for me and I haven't even thought about blogging.
Ok, I've thought about it, it's just that I haven't had the time or the mind.

First things first.
On Plastic Surgeon's visit and the chemical injections (6 to be exact) in my left leg.
It didn't really hurt, but I have an irrational fear of needles.
Now, to say that you would you think that I might howl and wail like a woman in labour?
No.
However, my reaction is physical.
The stress level is really high for me, but to look at me, you would never know.
I asked the Doctor to please turn his back to me while he was filling the needle and he obliged.
I told him about my fear, he didn't make me wait and he did it as quickly as he could.
I was thankful.
It was over quickly.

Years ago, when I was having one of many surgeries for an ongoing illness that we (God and I) finally beat,
I was waiting to go in for surgery for 1:00pm.
I was irrationally scared of this surgery and had been prepped and ready to go.
However, at 12:55pm another patient started wailing and crying about some minor procedure she was having done.

They put her in my spot and that was when I lost my ever-fuckin'-lovin' mind.
Squeaky wheels really do get the grease.
That is, if you squeak first.

See, I'm of the belief that you shut the fuck up and get it over with as soon as possible.
I'm not a big whiney, sissy, crybaby type.
I hate those types.
Especially when I have to listen to them while I'm stressing out about something bigger than what they are having done.
I fucking hate sucks.

Even in my job,
I am apt to give more attention to a child that shows some sort of attempt at control than to a child that is wailing away for no good reason.
I can't help it.
I was raised not to be a suck.

Anyway.
I just about jumped off the gurney and pulled that woman's ovaries out in my unreasoning anger.
The Nurse seemed shocked by my reaction.
She said that I seemed to be "handling everything so well".
"Well, I'm NOT" I barked.
Know what?
I still had to wait over two hours.

So much for my Mother's teachings of "stegni se" in other words, "be stronk", "don mekka big deal..don ekt stooopit".

The moral of the story?
Ekt stoopid first!

Red Lobster or Bust

Today is my Mother's birthday.
It's become somewhat of a tradition for my Uncle (Ma's brother) to take us to Red Lobster to celebrate.

It recently occurred to me that it's always just me, him and my mother.
The rest of the family is never there.
Then, again it occurred to me that it just seems right this way.
My mother, uncle and me are kind of a separate family on our own.

For the following reasons:
My mother brought my uncle to Canada.
My Uncle helped raise me when my father left us.
Whenever my mother needed help, if I got out of hand, he was there.
He cut his parenting teeth on me (and take it from me, he was tough).
I was surprised at how soft he became with his own daughters.
It was his car I had to look for in the neighbourhood if I was doing something that my mother had told me not to do
(Believe me, he drove around the neighbourhood a lot I couldn't get away with shit).

Yes, in a certain way, we are a separate little family.
A sidebar family, if you will.

I enjoy these dinners because they talk about things that I have never heard about before.
It's like a little trip back in time.
They talk about their childhoods.
The people they remember and have no one but each other here in this country to share those memories with.
It's kind of like what I had previously said about my friend Karla.
She's my witness.
They are a witness to each other's lives.

Sometimes, I think that your life changes so drastically over the years, that it's hard to imagine that you once had a completely different life. Maybe a simpler one, a happier one or just the fact that back then, you would never have imagined yourself where you are today.

Life sure is funny that way.

Well, I'm off shortly for my yearly trip down memory lane with them...
I'm sure there will be another episode of "My Mother Says" when I get back.

Hmmm, I should start "My Uncle's Proverbs" because he's a plethora of them.

Another Episode of:
My Mother Says...

My mother and I are talking and she is telling me that her friends' daughter is "loose".
We are talking about this and somehow we fall into the comparison between "sluts" and "whores"
My mother announces:
Mom: "Slats are vors den hoors"
Me: "Why?"
Mom: "Dey are bot bed an no good, bat at leazt da hoors, dey get da money. Ma anyvay, dey
all gonna hell, so hoo cares?
Vy yu alvays vanna takka about dis tings?
Me?

Example
Many years ago, I was working my way through college, bartending on weekends (much to my mother's chagrin).
One Saturday night after closing, I tripped over the brown bar that locks the beer fridges behind the bar. I was holding about 12 tulip glasses between my fingers in order to "rack" them over the bar.
When I fell forward, I put my hands forward in a natural reaction to break my fall.
It took over 3 hours in Emergency to stitch up my palms and I still have no feeling in the tip of my ring finger on my right hand.
Nevertheless....
I got home at approximately 4:30am, to find that the elevators in our apartment building weren't working. This may not sound like a big deal, but we lived on the twentieth floor.
I was nervous about walking up 20 flights of stairs by myself at 4:30am so,
I buzzed my mother on the intercom and told her that the elevators were not working and asked her to start walking down the west stairwell as I walked up and we'd meet somewhere in the middle.
Now, picture this:
I am wearing:

the obligatory black pants and white shirt and black tie of bartenders. Only my white shirt looks like a butcher's apron from the blood I splattered all over myself when I almost severed my hands.

Both of my hands are wrapped in gauze, so they resembled boxing gloves.

When I meet my mother (somewhere around the 15th floor), she takes one look at me, and says:

"Tanks Got it vazen't your face. You're not maarried yet."