February 27, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You need to be ready to answer questions all day today, whether you are at work or at home. People look to you for guidance and that basic info they need to get by, and you don't disappoint!
When you’re unemployed, you get to entertain thoughts about radical career switches. That said, I can unequivocally state I never want to be a marriage counselor. Mom showed up at my apartment at 8:15 this morning, demanding I buzz her in.
“How about we go for a walk and grab a coffee?” I suggested, as I quickly surveyed my apartment. It’s amazing how quickly I can go back to feeling thirteen again, that disappointing girl who wrote fan mail to Kirk Cameron (ick) and Jason Priestley (still mildly yummy) instead of cleaning her room.
“Just let me in. It’s pouring rain.”
I had to make a quick decision: listen to a ten-minute rant now about how my poor housekeeping skills were the reason for my path to spinsterhood or make Mom wait outside for five minutes and hear her spend the next month blaming me for a case of the sniffles. I let her in and immediately regretted the decision.
“My God! Have you been robbed?! They’ve completing ransacked the place?”
“It’s cleaning day, Mom. I just haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“I’ll never understand how you let it get in such a state. I’ll tell you what you should do while you’re unemployed. Get a job with Molly’s Maid Service. Teach you some skills.” Oh, my gawd. She was serious. And why is it that when she says unemployed it comes off as “one who is utterly irresponsible and lacking in direction”? Clearly, it was too early in the morning to have to face bigger mother-daughter issues.
“Why are you here, Mom?”
“Hmmph. I come to visit my daughter and I’m treated like I’m some sort of intrusion.”
I stared blankly, folding my arms. Cancel that guilt trip and demand a full refund.
“Oh, all right,” she said, realizing she’d have to be direct for a change. “Your father announced this morning that he doesn’t like cranberry oatmeal muffins.”
I waited for more, but that was it. I responded with what I thought was the obvious. “So?”
“So?! So?! I’ve only been baking homemade cranberry oatmeal muffins for your father every Saturday for the last eight years. Maybe ten. And now, all of a sudden, he not only tells me he doesn’t like cranberry oatmeal muffins but—You need to be sitting down for this, dear. I mean it. Sit down—he has NEVER liked my cranberry oatmeal muffins. Never! Can you imagine how hurtful that is? Do you realize that I have wasted the last four hundred, maybe five hundred Saturdays baking your father cranberry oat—?”
“So now you’re free. He likes cereal. Cheerios. No fruit on top. Just Cheerios. Why try to change that?”
“Don’t you see? We have a communication problem. Why did it take him eight, maybe ten, years to tell me he doesn’t like my cranberry oatmeal muffins? What else doesn’t he like? The new lube I made him try last week? The purse I picked up at the garage sale? Oh, my goodness. What if he doesn’t like my spaghetti sauce? What if—?”
Did my mother just mention lube?! Could I just pretend that had to do with an oil change? She was rattling on but I’d tuned her out. She'd already crossed the too-much-information barrier. I let her go on as I cleared the empty frozen yogurt container and wine bottle from the coffee table. (It had been a trying week, after all.) Mom followed me in the kitchen, grabbed a sponge and started wiping down things without missing a beat in her rant about Dad. In fact, fighting with the sauce stains on the stovetop wound her up even more.
By the time I’d sent Mom on her way, she felt better—well enough to say she was stopping by Terra Breads to pick up a green olive loaf “in spite of the fact your father hates olives”—and at least my kitchen had a shine to it. I took two Tylenol and collapsed on the sofa, trying to reassure Tupper with a tummy rub. Yes, the crazy lady has gone. It’s okay now. Everything’s going to be all right.
LOGGED ON THIS MORNING TO FIND I HAD A NEW MESSAGE FROM “MKWLADY” ON THE PLENTY OF FISH WEBSITE. TOOK HER LONG ENUF BUT I SUPPOSE PEOPLE STILL PLAY GAMES ABOUT HOW SOON TO REPLY AND ALL. SHE SAID NOTHING ABOUT HERSELF. INSTEAD, SHE HAD PASTED A QUESTIONNAIRE WITH 43 ITEMS ON IT. QUESTIONS LIKE WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE COLOR? AND TULIPS OR DAISIES?
I, IN TURN, HAD ONLY ONE QUESTION FOR HER: SERIOUSLY?!
METHINKS MKWLADY IS IN GRADE SIX & SIMPLY COPIED A PIC OF HER MOM OR HER TEACHER. I CAN JUST IMAGINE HER FRIENDS AND HER GATHERING AROUND THE COMPUTER AND HOOTING OVER HOW MANY DESPERATE MEN ACTUALLY RESPOND. I MAY BE DESPERATE, BUT I KNOW WHEN TO DELETE. SO CREEPY!
DECIDED I NEEDED TO GET OUT & WORK OFF THE HEEBIE JEEBIES. CALLED MY OLD SQUASH BUD, WILL, & BOOKED A COURT. GOT WHOOPED & REMEMBERED WHY I HADN’T PHONED WILL IN AGES. AS WE PLAYED, HE CLDN’T STOP ASKING ME QUESTIONS. “HOW’D YOU PUT ON SO MUCH WEIGHT? IS IT EVEN POSSIBLE TO SLEEP ON YOUR STOMACH ANYMORE? HAVE YOU TRIED RICE CAKES? SOME OF THE FLAVORED ONES AREN’T THAT BAD. ARE YOU WATCHING “THE BIGGEST LOSER”? IT’S INSPIRING, YOU KNOW.”
HE WASN’T TRYING TO THROW ME OFF MY GAME. HE WASN’T TAUNTING ME. WILL JUST HAS NO TACT. THERE IS NO LINE W/WILL. HE’S THE ONE GUY I CAN BET WILL ALWAYS BE SINGLE. HE DENIES IT, BUT I BET HE’S STILL A VIRGIN.
MAYBE I SHLD SET HIM UP W/MKWLADY.