Rites (and Wrongs) of Spring

It took forty minutes for her to issue her first critique, but that's only because she sat in the back seat on the ride from the airport to downtown and couldn't see what I was wearing.

Yes, mom is back in town, and even though her drastically compressed spine has shrunk her well below five feet she is still larger than life. She doesn't even need to say anything. Just the once over with her piercing blue eyes, as she takes in every flawed inch of me, does the trick. The scowl is just gravy -- I don't even know why she wastes the energy.

"That skirt is a bit short," she said. Translation: You low class whore. I can't believe I raised you. It's because you married that goy. 


"It's not a skirt," I said, desperate to defend my honor as I tugged at the back to make sure it was covering my ass. "It's a shirt.  And these are leggings." A lesser woman might have accepted my explanation and moved on, but she thinks I dress like a tramp, even on a good day, and she can't hear a thing.

She nodded. I thought maybe she understood. "Yes, well you should really not be wearing such a short dress." Translation: You are beyond redemption. You might as well be a shiksa. 


Let's just say it was not a good day to forget to put an emergency stash of Xanax in my purse. Lunch was okay because I was sitting down. I tried my best to minimize the trips to the bathroom, but each time I went I could feel her eyes boring into me like daggers, taste the venom in her scowl. I considered asking the maitre'd for a spare tablecloth to wrap around my lower half (which, by then, had truly become, in my mind, larger than life) but unless the table linens were designed by Escada I was fucked anyway.

My oldest daughter joined us a bit late, looking pale despite the attempts she had made to disguise her hangover with makeup. Each whiff of food -- even the mere mention of it -- sent her reeling. Mom wondered why she had to pee so often. "Too much coffee this morning," I told her. Luckily, it wouldn't even occur to her that her granddaughter may have had a few too many the night before and had to pry her face out of the toilet when I telephoned to remind her about lunch.

"You really shouldn't drink so much coffee," mom offered. I can only imagine what she would have to say if she knew the truth.

I am hiding in the backyard now, trying to escape yet another field trip on her behalf to purchase a useless gift for our Seder hosts tonight who have pleaded, in no uncertain terms, that we bring no gifts. After years of entertaining all of us for Jewish holiday dinners, they have an entire bathroom decorated with all the pointless gifts I have been ordered to purchase. This year, I bought something useful instead -- some wine -- but made the mistake of telling her the truth about the price. "I do not bring such cheap gifts to someone's house!" I half lied, telling her they would not know the difference. Well, they would not, except for the fact that our gracious hostess is a faithful blog fan and now knows we didn't go top shelf. Just think of it as mouthwash, Cherry.

So why is it that I encourage these holiday visits, actually look forward to them. It's not just that I enjoy seeing who wins the "what color St. John suit is she wearing" contest. (I was completely off this time.) It's ritual, tradition, family time -- for better or for worse. They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. By tomorrow I'll be bench pressing 350 pounds.