Proof I don't get out enough: We go to the local civic center to watch Girlfriend do a couple dances with her troop and we escape across the street while the adolescents and cheerleaders do their gigs and we're sitting there at this upscale-ish steak joint and upon hearing the music overhead I say, "Oh, they have good taste! They're playing Elvis Costello!"
"It's not Elvis Costello, love, it's that guy over there in the corner, the one playing the piano." (HWWV)
So then, I say, "but he sounds just like him!"
A few minutes pass and we're enjoying the tunes, and next thing I know, the performer whips out a bugle and starts playing it with his mouth and his left hand, and continues the piano with is right hand.
But the wine was uber expensive and the steaks . . . let's just say that the guys sitting at the bar with us, all of them wearing way more jewelry than I would ever, had their fill. I wonder where they put it all. I swear, the guy next to me got a steak that would feed my family plus my brother, my sister and probably my mom, too if she were here.
Which reminds me, when mom said she'd make dinner for all of us, she'd buy the smallest steak and maybe two potatoes and call it a feast. When she lived with us while she was going through chemo and radiation she said she'd shop for us and come home with an onion, a potato and a bottle of wine.
She had a problem with quantities. We were always hungry. When we were kids, if we drank a quart of apple juice in a week's time, she'd wonder what was wrong with us, why did we drink so much juice?
And that is how it all was. Forever and ever, that is how it all was. And I didn't like her very much. I didn't like her but she was nice to me. She made me things. She made me spangled eye patches to wear to match my dresses and I was always angry because she'd use double-sided tape and smush it all against my eye. She put drops in my eyes that hurt and she made stinky cooked carrots that she burnt on the stove top and we'd throw them up onto the ceiling and they'd stick there. When they fell down, she never mentioned it. She never mentioned the fact that we'd throw our overcooked hamburgers out into the field across the street while she wasn't looking, either.
I met someone the other day who said she didn't speak to her mother anymore, or at least she didn't speak to her but once a month to try to make contact. It made me feel guilty.
My heart would break if Girlfriend decided that she hated me. I love her. My mom loved me. I know it now, after all these years how much, and as much as I want to go back through the years and hoist her back from wherever she is now and scream "I LOVE you, I DO!" the only thing I can remember about her right now is the last time we spoke. I was sick and my voice was gone. I was sitting in the car in a Target parking lot and I called her. She said hello and I said mom I wanted to say hello I hope you are okay today, and she said I don't know who you are. Who is this? and hung up.
I sat there weeping in my car, and then my phone rang. It was her sister. She said, "Wendy, your mom remembered you just now. She wants to talk to you."
"I will never forget you" is what my mom said.
And that was the last thing I ever heard her say.
BTW: I'm in a crocheting mood. I wish I was in the mood to finish projects. This particular one is a knotted poncho (yes, a poncho) from a Rowan Magazine a couple years back. I'll have to go and check the edition and get back to you on it. I will say that I screwed up on it a few times before I realized that it was knit from the bottom up. Oy. I'm such a top-down thinker.