Talk To Me, Like (Mothers) Do

Conversation With My Mom. A Play in One Act.

*Ring* *Ring* (Ok, that's not necessarily accurate, since I actually have a ringtone on my cellphone, but I'm not going to write down the lyrics to "Sunshine of My Love" (which makes a GREAT ringtone by the way), so let's all just agree to suspend disbelief and agree to this: someone is calling me. And if you read the sentence above, I have a sneaking suspicion you might know who it is.).

Looking down at the phone, I see it's my Mom (yup, you guessed it). I'm on Amtrak, taking the train home to Baltimore from DC after having a couple of drinks after work. I try to weigh if the combination of two glasses of Chardonnay and being in a public place where screaming hysterically on the phone is woefully inappropriate provide sufficient insulation to deal with whatever my Mom has to say. The loving embrace of the wine makes the scales tipsy, and as I press the green button on my phone, I find myself feeling especially benevolent and patient.

"Hi Mom. How are you? How was France?"

"Hi Honey, I'm good. France was wonderful. [Blah blah blah...France...blah blah]. By the way, I called your Cousin in the Virgin Islands - did you hear they were hit by a hurricane?"

"No, I didn't see it on the news here."

"Yes, they're all right, thankfully. We found out about it the day after we got back from France."

"OK, good - I'm glad they're ok."

"Oh, by the way, I know you don't talk to Cousin that much, but just don't mention that we were in France."

"Uhm, ok, but why??"

"Oh, I don't know. I just don't think they need to know."

"But Mom, that is so random. I don't understand. Why?"

"Not everyone needs to know everything, E&E." I feel like I'm in a science fiction movie and I need to solve the riddle my Mother is saying to exit the rabbit hole. While I'm scratching my head in total bewilderment and wondering if The Matrix might hold a key to this puzzle, she goes on to say, "I got the invitation to your Wedding Shower."

Relieved I can stop thinking about Neo and Alice in Wonderland and how terrible I am at problem solving in general, I responding with an exuberant, "Me too! I think they're really pretty!"

"They're very cute. [She pauses.] By the way you should call Auntie Hostess [i.e., the Aunt hosting my shower. Although upon reflection that makes her sound like an Aunt who has a penchant for Ho-Ho's and Twinkies. Now that would be a Shower I could buy in to.]."

"Uhm...why should I call her?"

"Well, it appears that whichever of your friends sent out the invitation didn't have the right address for her and then didn't ask the right address and didn't send her one. I mean I guess they could have asked for the right address and sent one...but well, they just didn't."

[Incredulous. And back in the rabbit hole.] "Wait, I'm confused - how did that happen? I don't understand."

"Well, I don't know dear. But...[SIGH]...I told her that I would bring along my invitation to the Shower in Long Island and just show it to her so she could take a look at it, but then of course she couldn't keep it since I want to keep my invitation so I would have to bring it back to New Jersey."

[Looking around rabbit hole for mint julep to keep me company while I wander through labyrinth.] "So what are you trying to say?"

"Nothing, dear. You asked me why you should call your Aunt and I was just giving you all of the information."

"So are you trying to say you want her to get an invitation sent? - because you could have just asked me to ask my friends to send her an invitation."

[Mother apparently getting frustrated as well.] "I don't know why everything has to be so difficult. I'm just trying to help: you asked me how things were, so I was just telling you the story of what was going on."

"Yes, except that you really just wanted to tell me that my friends did the wrong thing. You could have just said - 'Auntie didn't get an invite. Send her one.' But instead you had to tell me that everything wasn't perfect. Why do you have to give me all of the unnecessary details which are sure to make me feel guilty? [Pausing] So is her address right or wrong on all of the shower invites?"

"I don't know."

"Well, the address she gave is on the invites to the Shower, the directions to the Shower and her wedding invitation - so if you want her to get a wedding invitation, then maybe you should call her and check all this."

"Well I think you should call her."

"She's your friend." [Auntie Hostess is actually a "fake" Aunt who is Mom's friend from college.]

"Well you need to call her and check that the address is right - it's your Shower."

"I don't understand! How did she tell you that she didn't get an invite because her address is wrong, but then she didn't give you her correct address or confirm that the address on the shower invitation is correct? I don't even know what I'm asking her!"

"I don't know, dear."

"I gotta run Mom. I'll talk to Auntie Hostess and get her an invite. We're coming into my station and I need to grab a cab...I'll be in touch tomorrow."

