Details, Details, Details

Grammy mentioned that I hadn't said much about the woman with whom I live. I recoiled! I often share details about her with my mother, but woefully neglect to pass along those details to all of you.

Her name is Mary. She's a sweet old woman, about shoulder high to me, with white curly hair and a slight hunch to her walk. When she speaks, you hear the East coast flow right from her lips. The accent, as you'll soon discover, Grammy, is as curvy and full as any TV portrayal of the Boston tongue.

She is Catholic. Very Catholic. So Catholic that, on mornings when I sleep in or on days when I venture up from my writing in the basement to the kitchen, I often overhear her on the phone or chatting with her cleaning ladies about crazy Protestants. She quickly adds, even when she doesn't know I can hear her, that "that Michelle girl who lives with me, yeah her and her friends, they're all right. Respectable Protestants, them. Those are kids you'd see at Mass and confession every week."

Icons litter the house--little cardboard cards and iconic statues. St. Francis on the kitchen table. St. Mary in statue form, and graced with the adorations of a few plaster angels, atop the side table in the dining area. Various Saints make regular appearances above the bathroom sink--St. Anne, even.

Mary often forgets bits of information I repeat to her ad nauseam.

What are your friends doing here?

Attending seminary. Except for Alex, remember. He's doing what I'm doing.

Did you say your grandpa had died?

Yes.

Oh, well my husband died four years ago, and I still miss him every day... What are you friends doing here?

Mary often eats my food. Last night I discovered she'd eaten my last dove bar. But she buys twice as much food as she needs in case I want some of it. She'd probably forget I pay rent if I didn't remind her. She introduces me with care to every individual who visits her during the week (and there are often two or three of these individuals a day, not counting the timely and consistent visit of her daughter Kim every morning to check on her). "This is Michelle, my roommate."

Her sister, older but almost identical in appearance, hates me. No really. Doesn't like me in the least. She spent the night with Mary a few days ago and spent most her time glaring at me whenever I dared to venture from the basement through the living room to the kitchen. I offered her coffee, when Mary was off taking a shower, and she refused even to acknowledge the question. Mary has no idea and regularly gives her sister updates about me over the phone.

In addition to an active social life, Mary has many women working for her. Two cleaning ladies, who alternate cleaning her place every other day. A woman who comes every two weeks to do her nails, and likewise, a woman who comes to do her hair. This means that every week, Mary has at least one woman to gossip with as they, in some way, groom her.

She often writes me notes to let me know she has gone to bed. She puts them on the counter, next to the bowl of pretzels that, for better are worse, are always there. Don't eat them when you come. There are bugs here, and I've seen more than one crawl out of that bowl.

I offer her coffee every morning. She always answers, "No, I'm trying to cut back." A cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee (if it can be called coffee at all) every few days is sufficient to fulfill her caffeine needs.

Every three days, like clockwork, she asks me how the job hunt is going. Then she tells me how her nephew and grandson are also looking for jobs.

She loves Peter and tells me to say hello whenever I leave for his apartment. When he is here, she fairly glows over him. Peter, in turn, enjoys Mary, and on more than one occasion, has ventured, "If you ever need a man to do some work around the house, just give me a ring, Mary." I think she wants to marry him. I can't blame her. I have a crush on him, too.

Like a good roommate, when Peter does come over, she says her hellos and howdys, chats for a minute or two, and promptly--and very clearly--clears out of the local vicinity. "Well, I'm going to bed. I'll be in my room watching television for the rest of the evening. Have a good night, you two." And she gives both of us a little smile whose meaning is impossible to miss and heads for her room.

In the morning, she asks without fail, "What time did Peter leave this morning?" And I respond, without fail, "He left last night."

In this sense, Peter and I confuse her.


Well that's my portrait. Now you'll be ready to meet her.