“Where ya goin’ Deb?” My mom calls out, as I’ve already said goodbye to her for the fifth time.
“Oh just out with some friends.” Not elaborating too much on my whereabouts. It’s not like I’m out dealing crack or anything or that I live somewhere out in the ghetto.
Now, the funniest thing is, my mother says this certain phase that’s so funny when you think about it.
As soon as I walk in, I hear, “Ya home?” Sometimes I bust on her and just tell her it’s all in her head, but I go along with it and say ‘yes’, because it’s what I’ve been hearing all my life ever since I was a kid. I also hear the famous, “Wheredja’ go?”----if I’m close enough to have a conversation with.
Here’s the sad part about this. I get phone calls from mom. They last for an hour sometimes. I’m not sure why she just doesn’t come upstairs to see me, but usually, I just say, “I’ll be right down ma,” and sit and have coffee with her. Usually, the bulk of her phone calls made to me are concerning my father’s hygiene. Now, this guy is one clean guy! He takes about three showers per day. (Or so it seems as though he does.) The building we live in shares the same piping system. So if someone is using the water, you get a blast of cold water on your back if you’re in the shower. Lovely, right?
~^~Ring~^~Ring~^~^
“Hello?”
“Deb?”
“Yeah ma?”
“Your father’s taking a shower.”
“Okay.”
*click*
This happens way too frequently where it’s literally driving me insane. But, I totally understand when I have to call down there and inform the household that I’m taking my daily shower myself.
At night, I dream of those famous phrases that I hear on a consistent basis:
Where ya goin’?
Whatchya’ doing?
Ya home?
Your father’s taking a shower.
Wheredja’ go?
This weekend, while spending time with my mother having a martini with her, my father walks into the kitchen to get something to eat. I can see my mother already inquisitive about his dietary impulses.
“Whaddya’ getting, Charl?”
“Wutz’ it to ya? Can’t I just get sumptin’ widout’ you drillin’ me here? Ya too damn nosey!”
“Oh yeah? Fine, because whatever it is you’re looking for, I know where it is!”
“I got it! See yastupidja’—I got it right here! Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to navigate this fridge!”
My dad looks over at me and laughs as he gives my mother this little Italian wiggle with his pointer finger and thumb sticking up waving back and forth, insinuating that she must be crazy.
Amy, being as nice of a person she is, will always say, “Awe, let’s eat with your parents, Deb.” I’m not sure if she’s doing this out of kindness, or doing this because my mother’s cooking is really that good. (I’d still rather sit outside and drink a cold one with my 3pm lunch/dinner or whatever it is.)

I have to go, my phone’s ringing. It’s mom.