Notes from the Single Life

f o u r - purple punch and plastic surgery

FOUR: purple punch and plastic surgery

"She got her looks from her father. He's a plastic surgeon." -Groucho Marx

My mom called me while I was out to lunch with my dad and Sasha. She was mumbling and crying and she sounded hysterical. When I finally got her to calm down, she let me know what she needed, not what happened. "Where's the nearest dry cleaner?" I tried to resist rolling my eyes. The way she was acting lead me to believe that someone was dead.

"That's all you needed, mom?" I asked her, cutting a piece of my steak and popping it in my mouth. I gave Sasha a small, apologetic smile across the table as my mother continued complaining through the phone.

"What do you mean, that's all I need? Of course that's all I need. Now where's the nearest dry cleaner?"

"Mom, I don't even know where you are, and I'm busy right now. Are you positive that you need a dry cleaner right this second?" I asked, running my free hand through my hair. My dad and Sasha had already moved on to another conversation, and I felt awful. My mother was always ruining my plans.

"Yes," she stated plainly. "Where are you?"

"I'm out to dinner with Dad and Sasha," I finally told her.

"Oh," she whispered, and I could practically see her mouth curl into a frown and her eyes scrunch together creating the wrinkles between her eyes that she always hated. "Well...I'll talk to you later. I guess?" She told me, and I could tell that she was upset, but, at this point, there was nothing for me to do about it.

"I'll call you later," I suggested, trying to keep my tone light. She mumbled a few agreements and hung up hastily, leaving me with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Knowing my mother, she probably assumed that I was choosing my father over her, but I simply wanted the opportunity to rekindle my relationship with my him.

"Are you okay, dear?" Sasha asked me, reaching her hand across the table and wrapping her warm fingers around mine. I nodded, trying to hold back tears.

"My mom is just overbearing sometimes," I whispered, squeezing Sasha's hand lightly before letting go. I glanced over at my father who was tyring to hold back a smile. "What?" I said, my voice emitting an icy jab towards my father.

"I understand where you are coming from," he said, maintaining his composure, unlike yours truly. "She's a handful, and she's the most annoying woman that I've ever met in my life." He paused and took a sip of his water. "However, it's kind of impossible not to love her." He glanced over at Sasha who smiled lovingly. I was beginning to think that this woman was perfect. How could she not be jealous of my mom at all? But then it hit me, there was no need for her to be jealous. My dad had rightfully moved on from my mother, but did that mean that he had to move on from me, his only daughter? I didn't think so, but you could never tell with this man.

We finished our lunch in peace, making small talk here and there. They asked me about my work, and I asked them about their trip here. We talked about New York and the weather and everything but what was truly on our minds. When I finally dropped them off at their hotel with plans made to come to my apartment for dinner, I had barely spoken two words to my father. Sasha and I had done most of the talking. I wasn't complaining, yet, at the same time, I felt as if I was missing out on a huge opportunity. I decided to give Sasha and my father peace, however, and I promised to call them later about dinner. When they had gone inside, I finally worked up the effort to call my mom back. She picked up on the first ring.

Instead of a nice, "hello, how are you," she greeted me with, "Are you alone?" I cringed at her stinging, accusatory tone.

"Yes, mom. Sorry that I couldn't take care of your crisis when you called early." She humphed in reply. "Why'd you need the dry cleaners?" I asked her, not really ready to hear what she had to say.