The way home

Not for the first time, the holiday fun began before I arrived in Boston.

9AM
Mom: Hello?
A.: Hi, mom.
Mom: Where are you?
A.: At the airport in DC.
Mom: Okay. Well, call me when you land. And call me before you leave.
A.: I'm calling you before I leave now.
Mom: Are you already on the plane?
A.: No. We'll board shortly.
Mom: Well, call me once you're on the plane.
A.: No need. I'll call you once I land.

This is our system: because there's nothing worse, as far as my mother is concerned, than having to circle once she gets to the airport, she leaves the house to pick me up once I call her from the runway. This usually results in my waiting a good ten-fifteen minutes at the terminal, but I don't mind. I'm on my eighth year of coming home for the holidays, among other events, from DC, so it's a well-practiced system. But we'll get to that later.

A.: Mom, you know Xmas Tree shops is closed today.
Mom: Yes, your dad elucidated me this morning. I didn't even realize he had the day off.
A.: Just making sure you know. See you soon.
Mom: Call me when you land.
A.: Will do.

10:50AM
Mom: Hello?
A.: Hi, mom. I'm here.
Mom: Where?
A.: In Boston. Come get me, please.
Mom: Have you already deplaned?
A.: No. We just landed.
Mom: You're already here?
A.: Yes.
Mom: Have you already deplaned?
A.: No!
Mom: Okay, we'll be right there.

10:53 AM

A.: Hello?
Mom: What terminal?
A.: Not sure. Same as usual. Have dad call me once you're on the way and I'll tell you.
Mom: Have you already deplaned?
A.: No, mom. We can continue this discussion once you're on your way. Can you please get in the car and go?
Mom: I can't. I have to get dressed first. It'll be a few minutes.

WTF??? Was she not expecting me?

And if you're not ready, stop asking me questions and get ready. It's like years ago when I lived in Boston and got locked out, and called to ask if she would get me. I said, "Hi. I'm locked out, I'm at the Star Market on Morrissey Blvd. Could you come pick me up, please?" The best response to that is, "sure, we'll be right there," but I'd even take something like, 'we can't dig the car out that fast--hop on the T and we'll get you from closer to home.' What I don't want to hear is, 'what? how did you do that?' Never mind and just come get me.

11:20AM
We exchange hugs, greetings. I hop in the car.

Keep in mind that these conversations are all in Russian.

Dad: You were early!
A.: A little, yeah. The airport was pretty empty, so I imagine there wasn't a whole lot of traffic. These times always have...
Mom: There's no such word as "times!" This time...
A.: No, that's not what I'm trying to say...
Dad: This time of year?
A.: No.
Mom: This time...
A.: No...
Dad: The holidays?
A.: No! These... times?
Mom: Well, you have completely lost any ability you once had to speak Russian.
A.: Fair enough, but if you could let me think for five seconds I'll probably find a way to articulate what I'm trying to say.
Mom: Fine. Go.
Dad: This season?
A.: NO!

A.: These flight schedules always have extra time built in to account for routine-type delays.
Dad: Ohhhh! I see what you're saying.

We get to the tolls. There are three empty Fast Lane lanes, and one with a non-moving line of cars in it. Mom gets in the line.

A.: Mom, there are three open Fast Lanes.
Mom: The Fast Lanes are usually on the left side.
A.: Well, there are a few open ones on the right.
Mom: Fast Lane is over here.
A.: Suit yourself.
Mom: DON'T YOU TELL ME WHAT TO DO.

She puts the car in park to fully concentrate on yelling at me. Which is fine, because the line isn't moving.

Mom: I CAN GET ALONG PERFECTLY FINE WITHOUT YOUR TELLING ME WHAT TO DO.

Dad and I just laugh. Traffic lights are the bane of this woman's existence, and yet, here she is, waiting in line when she doesn't have to, because she's stubborn.

Mom yells a bit more, dad and I laugh a bit more, and then she decides to drive to the right, where there are, indeed, three completely open lanes.

Mom: The Fast Lanes are usually to the left.

Yes, and I am usually up at 6:30am on a Saturday morning. That doesn't mean that it was smart of my former roommate that time over the summer to assume that I necessarily would be, noting but dismissing evidence to the contrary (closed window shade, etc.), and coming in and bang around until he was finally convinced that I was still asleep.

Dad: Who's taking care of the cat?
A.: My friends who live nearby.
Mom: Right, the cat. Well, at least you have someone to talk to.

That's an interesting way of putting it. I can understand the people who say, 'at least you have some companionship,' even as I shrug of the condescension. But 'at least you have someone to talk to is a different matter.' A cat does, indeed, offer companionship. That single women have no monopoly on feline companionship is another matter, but cats, pets, are companions. But if I'm counting on Gracie for intellectual discourse, we're in trouble.

We arrive at the house.

Mom: Let's go have coffee. You interrupted our morning coffee.
A.: I'm sorry you weren't expecting me.

Mom: Would you like some salted salmon?
A.: No, thank you.
Dad: It came out lightly salted.
A.: No, thanks. I don't like salted salmon. That, and I've taken to only eating wild salmon.

Mom rolls her eyes. This is a tricky issue: being a guest in someone else's home--even one's parents--is not like being a patron in a restaurant. I believe in eating what one is served, without being picky. But it is my parents, and I'd like to convert them to the cause of wild salmon.

A.: It's cleaner and more sustainable.
Mom: Oh, please. Dirt's good for you. The sooner you come down with something, the sooner you can get over it. I was listening to Dr. Oz, and he was talking about the amount of dirt on an average countertop...
A.: By dirt, I mean hormones, chemicals and antibiotics.
Mom: Whatever. And you won't have chicken broth.
A.: No.
Dad: Chicken soup is an old Jewish cold remedy. It works wonders.
A.: I'm sure it does.
Mom: What's the problem there? The chickens?
A.: Right.
Mom: I see.

I have been a vegetarian for eighteen years, a pescetarian for eleven of them. It's not like I stopped eating chicken last year.

That's it for now. I hate to say it, but stay tuned.