Growing up in the ‘burbs, there’s a quiet dyspepsia that lingers when you’re back in the ole digs. You know, the desire for something a little less humdrum, and a bit more fun. Sometimes a day in the city (and a bomb plate of eggs benedict) can do a bucket o’ good.
These days, I’ve been catching up with my Ma. The moms. Mama. Mi Madre. Omma. Mamma Mia. Mother.
This week, we got in the car with another mother-daughter team and hit the beaches of AC. Atlantic City. The Vegas of the East. It’s been awhile since I set foot in dirty Jersey, and, sure enough, it remains as legit and Americana-like as expected. It’s also nice to not have dusty Vegas air envelop you in 105 degree heat. Jersey 1, Vegas 0.
Last week, my mother and I raced to the farmer’s market (really, my mother was in a rush, but that meant we both had to hightail it over there). Only after we take our sweet old time leaving the house. And then ended up having time to spare. My mother lamented not stopping for gas, had she known she had extra time. (Read: all my fault. Of course I should inform my mother whenever we are running ahead of schedule. Because daughters are personal assistants, too.)
We get our hair did. Color, rinse, dry, style. Bleach, highlight. Back for damage control, color. I notice the brand of some products in the salon is the ‘Placenta’ brand. My mother keeps forgetting that there are two left-turning lanes on this one stretch of 69th street. She crosses over and switches lanes in the middle of the turn. Luckily, we survive and no irate motorist has pulled a gun on us.
We dine. My mother orders a sashimi salad bowl. My mother expresses that there is not enough of the raw stuff. I guess how many more times she is going to say this to me. (Turns out, I underestimated.)
Things I Learned While At The Farmer’s Market and the Salon With My Mother
1. Tendonitis will come back to bite you in the ass, even months later, and proceed to humiliate you as you tremble like an old lady while pulling out watermelon from the bin of melons.
2. Farmer’s Markets need to station Young Strapping Boys by the Watermelon Bin to help young women and/or old ladies lift the heavy fruit into their carts. (See #1 above.)
3. If you don’t walk out of a salon feeling Damn Sexy, then something has gone horribly wrong. (This must make you feel like a looker, regardless of a dull scenery.)
4. Feeling Damn Sexy is Awesome. (Easily forgotten.)
5. Someday, most likely tomorrow, I will be asking the boys at checkout to help me with my groceries to the car. Lest my wrists be shaking like the aging decrepit products of poor ergonomics that they are.
6. When did my mother become such a diva? Basically doesn’t listen to anything I say unless it is something that she, personally, is interested in hearing. So, the gist is, whenever I speak, she hears,”blah blah blah, not important, another thing that’s totally not important, blah blah blah, one possibly interesting thing, blah blah blah blah blah.” Like a Hollywood diva with ADD. This has made communication a bit of a challenge.
7. It will always bug me when people won’t say a damn thing and rudely whack the side of your body and/or purse with a shopping cart. Is it such a crazy thing to say “excuse me” or “sorry” ? Sometimes these things warrant an SNL-worthy “Really?” or “Bitch, please.”
This is where, sometimes, I wish I was an old lady. People are sensitive to old ladies. Do you see ever old ladies getting haphazardly smacked into with a cart? Discrimination can be such an ugly color.
Maybe I’m jealous of old ladies. Old people can get away with everything.