The Wrong Shade of Blue

The only time I saw my mother cry was when her custom Volvo wagon arrived from the dealer in the wrong shade of blue. Not when I was beat up or held underwater or molested in the park or countless other times when tears would have been appropriate. Instead she cried over movies. Stupid sappy late night TV ones she watched on the TV she hid in the closet because we were not allowed to watch TV. 

We were supposed to read instead, but only the books she chose. I loved to read about dolphins and gerbils but my choices were dismissed. "Those are not books!"

The famous Volvo was light blue instead of navy blue. She actually wanted a red one to look like a fire engine but my father talked her out of it. Then she ordered a six-burner gas restaurant stove, having never worked with one. She carried a black leather doctor's bag and called herself Dr. Mom. She had gone to art school. Her father thought of himself as a doctor because he read medical journals on the toilet. He actually sold fans and motors in a storefront business he owned on the lower East Side of Manhattan.

What makes people think they are doctors? My step-mother claimed she was a doctor because she had been pre-med in college. Meaning she had taken an anatomy class. She was a fashion designer and a serial husband stealer. Another woman I know makes the same claim but she too is a husband stealer with no such medical training.