That's My Mama

Mothers Day began to fade from view in the rear view mirror and the rest of the clan had to focus on the next gig. J.’s mom’s birthday. A big one. 75.

J. had been blown slightly off course by the bizarre shell game that Mothers Day had become, but followed the detour signs back to familiar territory. The birthday would be a regular family gathering. There were hundreds a year. This one would more than likely not make a huge departure from tradition.

First up, the obligatory phone call from Sheila, complete with a voice leaden with victimization and a tone that moans, “Me again, burdening myself voluntarily with another thankless, laborious task that I lack the requisite talent to accomplish and will surely end up in a blithering state of self loathing over. Call me back to feel some hint of my oppression and feel free to openly flog me like everyone else. Woe is me.”

Please don’t let this woman plan my birthday party. Not exactly reeking with happy-to-be-alive.

Since she’ll do just about anything for a little human interaction, she leaves no clues on the voicemail. No proposed dates, or times or locations or invitations to propose anything yourself.

Just call her back. Yippee.

J. does.

Through sighs of despair she imparts only that it will be dinner, that a particular franchise Italian place tops the list of locations (different from the rehearsal franchise Italian place), and the date and time are TBD. Oh and Sheila can’t possibly afford it all herself, can J. help?

Finances again? Are we on food stamps? Unless we are inviting the local chapter of the AARP it is hardly a cast of thousands. It’s Mommom and two average sized families. Hardly need to take out a loan for that. J. toys with a response. “Ummmm, Sheila, the wedding is over, and the financial sacking and plundering is complete. Of course we’ll split the bill. This isn’t exactly a State Dinner at the White House.”

But he doesn’t. She’s clueless. No need to point that out to her. She is oozing self pity and so completely bereft of confidence that the razzing may send her into the bowels of despondency. So he simply agrees to the obvious, that of course they’ll share the expense of the celebration. (Caution: Better make sure there is no 3 tier cake with The Golden Girls caricatures all over it.)

And in the last waning moments of conversation, she mentions that the kids and I are invited.

How touching.

And so here we are at the starting gate. Chomping at the bit. Anxious to see how the competition has trained for the event. Alert and observant as Secret Service Agents looking to see where the first shot might be fired from and practiced in what our responses will be.

Better make sure the flask fits in the purse.