The top was down on her silver convertible and my mother waved at me as I got off the train. When I got into her car, I gave her a funny look. “What are you listening to?” I ask. She gives me THE LOOK. “It’s Britney Spears, I like it’ she says. As we drive through Geneva, I remark that there are a lot of weirdos in the area…lots of people dressed up in red white and blue. My husband is in the back seat, car watching. “Did you check out that Bently?” he asks.
I’m getting the feeling that I’m about to get called out. My stomach hurts. I anticipate that I’m grounded for life. I’m looking around at the massive trees and houses, listening to the wind breeze into my ears. My mom breaks the quiet and like a pillar of cool she says “So, I read your blog.”
“Yeah, so what did you think?” I ask.
“Well…it’s cute. [Cute???] I have to say, that story that you wrote about your dad and I dropping you off at Woodfield when you were 7-years old, well, we were pretty mad when we read that. I mean, Erin, we would never do anything like that! We were such the opposite. I know it was a joke, but I don’t want anyone to think we were bad parents. I also think your porfolio needs work. Everything was beautiful, but too many stacks of things like watches and shirts. You don’t want to be known as the ‘stack-stylist‘ … you’re better than that.”
“I’m working on it,” I say.
“Good, because, I’m watching,” she says.
“And stop writing about drinking booze all the time. You sound like a drunk”, she says.
“Oh, that’s just a joke,” my husband lied from the back seat.