So, you want to know about my Memorial Day weekend. Unabashed, unadulterated and unforgettable -- that's what it was. Unforgettable, too near, not far. Hateful. All of it.
The weather was perfect which I despise. No excuse to see a shitty movie at the six-plex and laugh silly. No excuse to shop and buy something not needed, wear it at once, and then regret buying it. Too sweaty to even regift. Stuck in a perfect day. Nothing to complain about.
Then they arrive -- my son, his girlfriend (blonde and beautiful and sweet, the perfect mother for my imagined future grandchildren) and her mother -- the inspector general. I've never met the mother before. Her plane is on time. Holiday planes are not supposed to be on time. I was counting on it. Madame Tigress est ici! I could tell from the moment she looked at me that we were not going to be close friends. I don't like her. She doesn't like me. At least we agree on something. As a matter of fact, she hates me. She judges me. She says she'd die for my thick curly black hair. She didn't die. She lived for three days and three nights.
Friday ...
Saturday ...
Sunday ...
I thought a day has only 24 hours ...
The agonizing small talk ...
She: Didn't your face-lift doctor put a bag on his head?
Me: No.
She: Oh.
Me: His wife jumped out of a window.
She: Oh. No.
Me: Yes.
She: Well, he did a very good job; you can hardly tell.
Me: Gosh, thanks.
Who says time goes faster as you age? Not on this Memorial Day weekend it didn't. My poor little boy, my little boy-beautiful-blue, is in love with the wrong mother's daughter. The mother is dragging her fucking umbilical cord all over my spotless country house. This clawing madame, with her mid-Atlantic accent, talked of her lovers (she's divorced thrice) and her reincarnation from an evil muskrat from which she is learning life lessons. She spoke of her guru, her past lives, her constipation tea (never misses a night or you know what happens), her new spiritual awakening and her near death experience -- close, but not close enough. There was no bright light at the end of this tunnel.
Yes, she's from California.
I barely survived. At last, it's Monday; and it's over, and I'm home in NYC.
Madame was picked up by a limo to be rushed to the airport. She dare not be late. I warned her of holiday planes, you know. Let's hurry.
I tipped the sensitive limo driver $20 extra for being early. I know he felt my pain.
I've just had a bagel with full-fat cream cheese, a big cup of coffee with half-and-half and some real sugar. I've earned all these extra calories.
Suffering puts on weight. Ask anyone.
And, alas, the weather is still perfect. Drat.
Oh workaday-workaday, wherefore art thou workaday? God, let it be Tuesday.
But, at least I survived and Tuesday came.
Originally posted at www.wowowow.com