Poor, Poor Pitiful Me

Another Mother's day.

Would someone please tell Nick that on Mother's day, it is conventional to honor not only your own mother dead or alive (dead in Nick's case), but also to recognize the mother of your own children??
Isn't it enough that we were at the mercy of his mother for her living years? This is the fourth Mother's Day since her departure, but she still rules the day. I know we are not supposed to speak ill of the dead but I'm typing, not talking; I think that makes it ok.

Anyone who needs a recap of the late great Madame G., please watch the first 2 seasons of The Sopranos and pay attention to Tony's mom, and yes, she really was that mean. If ever Nick was a sympathetic character, it would be in matters concerning his mother. Thats all I'm saying.

Mother's day whilst Madame G. was living:

The Martyr:
We show up. We are greeted by the matriarch thusly: "Oh, let's just forget it. It's too late now, I know you had to call your (my) mom. I know she's just so important to you... , we'll get together some other time, you can just go call your mom again and I'll just go and sit alone in my darkened house and hope that one of my other children will visit."

Then: "Oh, you brought me flowers, that's nice, but I really only like silk flowers because they don't shed, why don't you just take those back home with you?"
Next, cajoling and pleading by Nick, eventually garnering her grudging assent to be taken out, this leading into to the next practiced step: "No, No, I am not choosing the restaurant! You (me) pick the restaurant this year."
I fell into this trap once before and lived to regret it due to the astonishing scene which involved food being thrown, and NOT by the children. This ploy was designed to make me insist that, by happy coincidence, the shitty family style restaurant that she preferred was also my very favorite.

The Bully:
You could see the hostess literally flinch as we approached; she knew she was doomed. Madame G. was not a frequent guest, but she made a lasting impression. The last time we'd visited, the same hostess had been forced to re-seat us twice, then move the victimized party that ended up next to us. The hostess truly was doomed; wherever she tried to seat us was going to be a personal slight to Madame G, and she would dole out a taste of the wrath. The hostess would be accused of trying do hide us away in the back, or put us too close to the kitchen, or too close to the restroom, or too close to the window,etc., etc. After finally successfully seating us, she'd be off the hook until our departure, at which time any complimentary items such as mints or matchbooks would be shamelessly pocketed, and hopefully non-complimentary items would be somehow secured or placed out of easy reach. No matter if they weren't though, most of the staff would have stood there and let us take their first-born just to see us out the door.

The Beast:
The next victim would be the waitress. Nick would usually try to say something nice, inquiring politely if she had children of her own, how was it going working mothers day, and so on. Any response not directly relating to our upcoming food order would earn her a full on attack from Madame G., during which the waitress was told that we didn't need her life history in order for her to serve us lunch. Following this, I would usually excuse myself to the ladies room, try to locate our poor victim, slip her and extra $20 and tell her to hang in there. At least she wouldn't be spitting in my soup. Nick would try to keep Madame G. from making a complete scene, and attempt to quiet her down, particularly in the event that we were near a group that was anything but whitebread heterosexuals, otherwise the gender and racial insults would start flying.

Usually I'd return to the table to find her interrogating my children about whether mommy made herself throw up in the potty after she ate, and whether or not I was serving canned or frozen foods to her son (the throwing up thing was a bit confusing for H., as vomiting had become sort of a hobby for me during my pregnancy with N). Based upon the confused answers of a 3 year old, Madame G. concluded that I was bulimic, and told Nick that he shouldn't buy food for me, because I'd just waste it. Then she'd tell me that this wasn't Hollywood, and so why did I have to be so thin? THEN she'd tell me about Nick's beautiful ex, the model, and how she really did need to be that thin and, on and on and on.

Then the pork roast would come. There were two alternatives for the inevitable food complaint, usually requiring a visit from the manager. Complaint #1: It's dry, not enough gravy Complaint #2: To much gravy, probably trying to disguise poor quality or old meat. Either way she wasn't going to eat it (she was full after cleaning out the bread basket), didn't want to be charged full price because of complaint #1 or #2, and wanted to take it home with her, but she would pack it up herself, thank you very much.

Eventually she'd take great pains to point out to Nick that his wife (who happened to be standing next to him) was not doing a good job of keeping the baby's face clean, "oh could someone please clean off that baby's face, it is such a shame to have such a beautiful baby with a dirty face."

Then she'd wipe out the hostess stand, we'd drop her off, and blessedly, Mother's day would be over with.

So now she's gone. Nick still buys her flowers (new, not used; see Valentine's day/sloppy seconds post) and steals flowers from someone else's grave to bring home to me. Oh well, it beats pork roast served by a terrified waitress & discussion of my eating disorder. Still, coffee in bed or maybe a little tiny box of chocolates would be nice. Maybe next year; H. will be 7 and I can probably trust her to do the coffee thing with no scalds.