Right now, I'm in bed. Dehydrated. With a charlie horse in my left leg, and blisters on my right ankle.
I can hear my mom's laugh from downstairs -- where she is entertaining friends -- after having dragged my ass (and her oxygen tanks) from here to Hell's Half Acre all weekend. I finally went down and tossed some magic stoner bars on a plate for them, so I could go back upstairs to recuperate. She took one bite and said, "These aren't my Magic Cookie Bars; what's in them?" I told her that Rachel had added butterscotch chips to this batch. "Oh," she said, "that's fine, that just makes them Magic Jerome Bars." It was said in an obvious tone that suggested, doesn't everyone know that?
Midway through our 14-hour day, she tells me matter-of-factly in between the Tile Store and the architectural salvage yard and the hardware store --"you know, I can tell I don't feel as good this year as I did this time last year." Really? Because after eight straight hours of this, I'd already developed a tick in my left eye and was contemplating faking a seizure. It was all I could do not to grab a quick nap on one of the beds in the mattress store. I said, "Hell, Mom, I don't feel as good today as I felt yesterday." I just wanted to lie down. And take a few hits off her oxygen.
Last night, we went out drinking-for-charity with the Food Gays, and somehow ended up in an impromptu two-block limo ride back to their place, which was totally worth God-only-knows what it cost. Our driver sported an awesome grill and told us the various athletics staff he'd been squiring around before us. All I know is, it just felt so good to sit down, it didn't even kick in my Rainman aversion to someone else being at the wheel.
We came home and posted her new pics to her new Facebook, on her new laptop which she is still figuring out -- before she concluded, "Jesus Christ, why didn't I JUST get an iPad?"
She updated her facebook pictures and read everyone's status updates, concluding that one of their neighbor girls is indeed, lesbian, after reading her exchange with her friend "Joe"... because Joe is listed as "in a relationship with Mack." Well, "I guess you were right," she said, as if that settled it. (I had always suspected the girl was gay -- along with her "roommate" -- in an idly bystanding sort of way where I wished they lived in a more tolerant accepting community.) I pointed out that gay-by-association was not necessarily an indicator. Mom just felt bad that the whole family isn't "out" on the subject. (She was ready to file adoption papers on all our gays before we'd finished dinner last night.) Then she asked me to look up several "YouFace" pages on her friends' grandchildren -- just to make sure they were staying in line.
She spent the rest of the computer time googling herself, where she discovered that, according to the Internets, she was a "lifelong alcoholic" but "was now three years sober," with "multiple books to her credit."
By the time she slept off her big night out, we had a full schedule ahead of us -- in no way diminishing or even cutting into her "innocent commentary" time. First up, knock, knock, knock; pokes head in; aren't you wearing a coat? " Well. Not in my bedroom...? No."
Gesturing to my pink house slippers, she added, "are you wearing those, to town?" (No, but I thought they were acceptable for stairwell-wear.)
I knew it was going to be a long day.