Momma Benedetti Plays Pitch with the Gang!

All righty.

Momma Benedetti is at it, again, and I thought I’d share her silliness with my “blogging buddies” this week for another round of “Life with Momma”.

Like most people her age, my Mom is pretty much a routine kinda gal.

Gets up at 5 most mornings, has her cup of coffee (to make her go), sits in her rocker and watches the morning news shows to catch up on what’s happening “out of her little bubble,” in upstate NY.

On Wednesdays at noon, she’s off to the local senior center for a rousting card game of “pitch” (a local card game favored by a number of people in upstate NY). And God forbid, you bother her from 10 a.m. to 11:45 a.m., because she’s gotta get her lipstick and make-up on for the 10 minute road trip to the neighboring town and hasta eat something of sustenance, ‘cuz she certainly can’t go all afternoon without eating Italian bread or some kind of pasta to maintain “her blood sugar level”.

Heaven help us, if this little, gray-haired rompicogoloni (pain in the ass) hits the road without eating a hunk of hard-crusted Italian bread or some pasta with olive oil. Not in her genetic make-up, don’t ‘cha know?

So, I call her most Thursday mornings – after her run to the local dollar store, and before her first lunch of the day.

She’s usually got a few minutes she can spare to chat with me before hanging up to start lunch, and as long as I don’t push her beyond her agreed upon 10 or so minutes, everything’s copasetic.

This past Thursday, though, was an exception to the rule.

Ma was bored.

“Bored sh-t-less”, as she put it and really tired of the cloudy, windy, cold weather that they were experiencing, lately, and wanted to chat.

“So,” I begin, “How ya doin’ today?”

“OK, “she sullenly replies. “Same old same old. “

“Un-Hun”, I respond. “How’d the card game go on Wednesday?”

“The card game is more of a coffee klatch. We do more talkin’, with this group, than play cards,” she flatly answers.

“Well, did you win anything?” I continue.

“Cazzo,” she replies. “Who knows who won and who lost? This group can’t remember what trump is from one hand to the other!”

Being a retired special ed. teacher and all, I smugly ask, “Gee, Ma, have you tried using some kind of cues to help out? Maybe a visual will help?”

“Ma, che sei grullo! (How stupid are you?!), Lucia! We’ve got more cues than Carter has liver pills!”

“Cues aren’t the problem,” she chortles.

“Some of us aren’t playing with a full deck, “she continues.

“Anne and I are the only 2 of the 5 in the group that can stay awake and know how to shuffle and keep track of trump and whose turn it is. Shirley has Alzheimer’s and (God love her!) falls asleep and snores between turns. Norma, according to her husband, is senile and swears she’s shuffled the cards when she hasn’t and doesn’t understand why she gets the same cards as before, and Cliff nods off like Shirley, only not as often, and can’t remember who dealt last, let alone what trump is,” she prattles on, oblivious to the fact that she’s talked past her usual 10 minutes.

“More often than not,” she giggles, “Anne and I are rolling our eyes at each other and nudging people to wake up. “

“Dio li benedica (God bless), she continues. “Who knows when it’s gonna be ME they’re rolling their eyes over and nudging awake?”

“Cazzo! (WTS!) Meno male! (Thank God!), I’m not-a totally pazzo(crazy),” she animatedly continues.

“Promise me, Lucia, you’ll shoot me if I get that bad, ok?” she queries.

“Uh-hun,” I dumbly respond.

“No problem, Ma,” I continue.

“I’ll make a couple of cement shoes for you and give you the heave ho over the Brooklyn Bridge, ok?” I sarcastically reply.

“Cazzo, Lucia,” she replies. “ You’re as pazzo as your brothers! I gotta boil some spaghetti. Stammi benne.”

“Yeah, you take care, too, Ma. Ti amo (I love you).”

“Ti amo, Lucia, fai la brava (be a good girl).”

Yep. That’s me – a “good girl”.

Maya Angelou once said about her mother, “To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power. Or the climbing, falling colors of a rainbow.”

Pretty much sums up my description of my mom – an Italian hurricane as colorful (and mystifying) as a rainbow, after a storm hits.

The rompicoglioni drives me pazzo, at times, but I love her with all my heart and wouldn’t exchange her for all the tea in China.

Enjoy the day, People. I’ll see you next adventure, looking at life from my shoes.