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If all your friends jumped off a bridge…

March 22, 2010

My mother was big on tough questions. Ones like, “Well just because your friend did it, why does that mean you need to?” And, “Where is it written that Shelley’s mom’s rules and my rules have to be the same?” This is to say nothing of the semantics of “fair”…no more fraught word was ever spoken in my childhood home.

I worked around curfews and forbidden acquaintances, off-limits pool halls and against-the-Miller-law rides in cars with boys my parents didn’t know (or did know and had good reason to bar me from riding alongside). I faked phone numbers and addresses and party chaperon details. I thought I was a master deceiver, and yet, my mother’s favourite line remained, “I am not as dumb as you wish I was.” She didn’t even kid that I believed she was a fool.

Last Friday in Kitchener, I joined A., whom I’ve known since fifth grade, for dinner at a fairly swanky spot. Then, we finished the evening at a grungy pub , and I took a taxi back to my parents’ place shortly after midnight.

I stepped into the foyer, where I was greeted by my mom, bleary, in her nightgown.

I asked if she wanted me to go back outside and around to the backyard, then climb through the kitchen window in my clicky heeled boots like I’d forgotten my keys and been locked out, and then she could flip on the lights while I stood in the sink, weaving and nauseous, and pretending like this was a totally normal way to enter a home.
You know, for old time’s sake…
3 Comments leave one →
  1. foodandpassion permalink
    March 22, 2010 9:48 pm

    Hilarious! “and then she could flip on the lights while I stood in the sink, weaving and nauseous, and pretending like this was a totally normal way to enter a home.”

    My dad still comes from the living room to meet me in the front hall like he always has. It’s as if I have tripped some sort of booby trap that wakes him and guides him to the door in the wee small hours when I need to sneak into their house. I don’t think I was ever smooth enough to cover up the smoke, the alcohol on my breath, or the afterglow of a serious make-out sesh… but I still like to think I fooled them about a few things. Wishful.

    I am surprised the eyebrows didn’t make it to this post…

  2. March 23, 2010 4:41 pm

    So much flannel! What cuties.

    • welltailored permalink*
      March 24, 2010 10:38 am

      Oh my yes. Flannel. 1990 was a good year for fuzzy textiles, it’s true. Luckily, we’re sporting actual shorts/ pants, instead of some horrendous chopped-off army shorts/ longjohns combo…shudder..

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