blizzard, 2006

last weekend on the island for at least a little while, went out for the third weekend in a row, and it was nice. then it started to snow. and snow. and snow. it was lovely, but as mum found out her mercedes bends once last fall, she's, understandably, nervous driving in iffy conditions. that and i can't well expect her 63-year old self to be shoveling in the ice and snow. 'oh, go back to the city, i'll be fiiiiiiine.' 'you've not been fine a day since i've known you. i'm staying, we'll have a snow party! with the dogs! it will be fun!' 'don't be fresh. but i did get a lovely chianti, i think you'll like it.' and so that started the snow party of the blizzard o' 2006.

when it was decided that i'll be around, we went for a quick dinner at one of my favoritest mexican restaurants in all the world, a place into which i first went on a field trip in the eighth grade to practice our spanish. ole.

'deseo un numero cuatro, por favor.' 'gracias, senior.' 'gracias, cammerrero.' 'de nada.' and that was the beginning and end of our little spanish immersion. (and as i haven't spoken or read spanish since, i'm sure that's all spelled incorrectly...) good times. fast forward to yesterday, donde nosotros order sangria and run into people, also from back in the day, who are significantly more tolerable after a bit of sangria. 'oh christ, mum, it's [the towntalk] with her whipped husband. she still doesn't seem to have grasped that the only people who wear red shoes and blue eye shadow are little girls and whores.' 'you're awful.'

'[mum!] and [my brother's name!]'

'actually, margaret, i'm [not my brother.]' this was the first time i've ever called mrs. towntalk by her first name. she's clearly not used to this reception. i even got the look that would confirm that she's mrs. towntalk, and, most certainly, not margaret, at least to me. i ignored it.

'just look. at. you! i haven't seen you since you were going off to college, heavens, what was that, five years ago?'

'eleven.'

'it's been that long! oh and [mum,] you look just wonderful. how are you doing after, you know...'

now, to pause briefly... i hate that expression... 'you know...' yes, i know, and you know i know, and since we're going to now talk about it at your prodding, why not name it and call it what it is? and why do people always drop the 'you know' bomb at the most inopportune time to talk about whatever 'it' is to which 'you know' refers? mum, however, picked it up like a champ and ran with it, and i took my cue from her:

'well, how kind of you to ask. to which 'you know' are you referring, margaret? would it be burying my husband, battling breast cancer, or the news of a blizzard that's going to stop by and say hello tonight?' i started busting out laughing. marge is a tough bird... towntalk's husband nudged her that the table was ready.

'oh, um, [marge,] i'm. so. sorry. i didn't know about the cancer! yes, i meant [homer.]'

'oh it's fine, and in the end, i laughed cancer in the face, didn't i, tom?'

'she did, she did [hic] and even bought herself a little consolation gift, i mean, one can't well drive to radiation therapy appointments in the same car used to drive to the initial appointment where one finds out one has cancer, i believe it's bad luck.'

'it is bad luck, you're right honey.'

'well, you look great. and so do you, tom. breaking all the girls' hearts, aren't you?! you've gotten so handsome, you look just like your father.'

ok, now we're at full-blown war. i GOT so handsome? dead father reference? no no no no no. going down, sister. and not in the good way.

'oh you, flattery will get you nowhere! especially with your husband next to you. [threw him a wink, and he was about ready to crawl in a hole and die, but feigns a forced laugh.] how's your son?'

'which one, they're all fine.' [large irish-uber-catholic family...]

'[the obviously gay one two years older who has since come out to your family's public chagrin.]'

'oh, him, yes, he's good.'

'send him my best, won't you? he and i should go out for a cosmo or appletini some time, we always did have so much in common. would you give him my card?'

[she turns purple...]

towntalk: 'well, we must go and have dinner now... good luck with the storm tonight.'

mum: 'oh, we're having a snow party! toodles.'

me: 'toodles [wink]'

mum, to me: 'that's my boy. what a bitch.'

'yes, and with years of training and work experience, i can confidently tell you that her solitaire is a piece of shit.'

so we go home, got some pics of the dogs in all their glory bopping around the snow, and drank and played rummy all night. marge can hang, i forgot that about her.

they got well over two feet of snow, and i shoveled, shoveled, shoveled my little hung-over self.