It's Friday, I'm in Love

with my mother. Which is natural, I suppose, but in the case of my mother, well. She's something else. Today's blog post has two acts.

Act I:

Last Sunday, my mother and I took a trip to the lovely Penn Square Mall to purchase an iPod at the Apple Store for my father's upcoming birthday (and yes, that means literally everyone now in the entire world has one except for me. Except I did. But anyway.). For some reason, I decided that this purchase must be made at an Apple store, which was a mistake. Taking my mother to a store full of electronics and douchey sales associates is not a good idea. I lead her to the display table (which I myself have had trouble with in the past) brimming with iPods of various sizes, colors, capacities, etc and she eyes the price tag. $249! she exclaims. Our computer cost less than that! Well, no it didn't, Mom. No, it didn't. The computer nerd cum hipster sales associate hones in for what he thinks will be a slam dunk.

Mom: Hi, we're looking for an iPod for her Dad's (gesturing toward me - her dad? is she also getting him the gift of divorce?) birthday.

Douchebag Sales Guy: Ok, well, we have a few options here. What would he be using it for mostly?

M: Well, in his car. He likes to listen to iPod casts of people talking. Does this come with headphones (picking up the spec sheet)? He'll need headphones so he can listen to it in the car.

Me: Mom, I think that's illegal.

DSG: Yeah, that's definitely illegal. He'll need a car adapter.

M: So, we'll need to take his car to the dealership to have them put in an adapter?

Me: No, we'll get him something for his car.

DSG: Well, what kind of car does he have? He might already have one.

[Me: Desperately, angrily shooting DSG death looks for asking such a complicated question.]

M: It's a Toyota. They're great cars.

DSG: Yeah, um, so, what year?

Me: You know what? We'll cross that bridge later, first we need to get the iPod. I think we want the 30g. That should be more than enough for him.

M: Ok, so this is like a Blackberry, right? I mean, it's a phone and palm pilot too? He can email? With the internet?

DSG: Um, I'll let you two discuss. Let me know if you need any help. I'll be... (runs away)

Me: No, this simply plays mp3s, podcasts and video (realizing instantly none of this is simple).

Mom: So, how does he get mpgs onto this thing? Do you stick it in that hole in the computer?

Me: No, that's a slot for cds. He can use iTunes to put music and other stuff on the iPod.

Mom: Ok, so we'll pay $.99 like in the commercials and then he can get as many songs as he wants? How do they get from your credit card to the computer?

Me: Have you ever used our computer? Have you ever seen iTunes? You watch the Daily Show, I thought you knew this kind of stuff.

Mom: Why would I need to know about this stuff?

Me: Give me your credit card and go wait outside.

...

Act II:

As previously mentioned, my mother is an administrator at a public school in rather rural Oklahoma. As such, the tedious days tend to be filled with things you can't even imagine including, but not limited to, custody battles involving shot guns, exploding meth labs across the street from the school, pregnant eighth graders - with their second child, cutters, dealers, cheerleaders, girls taking nudie pics of themselves on their cell phones, etc. It's a good time. So, you can see how one might need to blow off a little steam every now and then, the problem is my mother has the tolerance of an Asian toddler. State testing just ended, so last night seemed like the perfect time for her and her group of teacher friends. [My car has yet to arrive, so we are all still sharing, which means that, long story short, a friend took her to the bar, but she was relying on me for a ride home.]

[My cell rings.]

Mom: Are you there?

Me: Yes. Are you ready?

Mom: No, I was just checking your brother's cell phone and he's got a message from someone saying he's writing their bio paper. What's that about?

Me: Two things. 1) why do you have his phone? 2) he has an AP bio review. He's not writing someone's paper.

Mom: Yes he is. [pause] Do you have the car? Are you coming to pick me up? Someone just called your brother? Is he writing a biography?

Me: Yes, I will be there shortly.

I arrive at the very festive read tacky Tex-Mex establishment to find my mother seated at the patio amongst her friends and some people I've never met before, but soon would.

Mom: Blythe! You're here! This is Brandon! He's rich! And single! He's Brandon's brother! I mean Miranda's brother! [to Brandon] See? Isn't she sort of cute?

Me: (Yeah, thanks for that vote of confidence there Mom.) Hi. I'm Blythe.

Teacher next to me: Our bill is $439! Can you figure out the tip?

Me: (Holy shit!) Aren't you a math teacher? (she doesn't hear me, thankfully, and she is.)

Mom: Blythe! You're here! This is Brandon! He's rich! And single! He's Brandon's brother! I mean Miranda's brother! [to Brandon] See? Isn't she sort of cute?

Me: Uh, I think it's time to go.

Mom: What? But you just got here.

Brandon: Can't I buy you at least one drink? David! She needs a drink. (screaming to their bedraggled server - sweet Jesus I hope they remembered to leave the tip I figured for them.)

Me: Actually, I've got plans tonight, we should be going.

Brandon: Where? Where ever it is, I'll see you there.

Me: Er, actually, I'm not sure yet. Mom, I think it's time to go.

[In the car]

Mom: Did you get the car thing worked out with your brother?

Me: Obviously. I'm driving you, aren't I? What all did you drink?

Mom: Three shots of Patron and two margaritas.

Me: Holy shit. How are you not dead. (Seriously, folks, you think I can't hold my liquor, you should see this lady after two Bartles and James.)

Mom: This is a weird tape you're listening to.

Me: It's a cd.

Mom: I thought you had an iPod.

Me: [can't speak]

Mom: Brandon's rich! You should go out with him! Because he's rich.

Me: Uh.

Mom: Did you meet Brandon? He's rich.

Me: Why was his arm around you?

Mom: Oh, you know. Just hanging out.

Me: No, I don't know.

Mom: Someone kept pinching my ass.

Me: WHAT?

Mom: Are we home yet? Do we have milk? I'd really like some cereal.

Me: Who was touching your butt?

Mom: Remember when I was pretty? I used to be so pretty.

Me: [eyes rolling back in head, bad for driving, it turns out] Mom, you are still very pretty. You were a beauty queen.

Mom: No, I'm not pretty like I was.

Me: You're skinnier than me. That counts for something.

Mom: Brandon is so rich!

I safely deposit my mother on the couch to watch a little 30 Rock. She promptly closes her pretty eyes tightly.

...

God love her. I know I do.