Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Conversations With The Incubator.

I had this conversation with The Incubator last night.

The Incubator:  Hi darling, how are you?  (That's weird, she never calls me 'darling'.  Must have realised that I am, after all, her favourite daughter.)

The Pant:  I'm okay thanks, Mom.  How are you?

TI:  Good.  Good.

TP:  Cool.  What you been up to?

TI:  Just been to book club (ah, the 'darling' bit makes sense.  The loved-up drunk phase.  I know it all too well.  Wait.  Does that mean my mom is dop n dialling me?  Weird.)

TP:  Oh nice.  Have a good time?  Pick up any nice books?

TI:  Pardon?

TP:  Pick up any nice books?

TI:  I'm sorry, I don't understand.

TP:  You were at book club.

TI:  Yes?

TP:  Did you pick up any nice books?

TI:  Huh?

TP:  Never mind.  Listen, Mom, I'm swamped with work.  I really must dash.

TI:  Okay, darling.  But before you do....

TP:  Yes?

TI:  What are you doing on voting day?

TP:  I'm still registered to vote in your area.  So I'll probably drive up some time on Wednesday morning.  But please don't try and get me to stay.  I've got a shitload of work to get through.

TI:  Oooooo.  There might be a small problem with that.

TP:  No, honestly.  As much as I'd like to sit on the verandah with you and drink wine until the tears spill, I really can't.

TI:  Do you have any idea how much I love you?

TP:  Yes.  I do.  I am also a mother.  I understand that mother/child love all too well.

TI:  Well, just as long as you know that I love you as much as you love The Daughter.

TP:  You can't possibly.  I remember what I was like as a teenager.

TI:  So do I.  And I still love you that much.

TP:  You're not going to launch into the "It's okay to be single" saga now, are you?

TI:  Not unless you want me to.

TP:  No thanks.  And thanks for all the love, Mom.  But I really have to go.

TI: (desperation in voice) Please will you stay on Wednesday?

TP:  Ah, Mom.

TI:  Please.

TP:  Don't do this to me.

TI:  Please.

TP:  Okay.

TI:  You're a wonderful child.

TP:  But no wine.

TI:  No wine, I promise.

TP:  Why do you want me to stay?

TI:  I love having you around.

TP:  Really?

TI:  Ja.  Can you stay tomorrow night too?

TP:  I really can't.  I know what it will be like on the eve of a public holiday.  You'll have The Beautician around and the wine will flow and the next thing you know, we'll be discussing gynaecological disorders until Dad, redder than beetroot, skulks off to bed to say the rosary 25 times.

TI:  Oh, Lord, no.  I can't drink with The Beautician the night before voting day.

TP:  It's okay, Mom.  You should be sober enough to vote by the mid-morning, if you're worried about all that "legally binding" stuff.

TI:  No, I've got to be at the polling station at 630.

TP:  Good Lord in Heaven, why?  Although, let me say this: don't even think of waking me up.

TI:  But I have to.

TP:  Why would you want to?  You know what I'm like at that ungodly hour.

TI:  It's just that I... um... had a wee lapse in judgment.

TP:  Yes?

TI:  Promise you won't be cross?

TP:  No.

TI:  I can't tell you unless you won't be cross.

TP:  Which one of my belongings have you indefinitely leant to one of your "friends"?  Please say it's not The Daughter.

(She gave my most beautiful winter coat away three seasons ago to a friend going to London.  A "friend" upon whom she has never clapped eyes again.  And my entire collection of cookbooks including a recently imported copy of Annabel Karmel because, "The Daughter and you don't look like you eat." But her most recent giveaway has to be her finest: The Daughter's hand-crafted wooden sleigh bed.  Unused.  I swear.  Brand spanking new. To a "friend".  Which has not been returned.)

TI:  I haven't given anything of yours away.

TP:  Are you sure?

TI:  Except, I may have leant a carguard your copy of Thoughts In A Makeshift Mortuary but I'll buy you a new one.

TP:  It's.  Out.  Of.  Print.  Mother.

TI:  How was I to know?

TP:  Look I've got to go-

TI:  I'll get it back.

TP:  You won't.  Anything else?

TI:  Yes.

TP:  What?

TI:  Promise you won't be cross?

TP:  No.

TI:  Then I can't tell you.

TP:  Just tell me.

TI:  I can't.

TP:  Tell me.

TI:  Promise you won't be cross?

TP:  Okay.  Fine.  I promise.

TI:  (long pause, probably digging deep for courage) I've offered your help to The DA on voting day.  You'll be volunteer working from 630 until 8.

TP: am?

TI:  pm.

TP:  You did WHAT?

TI:  They really need you.

TP:  Yes.  And I'll be giving them my vote.

TI:  Think of it is as serving your community.

TP:  It's not my effing community.

TI:  It's mine.

TP:  And so?

TI:  Don't you want the value of my house to go up?

TP:  Barbed question.  Refuse to answer.  I'm speechless.

TI:  I knew you'd help your old mom out.

TP:  Do I have a choice?

TI:  No.

TP:  Have another call coming through.  I'll call you back.  We're not done discussing this.

TI:  Oh, that's probably your team leader.  Arranging Wednesday with you.  I gave him your number.

TP:  My team WHAT? You gave him my WHAT?

TI:  Bye, darling.  Love you.

Click.

How does that saying go?  Is it 'Fuck my life'?  Yes.  I think it fits perfectly.

2 comments:

  1. And you still call her your mother?

    ReplyDelete
  2. This is definitely one of my best!!

    ReplyDelete