We started the evening at a nice sushi restaurant and after a glass and a half of wine, my mother entered Tipsy Land where one’s VOICE DECIBELS ARE RAISED TO AN ANNOYING LEVEL. Tim asked the waiter about the difference between two tuna pieces and the waiter began to describe them, one piece as being cut from the fatty belly of the tuna which gives it more flavor. Immediately, my mother quiped, “WHY WOULD WE WANT IT TO BE FROM THE FATTY BELLY?! WE DON’T WANT FAT BELLIES?!!” The waiter didn’t get it. He didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do. Tim certainly didn’t know what to do. And instead of laughing/waving the awkward moment off, she began to talk about it more. I believe she even grabbed her gut and spoke of Buddha.
Our last Maki roll of the evening had a bit of a fishy taste to it, most likely the seaweed. Margaret’s face scrunched up as she was chewing and she turned bright red. I was scared she was going to show us her food like she loves to do with mashed potatoes or even worse spit it out on the table. She managed to get the sushi down, but afterward she began to talk about how it tasted like rotting fish heads. And because talking about it isn’t good enough for Margaret, she broke into song “Fish Heads, Fish Heads! Rolly, Polly Fish Heads!” Again, the decibel level is priceless.
After sushi, we strolled over to another bar across the street. It’s only around 9pm at this point, so the bar is fairly empty. We grabbed a seat in the back corner (Thanks, Tim!), but it didn’t help completely. We looked around to see if there was a waitress or if we should go up to the bar to get our drinks. The bartender was clearing some tables and as my mother lit her cigarette with elbows atop spread knees, she shouted, “OH, SHE’LL COME OVER!” to which the bartender tersely replied from across the room, “I’m sorry, but I’m not waiting tables tonight.” Unaffected, Margaret then strolled up to the bar to get some drinks. She requested Bailey’s and coffee, but to no avail. Instead she got WHISKEY because, you know, that makes sense.
For the next two hours, she talked and talked and talked. She talked about camping, she talked about drugs, she talked about getting drunk, she talked about death and life and never throwing anything away, she talked about her new kitchen cabinets; she talked about giving herself plumbers crack while she tried to fix a pipe installing the new kitchen sink.
Sadly, though, not once did the woman ask Tim anything about himself. Not once did she include us in her conversation. I love her like no other, but the only thing Tim could say about her was, “She really likes the spotlight, huh?”
