Joey

A mother always knows

 

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 in four days 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.

“That’s okay, mom. I understand. But if you decide to, it’s next weekend. We have four performances. One on Friday evening, one on Saturday and two on Sunday. You could bring a friend. I have two free tickets. Of course, you can stay here in my bedroom. I can stay over at -”

I’m about to say Patrick’s apartment, but then it dawns on me that maybe that’s no longer an option. I have no clue what to make of what happened between Theo and me yesterday.

Are we over for good? Are we even friends? Is he going to cut me from the play and use my understudy instead?

All these questions fill my sleep-deprived head as my mother continues to blather on about traffic in the city and the humidity and wind from the lake.

It’s times like these that I wonder if I was adopted, because my mother and I can’t be any more different. All my life I was my dad’s pride and joy, while I could never stack up to my mother’s standards.

I tried. I really did.

But we are like oil and water. She still believes in the old-fashioned family values, where women should be nurses, teachers or stay-at-home mothers. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with any of those professions. They make our world go round. And that’s why I became a teacher. To appease her and get her to stop yammering about my life.

But she never lets go.

There is plenty of accolades that I could bestow on Theo, but one of them is the lesson he taught me about myself and my ambitions. He made me come to grips with the fact that I never derived joy out of teaching.

In fact, it gave me an ulcer. It zapped me of all my energy. I think I cried myself to sleep most nights because I couldn’t cope with the hopelessness I felt knowing what some of my students go through in life and there was nothing I could do to reach them.

This summer has taught me that I don’t have to do that anymore. I’ve found a different outlet that makes me happy. Brings me out of my shell and allows me to live my life out loud.

And I owe that to Theo.

I haven’t mentioned this to him, but I also started jotting down some ideas and plots for a play. Or maybe even a screenplay.

I’ve even been thinking about going back to school to take some classes in screenwriting. I mean, I did minor in English and Creative Writing. Why can’t I make a go of this thing if that’s what I want?

My mother continues to give excuse after excuse when I hear my text notification. Placing her on speaker, I pull the phone away to see who it’s from, hoping a little too desperately that it’s from Theo.

It’s not. It’s from April asking me if I’m still on for brunch today. Instead of a traditional bachelorette party, she opted for something a little more upscale and a less likely chance of debauchery.

Her wedding is in two weeks and I’d already sent in my Plus One RSVP.

Ugh. Just what every single girl wants to do. Attend the wedding of a friend and having to either one, find a date, or two, sit at the singles table. Neither are great options. I had hoped I’d be going with Theo, but now that’s unclear.

“Hey mom, I’ve got to get going. I’m having brunch today with my friend April.”

Mom titters in hopefulness. “Oh, that sweet woman you work with who’s getting married soon? She’s, what? Thirty-five? See, you’re never too old to find love, honey.”

I think I’m going to vomit. My mother always finds a way to turn things back to my lack of marriage options.

Instead, I agree because it’s easier.

“I know, mom. You’re right. I’ve still got time, so maybe we should table that discussion from now on,” I groan, flicking the blanket off my legs and walking toward my bathroom. “I gotta go jump in the shower now. But I’ll send you an email with the tickets if you want to come up next weekend. Love you.”

“We’ll see, darling. But I can’t commit to anything. Love you, too, honey.”

It’s probably best she doesn’t come. Too many things for her to pick at; my lack of love life being at the top of her list.