I shut the phone and stare at it, confused as to what happened and with a hankering for a mint-based cocktail. And then I feel guilty for essentially hanging up on my Mom. This is the essence of every conversation we have had for the last nine months. Is this just generational? To me, the point of the conversation was that Auntie didn't get an invite and I should make sure she gets one. But that was tucked away deep within the enigma that is my Mother's double talk. *Sigh* I'm pretty sure if you print out this conversation and hold it up to a mirror it will show you where the holy grail is buried.

It's A Beautiful Day, Don't Let It Fade Away

You know what I really dislike? I really despise when people refer to my wedding as "Your Special Day." I have been trying to put my finger on what it is about that phrase that irks me so completely and totally and after I great deal of self-reflection...I don't really know.


I think it's somehow related to my distaste for euphemisms, especially for euphemisms that smack of a good case of the know-it-alls, mixed with just a dash of overly inflated importance.


For some reason, every time I hear the phrase "Your Special Day," I'm somewhat reminded of...and I'm really not sure how to put this delicately, so I guess I just won't...I'm reminded of the day we needed signed permission slips to attend 5th Grade Health Class so we could learn about reproductive systems, puberty, and menstruation. Each time one of those words was mentioned, it was flanked with the words "Your" and "Special." Special, indeed.

And "Your Special Day" also conjures up the very first time I went to the bra store with my Mother and the salesclerk who said "awwww, are you here for your first bra!?! That's so sweet! It's a Special Day!"

I guess perhaps, it's the idea that someone who is somehow older and wiser has the right to label your most personal experiences of maturation as "special" or "important" because they have already been there.

Because if you notice, no bride goes around calling it My Special Day. ("Gosh, I can't believe I only have three months until My Special Day!" or "Hi, I'm calling to make a hair appointment for My Special Day!") Only other people deem it "Your Special Day."

I guess I find something sort of condescending about it. Do I think people are intentionally condescending? No. But that's just how I feel. Go ahead. Disagree. I'm sure many of you do. That's fine.

And heck, while I'm at it, I have to confess that I find something silly about it.

I'm actually not anti-wedding, or anti-wedding-industry or any of those things. Sure, I guess I wish for a simpler day where weddings weren't such a commodity and brides didn't feel compelled to put on a show of their everlasting love or make people feel like flying across the country had to be "worth it" ("worth it" can be defined as offering an open bar or a plated meal or at least 3 passed appetizers). But in the olden days, before weddings were circuses even for the most common of folk (I'm pretty sure the Rockefellers have been whooping it up at weddings for quite some time now), they also didn't have iPods or Spin class or DVR (which ok, I don't have either, but one day I hope I will), so I just consider it part of what the world is now, and something I can choose to accept or reject (or resist or be too wimpy too resist), like so many other things that exist today, created by enterprising individuals who when push comes to shove, I actually admire for their ingenuity and fiscal acumen. (OK, perhaps not their acumen, but I love that word - it conjures up some sort of wise superhero for me - AcuMan! - can solve problems in a single bound!)

Ahem. To regroup - while I don't hate the wedding industry - I feel compelled to note that every single vendor that I have dealt with thus far cannot seem to say the words "Your wedding day" or "the 15th of February" or even "the day you're getting married."

Which is why I also hate the phrase "The Big Day."

For some reason, each vendor must substitute those words: "The Big Day" or "Your Special Day" as if to incessantly remind me why I'm spending obscene amounts of money.

"Hmmm...why am I paying craploads of money for flowers which will likely die in a couple of days...? Oh WAIT! It's because it's a SPECIAL DAY...and in fact, not just ANY special day...but THE Big Day." Whew! The cost is definitely justified now! Glad we've got that settled.

I am actually working with one vendor who puts "Your Special Day" as the actual subject heading in every email she sends me. She's a really nice woman, but I'm about 5 minutes from telling her that I hate her just a little more every time she sends me an email.

I don't know. I think I'm just hungry. I shouldn't blog when I'm hungry. I think I just get extra cranky and I don't censor myself as much as I probably should.

Unfortunately, I am simultaneously mentally reviewing what's sitting in my fridge, and I'm now even crankier because I just concluded there's a whole lot of nothing. I am instead reverting to my favorite daydream, where I walk over to my barren fridge and open it up, but much to my surprise, somehow it has magically been replenished, complete with all of my most favorite items (strawberries, ice cream, and guacamole, oh my!...ok, and a nice sparkling wine from California...with a straw). Yum-tastic. Now that would be A Special Day.

