Mother’s Contradiction

Of the many people in my head that I speak to, none of them are quite like my mother in terms of pointless wisdom and useless advice. Still, she’s a wonderful woman who makes me think and feel horrible about being inadequate or failing something. On a brighter note, she has yet to really ruin much of anything for me at this point in time, except maybe my financial freedom, so there’s no real animosity for it. Just that feeling that maybe the relationship isn’t healthy and we should have a talk. But that’s what breaking up with boyfriends is for. And detaching from very annoying friends, that too.

Whenever my mother and I manage to have a decent conversation about something, it’s always trivial and has almost nothing to do with real life. In other words, but not limited to, usually about the size of an actress’s breasts, whether or not they’re real, if a male actor can really perform (I sometimes wonder about those particular conversations), when exactly she’s getting a grandchild from me, if the world is ever going to really end (probably not), when the country will finally have its next revolution, if my video games are a phase or if they’re a pastime, my penchant for yelling at my brother, my penchant for crying to my other brother, my penchant for insulting my sister, my penchant for snuggling with my father, my penchant for rambling with her, the many penchants our family has, the somehow diminishing bottles of wine in her wine rack and the occasional thought on how the basement finishing is going. Really, we need some new material, but at least we have variety. The point, though, is that our may dealings in person through vocal communication is solely about trivial ideas in which we never assume a thing about one another’s lives. Except that there’s probably something wrong, we don’t want to talk about and thus everything is probably just fine. Yeah…

“What are you talking about? Are you even looking in the right place?”

“Yes, Mother. And I’m not saying she’s ugly. I’m just not into her.”

She frowns at me, much like always when I reject her dating advice, before moving on to find another ‘target.’ This is arguably her favorite pastime whenever I manage to come around for a visit. Thankfully, visiting is a rare occurrence and the majority of our interaction is through phone calls and messages. But when we do get together, it usually lands us in the middle of a busy area with tons of foot-traffic that hosts a number of possibly available men and women close to my own age. You would think that, by now, she would understand that a woman of nearly fifty years is more of a repellant for a person hoping to get a date. That, and Mother’s do not make for great wing-wo/men. Which should really be common sense.

Now, under normal circumstances, we would simply sit here and do nothing but point out attractive people and be shot down almost immediately. My mother refuses to prey on innocent young children – yes, because no one below the age of thirty has ever seen a second of porn – and I refuse to approach a person to ask for a date. It’s most the principal behind the ideas in our heads that make us so stubborn. Rather than getting up and doing something about the many bits of advice and the many suggestions we hand each other, we instead sit at a table – like right now – or on benches while mocking each other or just commenting on random nonsense. Every once in a while we’ll get up and move to another place for a change of scenery or to get something to snack on, drink, maybe something keep us entertained. On occasion she’ll even let me bring along a deck of cards to idly shuffle in my hands whenever the itch hits me.

“How about him?”

Glancing languidly over at a rather attractive young man, my brain actually does jolt at the sight of him. He’s got incredibly dark hair, thin frame, squared glasses and a coffee in hand. How my mother managed to catch sight of him, I may never know, but she finally found someone worthwhile to at least stare at. Eye candy… Now if only I could manage to get her to leave me alone about her chances at having grandchildren, my stress levels would drop tremendously.

“He’s cute,” I give her grudgingly, knowing the next words to come from her mouth.

“Perfect! Now go over, ask him on a date and try to get more than a one-night stand. Babies need their fathers.”

Saw that coming. “I’m astounded you have so little faith in my sexual control, Mother. Haven’t we had this discussion before? I’m still a virgin and that shit hurts like hell the first time.”

“So? Sweetie, if Mommy can handle it, so can you.”

A light smirk crosses my face. “So? Sweetie, while Mommy handled it, she was also married to Daddy, the result was four kids, and she’s currently exploring her homosexual options after a surprisingly neat divorce with a second husband.”

My mother stares at me almost blankly, the only sign of emotion being the light annoyance in her eyes alongside a tapping finger on the table between us. Of course, this mood only lasts a few minutes since she recently had a cigarette and is officially on a nicotine high – a smile twitches onto her face as she tries to choke back a laugh. When she finally lets out the amusement, I drop my smirk and take another look for the attractive man she had pointed out. He’s long gone while my mouth snickers about something to do with her failed second husband who really needed an attitude adjustment.

At least I no longer have to pretend the latter man is a god match for her. That had been painful for all parties involved – I’m bad at acting when I don’t try.

Having had our fun in that area, we move away from the table toward another. Or we would if we hadn’t already spent a few hours lazing about in the open air. Instead, since we’ve no doubt covered the majority of the populace currently in the area, we decide to head for home. Of course, we stop outside the shopping area and look around for our car which we’ve probably drifted past several times and most likely won’t find for a good thirty minutes. Which means my mother pulls out her car key and starts to press the buttons for it.

“So, how goes being in the real world?”

Oh good, real conversation. “About the same as fantasy, I’d assume.”

“Let me guess,” she sighs, giving me one of those looks mothers always have. “Did you stop taking the medication?”

An innocent expression plasters itself straight onto my face. “Now, Mom, we both know that the doctor specifically told me not to skip out on them anymore. Bad things happen to little girls who don’t take their medicine.”

She chuckles lightly, turning back toward the numerous cars. “But you’re not a little girl and have the brains to make your own decisions. And the memory of a squirrel.”

“Only when it comes to medications and personal well-being.”

“How humble of you.”

“I know. I’m very mature for my age.”

The look she gives me makes me smile innocently. “Of course you are. Now how about a real answer?”

“I thought I gave you a real answer.”

“That bad, huh? Ah well. You’ll get the hang of it eventually. Hopefully you won’t be like your older brother and take most of a decade to get there.”

Well, that’s the hope. Unlike the millions of people inside my head, my mother seems to be far more helpful on a vast number of subjects. Assuming one could pluck up the courage to actually ask her for help. On a number of occasions, I find it incredibly difficult to even approach her about my problems because she likes to beat the same question over the head multiple times in different forms that all lead to the same answer. Which usually winds up with me being incredibly aggravated and impatient that leads to a great deal of arguing and berating each other which is never an enjoyable atmosphere for dinner. So really, I just let her ask whatever questions she wants and try to avoid giving her any answers that might lead to her trying to give me actual advice on my issues. To date, the system is incredibly effective.

“What’s for dinner?” I hum as we climb in car, me ignoring her very pointed look. “Please say real food. I’m starving.”

“Smartass.”

“What’d I say?”