(Please don't) behold the evidence

You may be thinking-- I mean that as a rhetorical device; I don't actually presume that you're thinking about this-- that with all this blogging, I have plenty of time to call my parents.

Speaking of calling one's Jewish mother, do check out this Daily Show clip if you missed it the first time around:




If you have a slow internet connection, about two minutes in, Jon Stewart says:

Among the other couples were these two women, married by a rabbi, who celebrated with the traditional breaking of a glass. Now, I’m going to say something here: I don’t have a problem with them having children because they are gay, but I am concerned for the welfare of any child with two Jewish mothers.

This is followed by, in an impression, 'Your mother's right, call your mother'.

***
I think what I failed to convey yesterday, to her and to you, is that I don't find calling mom to be a chore. I don't want it to be a chore. But when she starts going on about how I need to do it every day, even if I don't have anything to say-- in which case, reporting a bunny sighting in the yard will do-- it becomes a chore. How about I just call when I want to talk? Which I usually do once or twice a week. And if I don't have to roll my eyes as I reply to the same questions, call after call, the conversation won't seem "formal."

There are a couple of other things going on here:

-I am an only child. I learned to be happy without the company of others 90% of the time (as Jay says, 'it's the other 10% that's a bitch'). That translated into a preference for alone time, much of the time. Especially when I'm tired-- which I am every weeknight-- I like to be alone. I like to not talk to people. Yes, I technically have time to call my mother. But I don't want to. And as I've said above, I don't want calling my mother to turn into a chore (even though she apparently does).

-My mother contributed to this. I don't begrudge my mother for having other things to do when I was a child, but there were a lot of times when she would promise to spend time with me and then when the time came, go on about how much stuff she had to do around the house. Which is why I learned to be satisfied with my own company. I can genuinely say that I hold no resentments against her. What has stayed with me from those days, though, is a dread of Home Depot or whatever the local equivalent was in those days-- Grossman's, I believe. I was dragged there all the time and I HATED it. The aversion to DIY persists to this day.

-Mom is not helping her cause by a) regularly insulting me and displaying an almost knee-jerk derision of any decisions I make or events in my life, or b) demonstrating a proclivity for soundbite-level discussion at the expense of interactive discourse.

Does it ever occur to her that one reason I'm not more forthcoming about details of my life is because of that derision? Recall that conversation on the way to China:

A.: I may be eligible for student loan repayment through my job.
Mom: Oh-- I had to explain to the MA attorney general's office again about the Verizon issue. It just shows that the government is full of idiots.

Also recall this episode from the holidays (abridged):

A.: I've been offered a job that I've wanted for ages. I'm very excited.
Mom: What's wrong with the job you have now? Have you alienated everyone there with your abrasive personality?

Or

A.: I adopted a cat.
Mom: Oh, no. What were you thinking?

As you may figure, I could go on.

As for the discourse issue, I talked a little about that yesterday. Mom is easily threatened and falls back on ad hominem arguments; gets angry; interrupts; and doesn't listen. This does not make for interesting discussions. You may recall the time she got so worked up over a conversation about the teaching of evolution in public schools that she turned red, looked frantically around for something, found some crumbs of feta cheese on her plate, and hurled them at my father.

I hope I have addressed any mystery as to why I don't really feel like calling my mother.

***
There are many ironic aspects to my mother's concern that I don't have friends, the sharpest, perhaps, being that I have a blog, which my friends read (at least some of the time).

Here's another thing: If I didn't have friends-- all other things held constant-- I'd have a much easier time losing weight. If people didn't invite me to barbecues, brunches, happy hours, dinners, nights out, or parties-- especially chocolate-tasting parties and apple pie making parties--it would be so much easier to eat healthily all the time. If my company were truly insufferable, surely people wouldn't invite me to partake in drinks and fries in honor of their birthdays, or offer me their perfectly baked cookies or fruit-accompanied ice cream? 'They're just being polite,' she would say-- but that doesn't hold up to logic, since I'd never know if I were excluded.

Don't misunderstand-- I'm not saying there aren't those that would find me (or anyone else) tiresome, overbearing, or just boring. I'm not saying I'm the most popular person in the world and that everyone wants me at their party.

I'm saying I have friends. Who do want me at their party. And don't find me tiresome, or overbearing, or boring. The evidence is right around my hips.