Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Everyday is Sunday

One of my mothers favorite things to do is call me up and tell me who I went to high school with is getting married. I have no idea why she does this, I’ve told her at least a thousand times that I couldn'tcare less. Here’s how that conversation usually goes:

Mom: Carm! Guess what?!

Me: Dad convinced Big Big that MotuhAIDS is a real thing?

Mom: NO! Remember (Jennifer, Sarah, Jodi or Rebecca) from our block?!?

Me: Yeah, I guess.

Mom: Well, I ran into her mother at (Starbucks, Woodbury Commons or the Luis Vuitton outlet in the Westchester Mall)! And she’s getting married! Isn’t that exciting?!?

Me: No. Not to me. Not even remotely.

Mom: (ignoring me entirely) To a very nice (investment banker, dentist, surgeon or litigation attorney) named (David, Neil, Seth or Benjamin)!

Me: Mom, we’ve discussed this before. I don’t care when my classmates get married. Do not call me to share. Do you remember when I said it was ok to call me?

Mom: When someone has a debilitating illness, an embarrassing STD, or is involved in a freak accident?

Me: That’s right mom.


This happens about once a week. The reason why it bothers me when my generic Jewy classmates find that special anyone is because I think they should be running it by me first. I know that may seem invasive and unnecessary, but let’s face facts here… I’m the one who’s going to have to date these guys in three to five years. Isn’t it only fair that I have some say in their selection? I think so.

On the bright side, my mother is pretty much the only person foolish enough to still subject me to these phone calls. My father calls when he finds an untimely death in the obits, or a police report that hints at child abuse. Things I CARE about. Things that make me feel BETTER about my life.

My friends are also very good about only sharing earth shattering news of death. My friend who is best at this is Cowboy Sex Angel (so named because of some insane outfit she changed into while we were all sitting around getting high one day). CSA always has some bad news or a horrificly bleak outlook on life to share with me. She understands that every silver lining is merely a distraction from the dark raincloud within.

Each conversation with Cowboy Sex Angel offers me little pearls (or tiny daggers, if you will) of wisdom that I can ponder all day. Here's one from today's conversation:

"So, Carmela, I got the pictures you sent me. Brad's kid is really cute."

Very kind words... except for the fact that I haven't dated Brad for eight years. A brilliant commentary on how interchangeable men are? A cutting remark intended to remind me that had I borne the child Brad thought might "be fun" to have, she'd be looking at cute pictures of MY eight year old right now? A clear indication that it's time to scale back on the meds since she can't recall which decade we're in?

Or perhaps all three.

My favorite Cowboy Sex Angelism was when she said "Today was a good day; I didn't eat anything, all I did was sleep and cry."

Wow. How bleak does your outlook have to be for that to qualify as a good day? Or even an exceptional day for that matter? The kind of day she's tlaking about is clearly what the rest of us would refer to merely as "Sunday".

It's these gems that keep me going through the unbearable onslaught of "good" news.

Like when I run into some JAPs I went to high school with at Nobu or something and they're all "Oh, hey, Carmela, right? The last I saw you we were in Bio together, and you were dating some inapropriately older guy and you were drunk all the time! What are you up to these days?" rather than stab them in the eye, I can just repeat some of CSA's quotes to myself and get through it.

Thank you, Cowboy Sex Angel. Thank you.