A Literal Ann of my Own
I’m at my parents’ house for the week. I had to get out of dodge for the RNC, plus it gives me the opportunity to get away from work for a bit and delve into some of my, not quite side, but sider projects (these mostly involve writing and furniture shopping). One of the more interesting things about being home is that I’ve completely forgotten what it’s like to live on a schedule other people rely on. What time is dinner? Whenever I feel like. Can I use the washing machine now? When is your doctor’s appointment? Here’s a query: how the hell do people live like this? I’m a rogue, a lone wolf; I can’t be caged or tied down; I needs must roam free.
Last night my mother and I stayed up late drinking wine and talking politics. I forget how, but at some early point the conversation turned to relationships, and this was the moment I finally told her about Dream Girl. This was a revelation I had kept concealed from her for a very long time, which is an accomplishment I’d be proud of if it wasn’t so utterly inane. The end it was a relief to just get it out there, because I’m hopeless when it comes to keeping things from people. It puts me on edge. Here was my mother’s contribution to the conversation. “It’s too bad you fucked up your chance. Now you’ll have to wait till your forty.” Thanks, Mom.
Now every conversation seems to be about Dream Girl, which is sort of annoying. Here’s a list of who I share friends with on Facebook. Oh look, one of them is Dream Girl. I know a couple of people who live down in New Orleans, but they seem to all have gotten out okay. Yes, one of them is Dream Girl. Today I was showing Mother some photos from one of my college alum’s websites and she was commentating on the comparable degrees of physical attractiveness exhibited by some of the girls. My two cents: “They’re not as cute as [Dream Girl]. My mother‘s: “I saw her profile, and she’s not that cute. I hope she has a good personality.” Ouch.
I think, deep down, she digs the drama.