The Unflappable Fannie Fynn
>> Tuesday, April 13, 2010 –
Shorty McShorterson
My name is Fannie. Fannie Fynn. Mistress of the South.
Fannie is short for Francine not Frances. Frances’ are fat men with bad comb overs and a sloppy shave. Apologies if your mother or anyone you know is named Frances. I’m sure they’re absolutely lovely in spite of it.
Some people were born with a silver spoon in their mouth. I was born with my foot in mine. Consider this a fair warning.
I remember asking Mama and Daddy why they chose Francine. Of all the Jennifers and Joannes and Jessicas and any plain Jane name they passed over in the baby namin’ book – how did they think Francine would be a decent sandbox name for a child?
Couldn’t they picture some kid kickin’ the snot out of me on the playground? And what if I had to wear glasses? OHMYGODTHEHORROR, I can’t even imagine.
Francine wasn’t a family name. What was their excuse? A character in a book? Movie? A nanny Mama loved that raised her instead of her own mother?
No.
Mama said:
“Seemed like a good idea at the time, kinda like those red snapper shots the night you were conceived. Fannie, where is that restaurant you like over on the east side? When does it open?”
She said this apathetically – and all in one breath – while telling the cashier she preferred plastic bags (evil!) and the receipt, thankyouverymuch, while digging for keys in a three gallon purse that could hold an infant AND its car seat.
Jeebus. I hate it when she answers the phone at the checkout. Those poor cashiers get no respect.
That info was loaded with more ammunition than troops headed to battle. And it’s any wonder, should I ever make the choice to do so, how I could easily spend thousands of dollars and a lifetime in psychotherapy.
Here’s the beauty of loving a distracted mother:
I was always an afterthought in her life. That one missing period. The question mark at the end of her day. That thing she couldn’t remember between the grocery list and the dry cleaning and some other inane errand.
I’d sit on the steps of my grade school and stare at my sneakers, wondering how long I’d have to wait before she’d screech up to the curb, screaming a string of apologies for forgetting me…again.
I suppose the great thing was she’d never lie to me and make excuses. Sometimes I’d wish she’d at least spin a creative and grand tale about her tardiness. But in retrospect, I appreciate her authenticity. She never put on an act, so I never had to, either.
But sometimes – I just want to be her exclamation point. Anyone’s, really.
I want to be a reason to be excited. Not an, “oh, by the way…” or a “might as well…” or a “while I’m at it…what about Fannie?”
And at a time like this, I take full advantage of my mother’s inadvertent disclosure and distraction.
Case in point:
“Let me get this straight, Mama. I thought you said that naming me Francine after the crusty, chain-smoking waitress at the 24-hour diner that took care of you that night at the end of the hard liquor shots was a good idea. Did I miss something?”
“Yeah, baby. No. I don’t need help to the car. Thanks. That’s right, Fannie.”
“And the restaurant on the east side? What? Only crack whores and frat boys who need a fix go there. So no, I don’t know a good place. I think you’re delusional, Mama. Should I require additional details of my conception or childhood, I’ll remember this conversation first.”
Thank you, mother, for your blas̩ and unintentional disclosure that you were completely blasted the night I was made and put no thought into my lifelong identity Рor at the very least Рdesignation.
You. Rock.
Ten minutes later she calls me back and asks me who Francine is. Now do you understand what I’m dealing with? MAMA can’t even keep up.
But the truth is she really does rock. She clearly has her own cadence, but it’s the only one I’ve ever known. And as different and quirky as it is, Daddy loves it. And so do I. I have no choice. It is my own by default.
And regardless of the state of their sobriety when I was conceived or their creative inclinations when defining my identity (or lack thereof), they are my grounding force.
My life started with them and it will end with them. And somewhere in the middle, when everything goes pear-shaped and I drop my basket, I know they’ll help me pick it up and make everything right again.
Some people were born with a silver spoon in their mouth. I was born with my foot in mine. Consider this a fair warning.
I remember asking Mama and Daddy why they chose Francine. Of all the Jennifers and Joannes and Jessicas and any plain Jane name they passed over in the baby namin’ book – how did they think Francine would be a decent sandbox name for a child?
Couldn’t they picture some kid kickin’ the snot out of me on the playground? And what if I had to wear glasses? OHMYGODTHEHORROR, I can’t even imagine.
Francine wasn’t a family name. What was their excuse? A character in a book? Movie? A nanny Mama loved that raised her instead of her own mother?
No.
Mama said:
“Seemed like a good idea at the time, kinda like those red snapper shots the night you were conceived. Fannie, where is that restaurant you like over on the east side? When does it open?”
She said this apathetically – and all in one breath – while telling the cashier she preferred plastic bags (evil!) and the receipt, thankyouverymuch, while digging for keys in a three gallon purse that could hold an infant AND its car seat.
Jeebus. I hate it when she answers the phone at the checkout. Those poor cashiers get no respect.
That info was loaded with more ammunition than troops headed to battle. And it’s any wonder, should I ever make the choice to do so, how I could easily spend thousands of dollars and a lifetime in psychotherapy.
Here’s the beauty of loving a distracted mother:
I was always an afterthought in her life. That one missing period. The question mark at the end of her day. That thing she couldn’t remember between the grocery list and the dry cleaning and some other inane errand.
I’d sit on the steps of my grade school and stare at my sneakers, wondering how long I’d have to wait before she’d screech up to the curb, screaming a string of apologies for forgetting me…again.
I suppose the great thing was she’d never lie to me and make excuses. Sometimes I’d wish she’d at least spin a creative and grand tale about her tardiness. But in retrospect, I appreciate her authenticity. She never put on an act, so I never had to, either.
But sometimes – I just want to be her exclamation point. Anyone’s, really.
I want to be a reason to be excited. Not an, “oh, by the way…” or a “might as well…” or a “while I’m at it…what about Fannie?”
And at a time like this, I take full advantage of my mother’s inadvertent disclosure and distraction.
Case in point:
“Let me get this straight, Mama. I thought you said that naming me Francine after the crusty, chain-smoking waitress at the 24-hour diner that took care of you that night at the end of the hard liquor shots was a good idea. Did I miss something?”
“Yeah, baby. No. I don’t need help to the car. Thanks. That’s right, Fannie.”
“And the restaurant on the east side? What? Only crack whores and frat boys who need a fix go there. So no, I don’t know a good place. I think you’re delusional, Mama. Should I require additional details of my conception or childhood, I’ll remember this conversation first.”
Thank you, mother, for your blas̩ and unintentional disclosure that you were completely blasted the night I was made and put no thought into my lifelong identity Рor at the very least Рdesignation.
You. Rock.
Ten minutes later she calls me back and asks me who Francine is. Now do you understand what I’m dealing with? MAMA can’t even keep up.
But the truth is she really does rock. She clearly has her own cadence, but it’s the only one I’ve ever known. And as different and quirky as it is, Daddy loves it. And so do I. I have no choice. It is my own by default.
And regardless of the state of their sobriety when I was conceived or their creative inclinations when defining my identity (or lack thereof), they are my grounding force.
My life started with them and it will end with them. And somewhere in the middle, when everything goes pear-shaped and I drop my basket, I know they’ll help me pick it up and make everything right again.
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