Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Filial Responsibility

My mom visited over the weekend, ostensibly to see the condo I ended up not buying, but also to sprinkle a little pre-holiday mom-guilt in my direction.

When it comes to visits with my mom, there are two types: the ‘very good’ and the ‘damn, that was painful.’

‘Very good’ visits include our trips to Key West for scuba diving and Costa Rica for cycling, hiking, and rafting.

‘Damn, that was painful’ visits include last weekend. Granted, it was cold (40’s), but my mom seemed to resist leaving the house. This is the woman who pops out of bed at 4 AM to drive a bus, then plays tennis during her afternoon hours 4 times a week.

But then she hits Brooklyn, where she’s from and which she hates, and wants to sit in my tiny apartment and watch hours of TV.

Even the dreaded trip to Rockefeller Center would have been a welcome relief from gazing slack-jawed at the tube all day.

To get out of the house, I took her to see ‘Borat,’ as I thought she would maybe get a laugh out of it, but she was just in some kind of stank mood, and wasn’t amused.

That night I shelled out for fancy-pantsy dinner at applewood, which is a truly amazing restaurant in Park Slope, with seriously awesome food and wine.

And at fancy-pantsy dinner, ladies and gentlemen, I got my mom drunk.

But at least it was on really good wine.

I was berating her for being a sucker (yet again) and lending a considerable amount of money to some people whom she and I both know will never pay her back, and I figured it’d be best to cork it (literally), and give the $55 bottle the waiter was pushing a shot.

The wine was lovely and memorable, but my mom, who’s 5’1” and weighs about 100 pounds, is a true lightweight, and her second glass pushed her right over the edge from Tipsytown to Drunkville.

Why, oh why, then, as dinner ground on to dessert, did I spy Remy on the after dinner drinks menu? And then ask my mom, “Do you care for Remy?”

“Oh, I love it!” This, despite the fact I’m pretty sure she’d never had it before. I think she took it just to prove to me, well . . . something. I don’t really know what, but maybe that she was cool, and could hack it.

So I ordered it for the both of us. She took a few sips from her glass, then pushed it towards me to finish. Which I did. Gladly.

So I’m the girl who peer pressured her mom into getting trashed at dinner.

We got home, and my poor mom was plenty sick an hour into watching “Waiting for Guffman.” I only wish I could count the number of times I’ve gotten sick from drinking too much, but this was terra incognita for my mom (who I think has only been drunk maybe two or three times prior), so all I could do was give her lots of water and tell her she’d feel better soon. She woke up the next morning a little bleary, but I woke up knowing I’m the girl who peer pressured her mom into getting trashed at dinner.

Sigh.
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1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Mixing mom with alcohol is a dangerous combo, but pretty funny after the fact! I enjoyed your story & was waiting for you to say that some young guy tried to take her home. Guffman was a good pick.

This summer, I watched in disbelieve as my "ordained minister" mom downed a six-pack of beer over the campfire. As a result of boozing, she went to bed without tidying up the picnic table & our food became a tasty midnight snack for the friendly neighborhood racoon.

10:20 AM  

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