Chapter Twenty-Seven
Joey
A mother always knows
“Good morning, mom,” I answer with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.
Although I’m sure she’ll be able to decipher my shitty mood with her always tuned in mom-radar.
Because really, what good would it do to sound as down and pitiful as I feel? My mom would only consider it yet another reason why I should uproot myself from Chicago and move back to South Bend. Reason number one-hundred and seventy-five, to be exact.
But I won’t let that happen, regardless of how hard she pushes or how low I go. Even if I’m no longer with my temporary-not-gay-co-lead-actor-director-neighbor slash maybe or maybe not boyfriend.
No sense wallowing in pity when at least I’ve had some really good sex and a lot of fun before things fell apart this weekend.
Maybe I need to bury my feelings in a huge vat of margaritas. That always flips things on its head. Or at the very least, turns things upside down from the tequila.
Despite my inner voice consoling me in my depressive state, the voice of my mother just adds another layer of pitiful to my already downward spiral.
“How’s my Joey girl? I thought you might have been kidnapped since I haven’t heard from you infourdays this time.”
And there it is…mother guilt trip. Better than an ingrown toe-nail for causing aggravating pain and annoyance. My mother should really write a book on the subject.Ten Easy Steps to Guilting Your Children.
“Mother, you know I’ve been busy with rehearsals for the play I’m starring in.”
I hear a long, drawn out sigh across the line.
“Darling, shouldn’t you be concentrating on your lesson plans in preparation for the coming school year? Or maybe getting online to those dating websites I told you about?”
Oh yes, that’s right. My mother, after her weekly pinnacle group one day, thought I should “get with the times” and find a man to “hook-up” with. I kid you not. That’s what she told me.
When I gave her a hearty laugh and broke the news to her on what hooking up was code for, she about had a coronary.
That night I received an email from Christian-Match.com. Because no church-going, God-fearing man on a Christian dating site would want to get in my pants, right?
I groan. “I’m doing just fine in the dating department, thanks.”
Lie, lie, big little lie.
And shit, I just opened the flood gates.
“What? Do you have a man in your life that you haven’t mentioned to me yet, Josephine? Is it serious? When do I get to meet him?”
The next fifteen minutes are spent trying to back her down from the beginning stages of wedding planning and booking the reception hall.
I’ve finally gotten a word in edgewise and have diverted our conversation to safer topics.
“Back to the play…would you be interested in coming to see one of my performances?”
There’s a pause on the line and I know exactly what my mother is thinking. In about a second, she’s going to throw out that Chicago is so far to drive; the city is so dirty; she can’t leave her pinnacle group; what about Boomerang?
Boomerang is her orange tabby cat. Scratch that – it’s her oversized, orange-colored demon from hell. Ever since my dad died and she adopted Boomer, she’s doted on him like he was king of the house. And since I was either away in college and not living in my mother’s home, whenever I come to visit, Boomer feels it necessary to show me who’s boss.
I am not a cat person. And Boomer knows it.
“Oh honey, you know I can’t leave my ladies in a lurch. And who would take care of my baby? And that drive would do horrible things to my sciatica. I don’t know. I’d really have to put some thought into the trip.”
Sigh. Just as I expected.
