(this is annie)

In another installment of things my mother said while visiting, we have a wealth of Bettyisms. Last night, she noticed that I was writing them down, and she suspected I am making fun of her. Not so. I just think that she is funnier than the average mother. Everyone who meets her thinks so, and maybe you will, too. So here they are, presented almost entirely out of context:

• Are these leather pants? Are you dressing like a dominatrix now?
• You look French! Like you just got off the boat! No, no — in a good way, like a longshoreman!
• He's wearing underpants in the lagoon.
• I can't wait for this Hells Angels look to go out of style.
• I don't like lobster claw.
• Don't try to hobble so fast.
• Milo is not going to clean the poop off his paw all by himself.
• Well, what if he wanted you to get a Brazilian? How would you like that?
• I'm not paying fifteen dollars to take a picture with a bird.
• Babies don't vomit, Annie. They spit up.
• You're right, there are beards everywhere.
• Stress can affect your enkodrane system, you know.
• Slugs don't like tin foil.
• I'm not sure that I'd be able to tell dog poop from human feces.
• Oh no, hand-blown glass dildos!
• The bluejays here are skinhead bluejays.
• Oh Annie, it looks like leprosy.
• A Nazi is not going to win a prize.
• The guys downstairs — I think they're growing some pot.
• That man must have bathed in cologne. Maybe it was a first date.
• Look, Annie, his jacket says HATE.
• I'm not drunk, I just tripped on the suitcase. Don't write that down! Ed. note: She speaks the truth.]
• The bathroom smells like cabbage. Annie! Don't you dare write that! They're going to think I took a shit unless you put that the guys below were cooking. People will think it's farts! I'd better shut up. [Ed. note: The neighbors' awful cooking smells indeed wafted up to our apartment. Any odors stemmed from them, not me or my mother.]

Labels: betty