I'm Banging My Head Here...Where's Mr. Right?Submitted by AllyJeans at 2005-06-01 03:48:10 EDT
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So, it was three in the morning and my mother was talking to me on the phone.
“You know what you need, don’t you?”
I knew all too well. I had craved it since I woke that morning. The desire lasted well after I ate my delicious breakfast of sausage and eggs, and continued through to my bicycle trip to the candle shop, where I wryly pointed over the clerk’s shoulder and told him politely: “Give me the big, black, smelly one.” He didn’t take the hint.
Women can relate needs and wants in a way that men simply cannot understand. Sighs, pauses, turns of the head…they speak volumes. When such frustrations are communicated between mother and daughter, they are even more precise. I was sure my mother had the answer
“You,” she said, pausing for emphasis “need to stop partying so much.”
Damn, swing and a miss. How ridiculous. My mother, having borne me from her martini enriched womb, was advising a course of slow it down, with two sides of sobriety and easy living. I have pictures of her carrying me into my first discothèque, my feet flapping as I rode bareback in a tie-dyed baby sling. This was a bit much.
“Mom,” I said brusquely “I don’t think you have any ground to stand on. You’ve taught me some shady stuff, and because of you, a bus full of Asian business men think my only English is ‘hey, wanna buy me a drink, sweetie?’
She scowled through the receiver. The kind of expression you can still feel in the morning, even after you’ve washed your face and applied two base coats of powder.
Next came the taps as she rapped the side of her phone with her index finger, punctuating the silence with tiny, plastic clicks. This was her way of getting my attention and she had done it for as long as I knew. When I was a kid, I would spend most of my time on the phone in my bedroom. When dinner was ready, she would pick up the receiver downstairs and tell me to finish the conversation. If I wasn’t down at the table within five minutes, she would grab it again and pound it on the refrigerator. For years, my friends thought it was me—banging my head against the dresser. Teenage Tourettes, they called it. I got a kick out of their concern and even faked a few head bobs to maintain the illusion.
Click, click, click
Click, click, click
“I got all night...”
She cleared her throat and told my father to stop snoring at the table and go to bed. This was a nightly ritual and I doubt he would have had a good rest without it.
“Well, missy,” she finally said, “you tell me that you’re restless and you can’t get any sleep; you call me at three in the morning…”
“It’s 12 there, mom”
“…and you say you want something else in your life. Listen, I guarantee you won’t find it as some random club in Boston.”
What did she know? I have a very fixed bar schedule. Every weekend, I go from one to another and never deviate from my plan. They’re all stacked sequentially in my mind. There’s nothing random about them.
“How do you suggest I find the future sire of your grandchildren?” I mused “They’re closing all the churches around here and I was never that good at walking the streets’”
My mother told me it was late and hung up the phone. No sense of humor. After I get three or four hours of sleep tonight, I’ll have to try my search again…unaided. I’ll go to work, flirt with the boys, and head home to arrange my Friday night tour of Boston’s best providers of beer and able bodied men. I haven’t had much luck and have had to turn down many a suitor due to hygiene problems and/or homosexuality. Of course, the homosexuals never ask for my flower, but they hog my dancing time. It's very valuable.
Maybe if I sit in a corner and bob my head into the wall, I’ll get a doctor to approach me. I’ll have to try that out. Worst comes to worst, it might knock a few brain cells loose. Heavens knows, I need it.