Backhanded Birthday Wishes

Aug 11

Backhanded Birthday Wishes

I recently turned 27 years old and got a giant card in the mail from my mom — it seems the older she gets, the larger the cards get. By the time she’s 70 I’ll get well wishes sky written across Seattle (if she knew how to book something like that). She called and left a happy birthday message, and I called her back for the standard somewhat-awkward-slash-amusing phone conversation.

Mom: “Hi bay-beeeeeee! Happy birth-dayyyyyyy!” (Oh good, she clearly was in Pleasant Mom mood. I can immediately tell when she’s in Angry Mom mood just by how she greets me on the phone — more on that in a later post.)

Me: “Thanks!”

Mom: “You going dinner tonight?”

Me: “Actually, Jason’s making dinner tonight. We went out last night.”

Mom: “Where you go last night?”

I struggled for an explanation. We had gone to a restaurant called Poppy, a sort-of Indian/tapas hybrid restaurant that serves up compartmentalized bites called thalis. All of this would be entirely lost in translation, so I hesitated and said, “It’s kind of like a tapas restaurant.”

Mom (shocked): “”Topless?!”

Me: “No, tapas…”

Silence.

Me: “It’s like small bites of food…”

Nothing.

Me: “Uh, little plates of food you eat… Anywayhowareyoudoing?” (Always try to deflect the conversation when talking to Mom. You gotta go into shark mode — keep moving around different topics in order to escape her vortex of scrutiny.)

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Me: “You can see how much weight I’ve lost so you can’t call me fat like you did last year.” (True story reserved for another post.)

Mom (indignantly): “I didn’t say you were fat!”

Me: “Yes you did!”

Mom: “No, I didn’t say you were FAT, I said you were BIG.”

Me: “You said I was chunky.”

Mom: “Yeah. Yeah, I didn’t say fat, I said chunky.” Oh, right, that’s much better.

Eventually, the call began to wind down and she once again said, “Happy birth-dayyyyy! Hope you have nice day!”

Me: “Thanks. Hey, wait, do you know how old I am today?”

Mom (very confidently): “Twen-tee-six!”

Me, pondering how many mothers don’t remember how old their own children are: “No, I’m 27.”

Mom (incredulous): “TWEN-TEE SEH-VEN! Whaaaat? I thought you twen-tee six! You old!”

Me to myself: “F*ck my life.”

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