Mom mourns 2pac

01/27/2010

Filed under: parents — Tags: , , , , , , , , — Angela @ 3:42 pm Last modified: January 28, 2010 

Today my car is finally done after months of false hopes and unprecedented anticipation. Around noon I meet mom at a local restaurant to grab lunch and exchange cars. I comment on her recent barrage of messages on facebook. “Oh ya,” she says shoveling her mouth full of steamed beets, “I’m getting braver.” It seems she can only digest small amounts of technology at a time.

“Well I see you learned how to write on my wall and comment on my status,” I say. “Ya! Did you see what I wrote about your speakers? That was so cute what that Curtis Montgomery said, calling me Mrs. Norlen and everything.”

Picture 18

“Ya, do you agree with them about my music? That you don’t like it?” I question.

She pauses to savor her salmon before setting down her fork. “I like that 2pac!” she says. I give her an odd look, “what?”

“Ya I listened to that link on your wall! He’s very good looking. He really is,” she pauses, nodding, “I didn’t think he needed to smoke, but he sings well…there’s no doubt about that.”

I laugh. She leans in across our tiny two-top and whispers, “Don’t write this down, but,” she says, her voice barely audible, “Is he dead?”

“Yes.” I confirm laughing. She instantly straightens herself and returns to her normal posture, “That’s what I thought,” she says sadly. She shakes her head as though she is speaking fondly of an old friend, “it’s too bad…I don’t like the swearing, but I liked 2pac.”

My Parents: The Epitome

10/14/2009

Filed under: parents — Tags: , , , , , , , — Angela @ 11:40 am Last modified: October 20, 2009 

When I first move to the cities, mom and dad drive me around in search of food. “I’d like to work at a place like Perkins,” I say, “They aren’t fancy and don’t serve alcohol.” As if by magic, mom instantly spots a Perkins and motions for dad to pull the van into the parking lot.

As we draw closer I realize it’s not even open yet. The lot is full of construction vans. “Oh, they’re closed. Let’ go!” I say, “I’m not going in there when they aren’t even open yet.”

Mom whips around to face me, “Oh yes you are Angela! This is the perfect time to sell yourself. Go in there and ask them when they are opening. Tell them you just moved down, you’d love to work for them and you have lots of experience.”

“I refuse to go up there, there’s not going to be anyone there besides the construction people,” I reason.

By this point dad decides he has to help me along and is out of the van pulling on the door and reaching for my hand. “Here, I’ll hold your hand and walk you to the door,” he says sarcastically. I glance up towards the restaurant where all the middle-aged workers are shooting us odd glances, “Get back in the car, you’re embarrassing!” I yell at dad. He finally concedes and I’m left with no choice but to march up to the front and attempt to apply.

I peer inside the windows and pull on the doors, which of course are locked, furthering my mortification. As I return to the van, mom and dad are beaming in the front seat. “Well it doesn’t hurt to try!” mom says straightening herself proudly in the front seat as dad tries to find his way out of the lot.

Mom and dad have no clue where we are going and drive aimlessly around the cities in search of Target. They are peering curiously at the giant, colored map of the twin cities before they suddenly realize they’ve been headed in the wrong direction for at least fifteen minutes. Dad’s patience is dwindling as mom tries to multitask, eating and giving him directions simultaneously. Her hands are piled with green grapes. “Did you wash those ?” I ask her.
“No, just wipe them on your shirt,” she says handing me a couple.

She’s popping them frantically into her mouth as she begins bobbing her head to the music. “Give me that,” dad says reaching for the map. “I think I’m going to like this song,” mom says putting on her sunglasses and stuffing a few more grapes into her mouth causing her to resemble a starved chipmunk. “It’s Get Money, Fuck Bitches,” I say laughing. She gasps in horror and changes the song.

Finally, we find a Target where I find myself constantly wandering astray. Mom yells at me for abandoning the cart, “Watch your cart! I’m not going back to refill it if someone takes it,” she warns. “Why would anyone take it?” I snap. Somehow we’ve managed to misplace dad and when we spot him strolling farther down the aisle mom begins whistling in attempted discretion, without success.

Dad notices and returns the catcall with one of his own. I am absolutely horrified. They resemble a couple of ducks during mating season- a fact that hasn’t managed to escape the amused stares of fellow customers.

The confused rents