I clamp my mouth shut to bite back a comment about how her cooking will most likely do him in first.
Is it really a surprise I study trash talk?
“When do I get to meet this handsome man of yours?” my mother asks. “His family got to meet you. I was hoping he might be with you tonight, but apparently he’s too busy to meet your mother?”
“The team is traveling this week, Mom.”
Plus I plan to keep my mother away from Ash as long as possible.
Guilt creeps into my chest. All things considered, my mother isn’t abad person. She does have sporadic bouts of passive aggressiveness and an annoying habit of asking a question and then launching into a ten-minute story before the person can answer. She also has a lead foot when driving that I’m shocked hasn’t turned my hair the same color as my name, but all that is minor in the grand scheme. Her major flaw is her tendency to pick up fads or interests, learn about them superficially, practice them intensely, even obsessively for a short time, then discard them.
For instance, when everyone was wrapped up in the Marie Kondo method of cleaning, my mother went through the whole house and purged just about anything she could lift by herself. Except she didn’t completely discard it all. She packed everything in boxes and stored it in the garage for a few months so my dad had to park his truck outside until she finally gave up and brought everything back in.
Feng shui, juice cleanses, salsa dancing, the gluten-free diet. You name it, my mother has tried it. She even turned wiccan for a period when I was in college, but she gave it up when none of the spells she tried worked.
Once my mother finds a fixation, my father and I have learned to ride it out to its inevitable end, but it can be rough until then. As far as I know, she’s between crazes right now, but it’s only a matter of time before the next one hits.
“Have you two slept together yet?” my mother asks.
Did I mention she also has no sense of personal boundaries?
“I’m not at liberty to answer that,” I say, flipping to the wine list.
Telling her yes will only lead to more questions. Telling her no will lead to unwanted advice. Uncertainty is the closest thing to a safe answer I can give.
“He’s a good-looking boy,” she says. “I’d have jumped his bones on week one.”
I slap down my menu. “Mom!”
My mother isnevermeeting Ash. Ever.
She gives me an innocent look. “What? You know I speak my mind about these things.”
And how could I forget the summer my mother got into tantric sex. That’s some PTSD no amount of therapy will ever cure.
“Can I get you ladies something to start?” the waiter asks as he appears at our table.
“A glass of the Fumé Blanc and the crab cakes,” I tell him. I was planning on a salad, but fuck it.
My mother looks up at me, and I wait for the comment about watching my figure now that I have a boyfriend, but in an uncharacteristic show of restraint, she looks back down at her menu.
“I’ll have an Old Fashioned and a cup of clam chowder,” she tells the waiter.
I furrow my brows at her when he leaves. “Since when do you drink hard liquor?”
“Joyce got me into bourbon,” my mother says.
And there it is. Her latest craze. I’ll have to text my father later to find out how many new bottles of craft bourbon are in the liquor cabinet.
I have an addictive personality myself, and I’m sure I get it from my mother. That’s undoubtedly why her tendency to fixate on things drives me nuts, because I see myself slowly turning into her. Unlike my mother, though, I fixate on things for longer periods. My love affair with wine has been going on for several years now.
My newest obsession with hockey, and with one player in particular, is still in its infancy, but I’m already into the stats-tracking phase. For example, I know Ash’s goal-scoring is behind where it was last year at this time, although he seems to be doing better lately.
“I just hope you’re practicing safe sex,” my mother says. “Those professional athletes sleep with a lot of women.”
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then open them. I’m not having this conversation with her, and I glance over at the bar to see if the hockey game pre-show is on yet. Tonight is Ash’s last road game for a while, and I can’t wait to see him again.
Alright fine. I can’t wait for him to fuck me again. It was cruel tofinally sleep together and then have him leave for almost two weeks. He called me last night, and we actually had phone sex, which I’ve never done.
