Saturday

Mom called yesterday and left a nice message--I very much prefer nice messages to nasty messages--but this isn't to say that she missed the opportunity to ask why on earth I might not be available. I called back as I was waiting on the corner for a friend, who'd gone to get her car. Mom: Where were you? A.: At a play, and then at dinner. Mom: What play? A.: You haven't heard of it. Mom: Tell me anyway. I've written before about this recurring verbal dance. I'm happy to talk about classic or modern plays that there's a good chance my parents have heard of and/or seen, but most theater I see is contemporary, and my parents, being non-native English speakers, turn often lead me into a multi-minute back-and-forth about what the play is called, what the words in the name mean, etc. Sometimes I have to spell the name out over the phone (and that still can go nowhere). So I'm glad they didn't call just after I'd gone to see Sister Mary Ignatius Explains it All for You, which, by the way, was great (and timeless). But I digress. A.: Mr. Burns. The critics loved it. I thought it was a cool concept, but the execution was wanting. That's how I felt about most of WM's season and its theme of "the" apocalypse. As is, it turns out (perhaps unintentionally) the New Yorker science fiction issue, particularly Junot Diaz's story I was reading on the metro. My gut reaction was, "why is the New Yorker so infatuated with Junot Diaz? I can only take him in very small doses, but they've printed him twice within the last month." But the story was good. The play was... okay. It was also, together with the post-show Rasika reservation (which I kept--you don;t just throw those away), and apart from my upcoming trip, the last thing F. and I had planned to do together (correction: I planned, he, apparently grudgingly, agreed). Anyway, as with other such plans, it wasn't hard--I didn't even have to try--to find a friend to join me in his place. Mom asked what we were doing next.

Mom: What are you going to do now?
A.: Going to a friend's house (same friend who came to the play and dinner) and then off to another friend's birthday party.
Mom: Ah. Well, don't drink too much.
A.: Huh?
Mom: Don't drink too much.
A.: Okay.

This threw me, because this is something mom's never said to me in her life. Which makes sense, because I don't generally (i.e. nearly ever) drink too much. Ironically (?), I ended up consuming more alcohol yesterday than I have... probably since college (which is not that much alcohol, over the six hours of having it). But it made me think, again, what does mom know? How does she know it? You'll see that in this post there is a contrast between the one unique conversation and the recurring conversations that mom and I have in cycles: Where were you? it's been a while since you've called; spell the play you saw; etc. In the latter category, there was also this:

A.: How are you feeling?
Mom: Better. Except that my eyes are moving slowly.
A.: Please go get the test sooner than later.
Mom: Nah, I'm fine.

Sigh. This weekend--which might be the weekend of packing and cleaning, but you only live once--has turned into the weekend of roof-deck parties. Like Rasika reservations, you you don't throw those away.