When the Smoke Clears

Mom is coming.

She called with the announcement last night. It’s not an anxiety riddling prospect like it is for so many, I truly enjoy my mother’s company. However, there is some pressure. See, mom is an amazing person, though she has rarely been that motherly. She and I became close after I hit adulthood. While I was growing up my mom liked the idea of having a kid, just not all the responsibilities that go along with it, but it never meant she didn’t love me and I always felt that in my heart.

And she loves my house. She has the beachfront condo, I have the mountain cabin. Between us, we cover the main vacation hotspots. She will occasionally visit just to “recharge her batteries and get away.”

Sometimes people wonder where all my energy comes from. It’s her; I only inherited a portion of her drive. She wears me down when she gets here. I have come home from a long, exhausting day at work only to find her ready to get going.

“What time does the Outlet Mall close?”

“In 3 hours.”

“So we can get about two and a half hours in?”

“I’m tired and hungry.”

“Then you’re probably too tired to cook us anything so why don’t we stop off to get something after the mall closes?”

“I’m not getting through here.”

Keep in mind she spent most of the day driving through the mountains, checking out property and looking in little tacky shops. Her appetite for the Great Bargain is never whetted. She will browse through fine stores only to take note of all the items, then go crazy in a thrift store. When there wasn’t a thrift store near her on the beach-side of town, she found some “old biddies” about her age to get together and open their own. Once it was running, she had very little to do with day to day operations, but the profits go to the local police officer support society. That means two of her great fetishes are fed: she gets first pick of the new stuff as it comes in and gets to hug on the big, uniformed cops.

Up until recently she drove a Corvette because it was “the only practical car” for her to own: She lived on the ocean. The ocean has salt spray. Salt rusts. A fiberglass bodied-car does not rust. Therefore, she needed a Corvette. She gave it up reluctantly at 63 not because she had trouble getting into it, or that it was a little too young for her, but because she couldn’t fit her shopping and real estate clients in it.

I wanted to take this day off to rest and do some yard work, but now I had better head to town to stock up on wine.

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