The Other Side of the Mirror

Mommie Dearest:

Just had a charter leave with about 150pp on it, all of whom wanted to be the first one on.  Reminded me of when we used to have season tickets for Starlight, and you would have us move up to the far reaches during the last 10-15 minutes of the show, so that we could be the first one to our cars and not get caught in traffic.  My dad used to do the same thing at the movies, only he also hated previews too, so inevitably we'd miss the first few and the last few minutes.  Is that why now I usually stay through most of the credits?

Nuv nu,

    ~ Your darling daughter

Mommie Dearest:

Went to the movies today -- saw ACCEPTED (which I loved) and LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE (which I thought was great).  I think you would probably not have seen either of them, but maybe LMS.

I remember going to the Santee Village 8 all the time with you, and you parking as far away from the theatre as possible, just to get the shady spot. I could not understand the wisdom of this -- it was 100 degrees out, so to me you'd want to park as close to the air-conditioned theatre as possible.  Plus in the two+ hours we'd be in there, the shady spot would have become the no-longer-shady spot, and any perceived gain by parking there (keeping the car cooler, preventing your dash from cracking, etc) would quickly become moot.  But you would nonetheless park in the far corner of the lot if need be, to catch the fleeting shade of a spindly ficus.

I still don't get it.

Nuv nu,

     ~ Your darling daughter

Mommie Dearest:

I know you always thought I treated my friends better than I did you, and you're probably right overall.  I have explained that they can't push those same 'Mom' buttons that you push, but I don't know how much you buy that.  Sincerely, though: A friend could say "Do you have plans this weekend?" and you could say "Do you have plans this weekend?"  and by sheer proxy that you are my mother, I would have a completely different reaction to your question than theirs.  Unfair?  Yes.  Real?  Yes.

Having said all that, I just remembered one specific time I treated you better than I did a friend: STARGATE.  You wanted to see STARGATE, and I had plans to see it the next day with Linda.  I did not want to make you pick something else, because I know you won't go to the theatre by yourself, and I know your movie-buddies like different movies than you, so I'm usually your bet for sci-fi, horror or action movies.  So I went to see it with you, and then saw it again the next day.  Or rather, I slept through it the next day.  Literally.  It was not that good of a movie.

Nuv nu,

     ~ Your darling daughter

Mommie Dearest:

Got your voicemail message.  No, I have not picked out my colors yet.  I probably won't til January.

Picking out my colors, coming from you, reminds me of having your colors done.  That's why I still wear silver and you still wear gold... because I am a Summer and you are a Winter.  You took me to have my makeup colors done for my fourteenth birthday, and then we went to lunch at Benihana.  I love the picture of the two of us there -- so happy.

Nuv nu,

    ~Your darling daughter

Mommie Dearest,

Is this what you thought your life would be like?  I mean, when you were president of your sorority and dating the captain of the football team, did you think you would wind up where you are now?

I worry that we are both examples of wasted potential.  I suspect that you had more in you, or greater expectations of you, than you lived to fulfill.  I know I did.  It's not so much that I regret my choices, as much as I wish I had not give up so easily.  Do you feel that way too?

Grandma used to tell the story about how you were almost a brand new red convertible: Her obstetrician was having difficulty conceiving with his wife, and since this was the early 40s, in vitro was yet to be en vogue.  The running gag became that since Grandma had two kids already, she didn't really need a third, and the doctor had a brand new red convertible sportscar that he was willing to 'trade' for you.  Nudge, wink.  Cut to you being born, and coming out all perfect looking, with perfect half-moon eyebrows, and suddenly the 'joke' became a little more real for the man.  Grandma never made the trade, but this set up a standard of you being 'perfect' from birth.

I used to joke that you had no good stories -- we all have stories of gettng in trouble when we were growing up, and you had none.  Correction: You had three, and one of them was not even your story -- it was your brothers (you were just accessory to the crime). But again, perfect.  Perfect child, perfect teen... when did you become 'imperfect'?  I believe it was when I was conceived -- it could be chalked up to when you met my dad, but I believe that you could have escaped him had you not become pregnant.  This is not to cry 'woe is me' in any way, but rather to look objectively at what I know of your life and to rationally identify (or attempt to defy) the moment or moments when the You That You Were changed course and headed off toward becoming the You That You Are.

Would you agree?

Nuv nu,

    ~Your darling daughter

Mommie Dearest:

I used to HATE it when you'd make me wave the wrong way in the car.  I was mortified.  But you thought it was the funniest thing, so I just went along.  Then, when I was in college (or just beyond), I told someone about this trick.  "She would pull us up alongside the carload of people we knew, then she would honk, and then wave in the opposite direction.  So when the people looked, we were waving away from them."  I think I laughed when I told them, in large part because I thought it was dumb, but then they would crack up, and I would crack up, and now I love that trick. 

Guess I just needed to see it through someone else's eyes.

Nuv nu,

     ~ Your darling daughter

Mommie Dearest,

I'm glad you got the Mother's Day present -- I'm sorry I'm such a bad daughter that it took me three full months to get it to you.  I know I told you I am sorry over the phone, and apologized for being such a bad daughter, but you didn't say anything in response, which leads me to believe you believe I am a bad daughter.  I guess I deserve it -- I have to assume that however much that lack of response hurt me, you must be more hurt that you have such an ungrateful child.

I guess you still love me a little, though, since you offered to help pay for the wedding.  I understand that you don't want there to be alcohol, since you don't drink -- I wish I could make you understand that wanting an open bar for our wedding does not make us bad people, nor do we have a bunch of lush friends.  I hope that it clicked when I told you that wedding-ettiquite books said it is rude to make guests pay for their drinks.  I don't know what else to do.  I wish we did not need the financial assistance on the wedding, so that I could refuse the offer, but we do need it, so I guess that means we have to suck it up and honor the stipulations that come along with the money.  Beggars can't be choosers, grandma always said.

Do you think I'm a bad daughter because I live so far away?  Because I don't visit so often?  Or just because I've been so bad about cards & presents lately?

Nuv nu,

     ~ Your darling daughter