“I’m not ruining nachos with talk of jailbait.”
Molly laughs. “Fair enough.”
LUNCH WITH MOLLY WASa hoot, as usual, but now I’m sitting at my desk, about to dive into the final updates to the employee manual, when I hear a knock at my door. I assume it’s Molly, doubling back to divulge a bit of juicy office gossip she either forgot to tell me or just heard in the last two minutes. Either is entirely plausible. Instead, and much to my dismay, my mother enters.
“Elaine, I called more than an hour ago, and you didn’t call back. You know how that annoys me.” She strides over to my desk and places a large brown bag on one chair, before settling into the other. Her icy blonde mane is frozen in place, her makeup impeccably applied, and her suit tailored to perfection. Meanwhile, my hair is frizzing from the walk to and from lunch, my lip gloss wore off hours ago, and my boobs are damn near jumping out of the v-neck of my dress, despite the fact that I sized up to avoid this very thing.
“Sorry.” I apologize, because it’s just what I do in my mother’s presence. “I was out for lunch with Molly, and I didn’t think to check my messages.”
“Out to lunch? Overindulging in some calorie-laden, over-processed, deep-fried something, I imagine.” She makes her disapproval known, and I open my mouth to apologize again, but immediately close it, because even though she’s spot on, I don’t want to apologize. Those nachos are crazy good. And don’t even get me started on the chocolate cake.
“So, what brings you by, Mother? You don’t usually stop in to see me at work.” No, she usually saves her attacks for phone and text messages, but who doesn’t love a face-to-face verbal assault? In the middle of the day. At my place of employment. From my mother.
“I stopped to bring you lunch. When we saw you at the hospital benefit a few weeks ago, I thought you looked puffy. I mentioned it to your father, but he’s oblivious. I’d hoped it was just too much salt or something, but when we face-timed the other day, I saw that I was right. You’re retaining water, Elaine. Or just packing on pounds. Or both. So, I brought you a Caesar salad, no croutons, light dressing on the side. Of course, with the amount of calories you no doubt inhaled at lunch, perhaps you’d better stick this in the fridge and save it for dinner.”
There are a thousand things I want to say. Or scream. But I’ve been down this road with my mother more times than I can count, and I know it only ends with me in tears. Strange as it seems, she truly thinks she’s helping me.
“Thanks.That’s just what I’ll do.” I smile and hope she takes my words as the salutation they’re meant to be. Instead, she looks around my office disapprovingly, as though she can sense that I’ve had a hand in each piece of mismatched furniture, and the very idea of repurposing something offends her sensibilities.
“Well, I really should get back to work…”
“Yes, of course. I have a facial appointment in half an hour anyway. But before I go, here’s the number of the doctor I’ve been telling you about.”
She hands me a card, and at my puzzled look, she sighs, beleaguered by my forgetfulness or my frizz, I can’t quite be sure. Probably both. “We talked about this last week. And I mentioned it again when I left a message today. Darling, you’re a mess. Thank goodness you have me in your corner. This card is for Dr. Mitchell. He’s the best plastic surgeon in the tri-state area. Give my name when you call. They’re expecting you, and I’ve already made a few suggestions to Bruce, but, as the surgeon, he’ll have the final say, of course.”
There’s so much there, I’m not sure quite sure what to unpack first. My mother drones on, no doubt recounting exactly how many sessions I’ll need with Dr. Mitchell before I’m semi-presentable, but I don’t hear a word she’s saying. My head throbs, and my ears ring, and this day just needs to be over. I glance at the clock ,and to my chagrin, it’s not quite two yet. Ugh. Three hours left. How much worse can it get?
The universe laughs its answer in my face as Simon stands in the doorway, his arm braced on the frame. “Hey, Elaine, I installed the update, so you should be good for a while, but—oh, sorry.” He’s just spotted my mother. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll, uh, I’ll stop back later.”
Before I can claim some tech emergency and beg him to stay, while simultaneously kicking my mother out, he’s gone.
My mother spares him a glance and then looks back at me. She’s always had this creepy proclivity for knowing exactly what I’m thinking, and this moment is no exception. I always fear that I wear my attraction for Simon like an ill-fitting bra—it’s pretty and lacy, but I’m overflowing the top and sides—and my mother has zeroed in on this attraction with the deftness of a bloodhound. She throws a pitying glance my way and cuts me with a few pointed words. “Oh, Elaine… Darling, let’s not be foolish.”
She’s fired her shots, and I take the bait. I shouldn’t, but I do. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play coy, Elaine. It doesn’t suit you. I saw the way you looked at that boy. What is he? A college intern or something? Dear, you need to pull yourself together. Desperation hangs off you like cheap perfume. That poor boy probably feels sorry for you.”
Ouch. Target decimated, Patrice. I try my best to look unnerved. “Mom, he’s my co-worker. I’m not—”
“Don’t bother lying to me, dear. I saw it plain as day, as anyone could. Darling, just because Logan left you for a younger model, doesn’t mean you should go fishing in the same pond. You need to find someone more suited to your level and soon. You’re not getting any younger.”
And I’m done. I should have been done fifteen minutes ago, or hell, more like fifteen years ago, but here we are. I know my mother, and I know how this goes. Placating her is the easiest way out of this conversational quicksand. ”You’re right mom. I let myself—”
“Of course I’m right.” Her shrewd gaze passes over my face with disappointment and lands on my cleavage. “I need to leave now, dear, or I’ll be late. And for pity’s sake, Elaine, buy a camisole.” And, with that parting dig, she leaves.
I spend the next hour trying to forget my mother’s impromptu intervention, and my endeavor is aided by the fact that while Patrice was pointing out her least favorite of my many flaws, Tall Steve shared a veritable stack of files that needed to be proofread. I was unclear on a few details, so I emailed him, only to get his outgoing message in return. So it looks like I will spend the remainder of my Friday afternoon proofing his attempts at Standard Written English, and he will likely spend the remainder of his Friday afternoon on his boat.
I’m yanking at my slipping neckline, annoyed that my mother was right, and staring at my computer screen wondering, not for the first time, if people actually try to make a million errors when they set out to write a sentence. I understand typos—I make those myself—and I even get the homophone trap. But “analyzation” is not a word. Not even a little bit. And why would anyone put a semicolon as the end punctuation for a paragraph? I’m beginning to think that Tall Steve is just making this shit up to ensure that I earn my paycheck.
I’m debating between banging my head on the computer to ease the throbbing in my skull, or just tossing my laptop out the window. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d seriously considered it.
And then, as if he senses that his precious hardware is in peril, Wonderboy opens my office door and peers in.
“Did your earlier voodoo session not take?” I ask. “Because I can probably get you a dead chicken. Or perhaps some eye of newt?”
He smiles at that, but shakes his head. Damn him and his adorable dimple.
“Nope. I sacrificed a goat in here earlier, so you should be good to go.”
