Isn’t life funny?
Not “ha ha” funny.
Bizarre funny.
I have always resisted writing about my relationship with my mother. I have also always known that at some point I wouldn’t be able to resist doing it. Before I publish anything I’ve written, I always ask myself “Is this honest? Is this truthful?” And everything thing I do, every thought I have, every piece of my being is defined by my relationship with my mom. So it’s only logical that if I pursue truth and honesty in my writing that eventually I would have no choice but to write about my mom.
Two weeks ago, I wrote a light, funny little piece over on my blog about an impending visit my mother was making to Stepford. And wouldn’t you just know it. I received more comments on that piece than any other I’ve posted since I started the blog six months ago.
Funny.
I’ve also been working, unsuccessfully, on a piece about the tea parties and what I see as an undercurrent of racism that runs through them. I discovered during my mom’s recent visit why I’ve been unable to pull the “Tea Party” piece together. You see, I’ve been trying to write the “Tea Party” piece in the abstract. And what I wanted to capture in the piece was the familiar. And my mom’s visit made it very familiar.
When my mom arrived, I was in the shower. I don’t make it a habit of being in the shower when my guests arrive, but most guests don’t arrive an hour early. I quickly dressed and put a towel on my head.
Me (entering the kitchen to rescue my husband): “Hi, you’re early.” (again)
Mom: “Early? Most people are up and around by 11 a.m..”
Me: “I’ve been up since 7.”
Mom: “Well, you don’t look like it.”
And so the day of inserting my head into a meat grinder begins.
After we’ve settled into our normal “Mom Comes for a Visit” positions—my husband in the living room chair, fully engrossed in a television program he would normally never watch; my step father on the couch, also fully engrossed in the television; my son in the retreat that is his room; my mom and I at the kitchen table making small talk while my daughter flits in and out to entertain us with a gymnastics move or soccer skill.
And this is when I realized that my mom belongs at a “Tea Party.” And perhaps, even, why the “Tea Parties” are making me so crazy.
Mom: “We stopped at McDonald’s and got our iced teas for the day. You never have tea. I don’t understand that.”
Me: “Mom, I’ll be happy to make iced tea if you’d like. However, I have lots of bottled water and several different kinds of soda.”
And wine. I have wine and I am breaking it out. Right. Now.
Mom: “Anything that isn’t diet?”
Me: “No. Just diet.”
Mom: “I have cooler in the car that has regular drinks. Not diet.”
And I don’t understand this. I could understand bringing a cooler full of martinis somewhere, but I do not understand bringing a cooler full of Coca Cola somewhere. And leaving it in the car.
Mom: “I have the funniest story to tell you that happened at your McDonald’s.”
Me: “Which McDonald’s?”
Mom: “Yours.”
Me: “Stepford has three McDonald’s.”
Mom: “The one right up here on the corner before the turn to your house.”
Me: “Okay.”
Mom: “Anyway, we were in the drive thru to get our iced teas—did you know McDonald’s is running a special and all their drinks are only a dollar?”
Me: “No, I missed that. Is that funny?”
Mom: “NO—I just didn’t know if you knew or not. Anyway, we’re in line and there was a carload of Mexicans in front of us.”
