Dud Sea Scrawls The Writing, clearly, is not on the wall!

My mother took me out to lunch today. The last time my mother and I shared a meal together in a restaurant was a very long time ago. Years. I do not even remember the occasion or the exact time. But it must have been a special circumstance. Because I wouldn’t ever just choose to be out with her at a table, in public, with people around us, all alone, just her and me. She and I can’t really spend long periods of time together without a situation bubbling up. I wish things were different. They are not. Just before she got out of my car, all of the venom in her dried up enough for her to ask me “What’s wrong? Are you frustrated?”

The meal itself was fine. Although we were both a little nervous. My hair, today, isn’t quite what she would wish for a daughter of hers to have. And there was my skirt. Too billowy. Too long. Which I thought would please her, since my skirts are usually too much that other way. But we made it through the meal. Even talking, some. And it isn’t as if my mother and I are shy of one another in private. When I haven’t committed some crime, we have plenty to say in the way of family gossip and work. But in that restaurant, we were both reserved. There is also that my mother doesn’t like crowds. Once the food came, though, you almost forgot about the silence. The drive to the restaurant had been too long, I think, and we’d exhausted all the things we would normally talk about. Like I said, we don’t ever do long periods of time.

It was the ride home, however, when the margarita had relaxed her enough for her to tell me:

that I wasn’t REALLY looking for a job (Only pretend-looking.)

that I sleep too much (I am entitled. I am a teacher. It is summer.)

that maybe I should wax in places where I don’t believe I need to wax. (Not at all.)

that I drive too fast (Well. Whatever.)

that I’m going to blow out my tires because I hit speed bumps without slowing down

that I have road rage (I’ve never shot anyone, though, have I?)

that I need to take some sort of pill to stop me from tensing up everytime a car around me changes lanes (Because taking pills has made anyone-EVER-really all right.)

that I paid too much for the gas (Everyone is paying too much for gas.)

that the route I was taking was too long ( I was going around rush hour…quite successfully.)

that when I was a child, I cried too much; that I wasn’t disobedient, I just cried too damned much

I wonder why, Lord Jesus! Why would I cry all the time? With a mother as warm and sober and chemically balanced as I have. What…about my mother and father, either separately or together, would make a child (even an overly sensitive one, if I was overly sensitive) feel like crying? Perhaps…everything? I’m sure she never, ever asked herself that. Only what was wrong with me, probably. That was the problem…me. No one is born wanting to cry. Or maybe I was. Maybe I look for ways to be miserable so that I can cry and cry. It would seem that I do. After all, when I was asked out to lunch by my mother, instead of having something else to do, I had all the free time in the world. Yes, I was suspicious that she hadn’t asked my sister to come. You see, my sister was available and they do things together all the time. They have a lot in common. They speak in the same idiom. I rub them both wrong in the very same ways. The point is I should’ve known.

Well, that’ll do until Thanksgiving, I think. More than.