Mysterious Ways

I'm such a blogosphere dork. A cyber-loser. I have no idea what I'm doing and I can't figure out how to work my blog. I just want to put that out there to explain why my blog is so visually, well, LAME. There are weird spacing issues that I can't control. I also can't find a template that really suits the blog. I know I write ridiculously long posts and so I want something wider than what I have. And finally, I really want a cool name design like all the other blogs I like, but despite my ability to put pen (and brush) to paper (or canvas), I don't have the foggiest idea how to do anything on a computer. Just wanted you all to know. I'm not happy with the status quo, but that's what it is. M'kay?

On another note, unrelated to weddings or blogs or anything really, I got my house cleaned today (yes, I plunked down $80 and paid someone else to clean the grout in the tiles of my tub, and I work hard during the week, so don't judge me!) and I have to admit, my whole life just seems better now. Having a tidy, clean house just makes me feel like I can do anything! I am the model of efficiency right now. Making lists, paying bills, not crying because things seem overwhelming - my my, this might just be a whole new chapter in my life!

Heartburn: An Interlude

Do you remember when Ashlee Simpson lip-synched on Saturday Night Live a few years ago and it was a big "to do" and everyone's collective panties were in a bunch? (I didn't think it was such a big deal - because after all, doesn't everyone lip-synch? And doesn't everyone use remixing and backup singers in the studio and isn't that really the same thing? And so why are we all upset about this and not that?)




Ahem. So you remember that, right? And THEN do you remember, how post-jig, Ashlee gave a few excuses but finally settled on the fact that she had ACID REFLUX and she couldn't sing because her throat was burning? (Well if you don't remember, go look at the PerezHilton archives or something.) Well I'm pretty sure the public's reaction was along the lines of "Acid Reflux? Why on God's Green Earth Should We Accept That As A Valid Excuse?" And I too (while not thinking the lip-synching was a big deal) totally judged her, mostly for her lameness in concocting excuses and wrote her off as, well, a dumbass.





Ashlee Simpson, I hereby cordially apologize for my rash response.





Until just three months ago, I had not understood the severity of said Acid Reflux, or, as the laypeople call it "Heart Burn." I, of burn-free heart, did not grasp that when one becomes extremely stressed, say from the thought of performing live music for millions or, dealing with crazy parents to plan a wedding, the heart and throat begin to actually feel like ACID (as in the kind that burned the Joker's face all crazy), is slowly beginning a death march up your chest, into your esophagus and through the back of your throat (ok, I'm sure that's all medically wrong, but it's my pain and let me describe it as I so choose). Acid reflux sucks.





This is a new phenomenon in my life. Along with four gray hairs. And skin that's looking a little sallow. (Mr. F. said in the elevator to me the other day: "What's that weird makeup you're wearing under your eyes? I don't like it." I wasn't wearing makeup.)





My body is physically rejecting wedding planning.

Leggo my Gumbo

Unfortunately, since my last post I haven't been able to get gumbo out of my head, so I thought I'd share my favorite recipe with you since now I plan to make it tonight and I need to print it out to buy the ingredients anyway. My recipe is basically an adaptation of the Williams-Sonoma recipe, but I make a healthier version. And yes, I realize that REAL gumbo is made with a roux. But roux is not healthy. So enjoy my gumb-faux as follows.

Ingredients:
1 lb. low-fat sausage, cut in bite-size pieces
2 Tbs. vegetable oil
1 lb. okra, trimmed and cut into 1/8-inch rounds
1 cup chopped yellow onions
3 quarts water
1/2 lb. boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into bite-size cubes and seared until golden brown
3 garlic cloves, finely minced
1 Tbs. paprika
1/4 cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
1 tsp. ground dried thyme
1 1/2 lb. lump crabmeat
1 lb. shrimp, head-on, or peeled and deveined (ew)
1 Tbs. filé powder
Salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
Steamed brown rice for serving
Hot sauce for serving
Directions:
Put the sausage in a large Dutch oven. Set over medium heat, cover and cook, stirring occasionally, for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, in a large sauté pan over medium-high heat, warm the 2 Tbs. oil. Add the okra and sauté for 3 minutes. Reduce the heat to low, add the onions and cook, stirring often, until the onions wilt, about 5 minutes. Add the onion mixture to the meat mixture in the Dutch oven, then add the okra. Slowly add the water, stirring constantly, and bring to a boil. Add the chicken, garlic, paprika, parsley and thyme. Simmer, stirring occasionally, for 30 minutes. Add the crabmeat and shrimp and simmer for 10 minutes. Remove from the heat, add the filé powder, and season with salt and pepper. Stir well. Spoon steamed rice into soup bowls and ladle the gumbo over the rice. Serve hot sauce alongside. If serving the shrimp with the heads on, be sure to remove the heads and shells before eating. Serves 8 to 10.