occasions like Thanksgiving with the family I rarely get to see?
The other view is that Jack’s the person I share my daily life with now, so why would I leave him for special occasions?
“I bought my plane ticket back in July when JetBlue had that sale,” I point out, trying to sort through my inner turmoil.
“JetBlue is great. They’ll give you a credit if you don’t use it.”
JetBlue is great. But still…
“My parents would freak out.”
“I know. That’s why I never asked you in the first place. But my mother really wants you there since she’s doing the cooking this year. She wants it to be special.”
Last year, Thanksgiving was a nonissue, since Jack spent it with his newly separated father. His sisters were off with their in-laws or boyfriends and Wilma was on a cruise with some fellow soon-to-be divorcées. Jack and his dad went to a restaurant, I went home to Brookside, and alternatives were never discussed.
When I made my plans for this year, I did ask Jack to come along, but he said he couldn’t because his mother was having Thanksgiving at her new condo, and he’d promised her he’d come. It never occurred to me to offer to stay here with him…which I guess it wouldn’t, not having been invited.
Until now.
“I don’t know…”
“You don’t have to say yes,” Jack says, reaching over and squeezing my hand. He’s so cute. So sweet and earnest and worried because he’s met my family and knows how suffocating they can be. I love him so much.
Nothing matters, I realize with a warm gush of emotion, but that.
“Hey,” I say, “yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. I’d love to spend Thanksgiving with you.”
“You would?” He breaks out into a grin. “I’m so happy! My mother is going to be so happy!”
“I’m happy, too!” I say, and we hug.
We’re happy.
We’re happy, we’re peppy, we’re bursting with love, and it’s all so warm and fuzzy that I could just cry.
Wow. I mean, the best moments in life are warm and fuzzy. Nothing beats warm and fuzzy…
Mental note: mold is warm and fuzzy.
Which reminds me…
“Where’s the phone?” I ask Jack. “I have to call my mother and tell her.”
Why, you may ask, does mold remind me of my mother?
I have no idea.
Crocheted afghans, onions and garlic frying in olive oil, vinyl purses, Jean Naté…all those things remind me of my mother.
But mold?
Well, it isn’t personal. But a reminder is a reminder, and I tell Jack that I really should call her.
“Do you want me to wait to call my mother until after you call yours?” he asks, handing me the phone.
“Why?”
“Just in case…you know.”
“In case my mommy says no, Tracey isn’t allowed to have a Thanksgiving playdate at Jackie’s house?”
“Well…yeah.” He grins.
“I’m a big girl. I’m calling to tell her, remember? Not ask her.”
“Okay. Go for it.”
I realize he wants me to call with him sitting right here, listening.
Well, okay. I have nothing to hide.
I dial the number.
Maybe she’s not home, I think hopefully.
If she isn’t, then I can tell my father, who never hears a word I say because his hearing is going and because he says I talk like an auctioneer.
So, yeah, I’ll tell him, and he won’t hear, so they won’t realize I’m not coming until right before Thanksgiving, in which case I can put off the inevitable maternal explosive reaction for almost another month, by which time I’ll either be merrily smoking again or accustomed to L.W.C.
There’s only one problem with that plan.
My mother is one of those people who is always, always home. Usually cooking for a crowd, at that. I don’t think I’ve ever called and she’s not there. I mean ever.
It’s not like she’s a recluse or anything, but she’s hardly Sally Social Life, either. Not out of the house, anyway. In the house, she’s a regular domestic diva.
The only day she leaves for any length of time is Sunday, which is when she goes to morning mass and then
The other view is that Jack’s the person I share my daily life with now, so why would I leave him for special occasions?
“I bought my plane ticket back in July when JetBlue had that sale,” I point out, trying to sort through my inner turmoil.
“JetBlue is great. They’ll give you a credit if you don’t use it.”
JetBlue is great. But still…
“My parents would freak out.”
“I know. That’s why I never asked you in the first place. But my mother really wants you there since she’s doing the cooking this year. She wants it to be special.”
Last year, Thanksgiving was a nonissue, since Jack spent it with his newly separated father. His sisters were off with their in-laws or boyfriends and Wilma was on a cruise with some fellow soon-to-be divorcées. Jack and his dad went to a restaurant, I went home to Brookside, and alternatives were never discussed.
When I made my plans for this year, I did ask Jack to come along, but he said he couldn’t because his mother was having Thanksgiving at her new condo, and he’d promised her he’d come. It never occurred to me to offer to stay here with him…which I guess it wouldn’t, not having been invited.
Until now.
“I don’t know…”
“You don’t have to say yes,” Jack says, reaching over and squeezing my hand. He’s so cute. So sweet and earnest and worried because he’s met my family and knows how suffocating they can be. I love him so much.
Nothing matters, I realize with a warm gush of emotion, but that.
“Hey,” I say, “yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. I’d love to spend Thanksgiving with you.”
“You would?” He breaks out into a grin. “I’m so happy! My mother is going to be so happy!”
“I’m happy, too!” I say, and we hug.
We’re happy.
We’re happy, we’re peppy, we’re bursting with love, and it’s all so warm and fuzzy that I could just cry.
Wow. I mean, the best moments in life are warm and fuzzy. Nothing beats warm and fuzzy…
Mental note: mold is warm and fuzzy.
Which reminds me…
“Where’s the phone?” I ask Jack. “I have to call my mother and tell her.”
Why, you may ask, does mold remind me of my mother?
I have no idea.
Crocheted afghans, onions and garlic frying in olive oil, vinyl purses, Jean Naté…all those things remind me of my mother.
But mold?
Well, it isn’t personal. But a reminder is a reminder, and I tell Jack that I really should call her.
“Do you want me to wait to call my mother until after you call yours?” he asks, handing me the phone.
“Why?”
“Just in case…you know.”
“In case my mommy says no, Tracey isn’t allowed to have a Thanksgiving playdate at Jackie’s house?”
“Well…yeah.” He grins.
“I’m a big girl. I’m calling to tell her, remember? Not ask her.”
“Okay. Go for it.”
I realize he wants me to call with him sitting right here, listening.
Well, okay. I have nothing to hide.
I dial the number.
Maybe she’s not home, I think hopefully.
If she isn’t, then I can tell my father, who never hears a word I say because his hearing is going and because he says I talk like an auctioneer.
So, yeah, I’ll tell him, and he won’t hear, so they won’t realize I’m not coming until right before Thanksgiving, in which case I can put off the inevitable maternal explosive reaction for almost another month, by which time I’ll either be merrily smoking again or accustomed to L.W.C.
There’s only one problem with that plan.
My mother is one of those people who is always, always home. Usually cooking for a crowd, at that. I don’t think I’ve ever called and she’s not there. I mean ever.
It’s not like she’s a recluse or anything, but she’s hardly Sally Social Life, either. Not out of the house, anyway. In the house, she’s a regular domestic diva.
The only day she leaves for any length of time is Sunday, which is when she goes to morning mass and then
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