You look like shit."" It's the first thing my mother says Thanksgiving morning as I sleepily shuffle from my bed to the screened-in porch, where she has her coffee and first cigarette. I know it's where I'll find her, even in this pre-winter Chicago cold.
""Are you sick? Do you have a fever?""
These double-barreled questions are not the kinds of things I want to hear before 9:00 a.m. on what is supposed to be a relaxing weekend at home from college.
I rub sleep sand out of my eyes before rolling them. ""Why, do I look sick?""
""Your eyes look small.""
""Well, no shit, I just woke up.""
""Were you drinking last night?"" It's then that I realize this is becoming the kind of conversation where my mom asks the same question, ""Are you okay,"" in as many ways as possible. This is one of her favorite games, a mother's version of Ring of Death. She's always the one with the queen, the perpetual question master.
""Yes.""
""How do you feel right now?""
""Like I just threw up my breakfast, thank you very much.""
""Ashley...""
""What?""
""Nothing."" She pauses and sucks in her cigarette.
""Where did you go last night? What did you do?""
""Just went out with the girls for Leanne's birthday. Danced. It was nice.""
""How did you get home?""
""I don't remember, either Dad or Jenny's sister,"" I teased. ""Or maybe it was that guy I met with the funky breath, a China-shaped mole and a weird accent. I can't really say.""
""Are you serious?""
Totallllly.
I answer her by taking a giant swig out of my water bottle.
""Are you drinking too much at school?""
""Mom.""
""What about working out? Sleeping?""
Not nearly enough.
""Uh-huh.""
""Do you take vitamins?
Does birth control count? I decide it does not.
""No.""
""Why not?""
""I forget.""
""It's not hard to remember. Just integrate it into your routine.""
""Please st - ""
""What?"" She cuts me off.
""Stop-a."" Ew, my inner pre-teen has peeked out - I've started to add A's at the end of my words like a snobby valleygirl.
""Why are you so crabby?""
""I just W O K E up-A!"" I feel my blood boiling, and I decide that even though my mom's face looks like mine, I'd really like to kick hers right now.
""Are you on your period?""
""NO-A!""
Seriously, how does this woman know these private kinds of things? What, is she picking through my garbage can? Is she a Russian spy? Or is she just a nag?
I puff a sigh as she sucks on her cigarette.
""You're a raving beast right now, Mom."" Beast is my favorite word to describe my mother because it's not exactly derogatory, and it's kinder than the words my brother uses, like ""fucking bitch.""
""Shouldn't you be getting it right now? I feel like you're late.""
""No"" I assure her. "" I'm not.""
Are you having sex?""
Not nearly enough.
""Seriously Mom ... Seriously?""
""Are you pooping regu - ""
""Mom!""
"" - larly?""
The look on her face tells me even she knows she's gone too far. Sometimes my mother's worrying surpasses normality, and when she inquires about my sex life or my bowel movements, it's hard for me to remember how much care there is in that curve of a question mark.
""Will you help me make the green bean casserole and the mashed potatoes?""
I'm not sure how Mom can jump from inquiring about my poop to Thanksgiving dinner, but questions about food are the kind of thing I can handle.
""Sure. Let me just wash my face.""
""Do you want me to make you some coffee?"" She asks, standing up and drawing in her robe.
""Sure. That would be great.""
""Maybe that will help. I mean, you do really look like shit today.""
When I get out of the bathroom there's a cup of coffee waiting for me on the kitchen counter, its steam rising out of the mug. The coffee tastes bitter and it needs more milk, but it was carefully made and warms my cold, hungover insides. Standing in my kitchen with my mom in our matching robes, I can actually see with clarity the comfort of my own home.
""We don't have all day, Beeyatch. Can you hurry up?"" My mom throws a pan in my general direction, again, with care.
If you actually didn't have a disastrous weekend at home, e-mail aaspencer@wisc.edu.
