I'm the Anti-Blogger
As many of you know, I will be headed to North Dakota in a few short days to visit my dear friend and fellow blogger, Snap. Despite the fact that there will be no snow, I am still hella excited about the visit- and not only because there's a slim to infinitesimal chance that I might get laid.
About a month ago I decided to break the dreadful news to Mama Spoon about my plans to spend the Thanksgiving holiday in an altogether different hemisphere. Papa Spoon had already been told during our weekly gossip sesh, and he informed me at that time that my mom would be none too pleased about my departure. Whatever, I thought. She'll hardly care!
So last month during one of the usual Spoonfam Sunday dinners, I just blurted it out. "I'm going to North Dakota for Thanksgiving." Without waiting for an explanation or asking for any additional details, my mother simply burst into tears. I quickly tried explaining to her that this is the only time that works for both Snap and I to get simultaneous time off from our jobs, that her Iraqi lover just returned and I was hard pressed to meet him, that this would be a better opportunity to meet her friends and family as they would all be gathered together for the holiday. She merely sobbed harder.
Finally she asked, "Who are you going to spend Thanksgiving with?"
"Snap and her family," I replied.
Mom began to bawl, shouting, "YOU'D RATHER SPEND THANKSGIVING WITH STRANGERS THAN YOUR OWN GOD DAMN FAMILY?"
"They're not strangers, I talk to her mom on the phone all the time."
"You wish she was YOUR mom, don't you?" My mom asked, in her typical passive aggressive, woe-is-me, victimized way.
"Yes, actually, I kind of do," was my honest answer.
After our brief conversation, we all excused ourselves from the dinner table except for mom, who sat there morosely, shedding silent tears into her mashed potatoes for a good 40 minutes after the rest of us had left. This is how she copes. We're used to ignoring it.
Fast forward to last week. I was leaving the house after another Sunday dinner event, and as I'm about to walk out mom asks, "Honey, are you working on Thanksgiving? Are you gonna come over?"
We all stare in disbelief. Spoon Bro shouts, "OH MY GOD, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?"
My mom looks around, totally clueless.
I looked her dead in the eye and spoke slowly. "MOM. I will not BE here for Thanksgiving. I will be in NORTH DAKOTA. How many times do I have to tell you?!"
Then the water works started up- AGAIN.
"Oh no, HELL NO, you are NOT allowed to cry about this. You've cried about this once already, you don't get to cry about it again just because you forgot. Stop it. STOP. IT."
"She never remembers anything. Write it on a piece of paper and stick it to the fridge," my sister offered.
"Why, so she can burst into tears every time she goes to pour herself a glass of milk? I think NOT," I replied.
Fast forward to yesterday. Mom calls to ask if I will be coming to this Sunday's dinner, at which point I was forced to shatter her heart into a thousand tiny pieces and stomp on them repeatedly with my size 8 clog because I am a fucking evil and ungrateful daughter who God forbid actually has to WORK for a living, which sometimes requires the occasional Sunday obligation, which SWEET BABY JESUS WHY DIDN'T SHE PUT ME UP FOR ADOPTION 25 YEARS AGO BECAUSE SHE WOULD HAVE SAVED HERSELF A LIFETIME OF HEARTACHE AND PAIN, IF ONLY SHE HAD KNOWN THAT SHE HAD BIRTHED A CHILD WHO WOULD DARE TO WORK ON A SUNDAY.
As I'm trying to explain to my mother that the only reason I'm working on the sacred Spoonfamily Sabbath is because I have to take the rest of the week off, she innocently asks me, "Why? Where are you going?"
"Are you serious?" I asked, "Are you totally fucking serious? You're not SERIOUSLY asking me that question, are you? Because there is no fucking way you're being serious right now."
"Oh that's right, you're going on your trip to... to... um... where are you going again?"
"And who do you know out there?"
"And how do you know her again?"
I don't think she's ever bothered to ask me that before. With as much as I've talked about Snap in the past, with as many pictures of the two of us as she's seen, with as many crazy stories as I've told, she's never, ever asked me how I met Snap. In nearly two years, I have never, ever had to mention to my mother that I have a blog. But there really isn't a reason to lie to her about it now.
"We met online. Through our blogs."
"You met someone through BLOGGING? And you're going to FLY TO ANOTHER STATE TO MEET THEM?" My mother screeched.
"Yes," I answered.
"Have you ever met her in person?" She asked. I'm beginning to wonder how many times mom was dropped on her head as a baby.
"Yes mom. Remember when I went to Austin in April? And when I went to Chicago in June? Those trips were to meet bloggers. And she was one of them."
"You've met her TWICE? Well then she's PRACTICALLY a stranger! You don't even KNOW this person, and you're spending Thanksgiving with her?!" Sadly, I began to fear she was dropped on her head one too many times because somehow, my mother has mistaken me for A TWELVE YEAR OLD WHO GIVES A SHIT WHAT SHE THINKS AND WHOSE LIFE SHE CAN STILL CONTROL.
"We talk practically every day, mom. She is NOT a stranger to me, she's one of my best friends," I explained.
After much more discussion, including a complete interrogation into Snap's background, social history, sexual preferences, and employment experience, we hung up the phone. Several hours later, I called her again to tell her something I had forgotten to mention, at which time she asked me, YET AGAIN, what Snap does for a living. I'm abandoning her at an assisted living facility tomorrow, and I'm hoping that she'll simply forget that she ever had a family, or a house, or a dog, or a car, or a life. Seems possible.
I am sorry your mom is freaking so much. I guess a family holiday isn't really a REAL family holiday without guilt.
BTW-About 10 years ago I spent Christmas away from my family with friends in England. My mom sent my xmas gifts with me and when I opened them on xmas morning she had left the price tags on EVERYTHING. That is what my mom does. Makes sure everybody knows what she spent.
Lazy, I don't understand why your mom thinks ME, the demure southern belle, would be the one who might chop you to bits. She has a lot more to worry about with snap.
Leen, she's not that worried about it. She's never been that kind of mom. She's just playing up the guilt factor, as in why would I want to spend the holidays with strangers instead of my own family? Spend 5 minutes with my family and you'll KNOW why.
Krank, holidays are all about the guilt. We don't always celebrate thanksgiving in our dam either. In fact, I distinctly remember us having McDonalds one thanksgiving. Its just the five of us, and my parents are usually too drunk to bother fixing us any food. Its just the IDEA of me not being here that's upsetting her. She could really care less. Its not like I'm ruining her plans!
parents have a wonderfully selective memory..
When the husband and were dating, he had to tell her that no, I was NOT A STRIPPER, but an ACCOUNTANT.
After the third time I told him to have fun with it and change it each time. So in this order I was a Joker, a Smoker and a Midnight Toker
have fun with snaps in N.D.
I can seriously relate to your mom thinking you are a twelve year old whose life she can still control. I am 54 years old and my parents STILL think I am 12 and they can control me.
Seriously though - have you had her assessed for alzheimers?!
Maybe overdramatic Texan mothers together to guilt the daughters of the friends that abandoned their families for the holiday. I wish I had skipped it!
Next year, we're having an open bar at our house. Who's bringing the stuffing?
Happy Holidays, D!! I miss you!! And everyone else, too!
You're mom sounds like my mom in so many ways. I can't believe you actually told her that you'd rather have Colleen as a mom! I hope you're mom isn't the type to call up all the other family members to tell them what a horrible daughter she has so that they can all take turns making you feel like shit.
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