It’s no secret I have a few issues with my mom. Namely, that she doesn’t call, return my calls, or participate much in my son’s life. Not that she doesn’t want to, that’s the thing; she does, but she is so overwhelmed by her own stuff that she can’t always see past it (and yes, I am watching In Treatment, why do you ask?)

So Mother’s Day is approaching, and for once, I owe her a phone call. I have to call, but am disfunctionally not wanting to. But I think about it every day, and every day that passes, the angst grows a little more.

Talking about it here is going to make me go pick up the phone.

Will do it today.

And meanwhile, I want a fancy muffin for Mother’s Day. Maybe a nap and a high-end beer. I’m easy.

My mom called me back! See here for the backstory.

And I DEFINITELY look better now, btw.Yikes, those eyebrows!

So perhaps I have not made much of it here, or perhaps I have made too much, but the thing is, my mom is not the usual mom. I’ll spare the melodrama of my childhood, but suffice it to say, being a mom was never high on her to-do list.

But now I am 44 years old, and a mom in my own right, and she and my son have this great relationship, which is awesome. The only problem is, she doesn’t call. Nor does she call me back.

Often, I will call, leave a message, and get some sort of reply from her weeks later. It’s frustrating, because I’d like to just say to hell with her, and make her make the first move, only I know she won’t, and it’s not like I’m actively mad at her (got over that awhile ago). Plus, my son likes her, and I don’t want to sever that cord.

So I persevere, calling her, letting her know the weather is warming up so she can visit, telling her there are hotel bargains in Brooklyn if she doesn’t want to stay with us. Still no reply. But really, how hard is it to call your only child back? (Never mind she can’t remember how old I am. Drives me batty).

Apparently it is quite hard.

I went to pick the Son up from school. By then, the snow had turned to a sleeting, icy rain. Not festive at all. Anyhoo, we decided to wait for the bus, which never came, so we walked the 14 blocks back home.

When we finally got home–an hour after school had let out–we were both drenched. So now, before all of you, I must confess. I am wearing:

Purple fuzzy Hello Kitty lounge pants. With sparkle thread.

A thin black silk undershirt.

A pink Old Navy cardigan

A cardinal red Brooklyn sweatshirt.

I definitely look like a Technicolor Yawn. Or my mom, going out for a special night on the town.

The debate is on for tonight. I have become my parents, all psyched to watch. When did I become concerned about anything but making sure I had enough black skirts? And Kiehl’s Silk Groom for Hair?

My mom told me the other day one way I could have really hurt her is if I never voted. Wish I had known that before.  I always have voted, darn it.

More Risky fun later, due to some guerilla paint disposal, I am running late today.

Tomorrow, the Spouse the Nine Year-Old and I will be headed to the Jersey Shore for a week. Posting here will be sporadic, at best. So–to keep you occupied while I am away, how’s about you let me know what you’d like to talk about here? Or not talk about (yes, I know I am obsessive about Clive. I can cut down, honestly I can! No. I can’t. I am too far gone).

In writing news, my agent sent out That Subtle Knot and expects to get feedback in a couple of weeks, give or take a few nail-biting hours. I am more than halfway done with the super-sexy novella, and On Bold Adventure (aka Richard Sharpe Settles Down, At Last)is burning a hole in my brain, so that will be September’s project.

I have no Life News, except to report that my mom–The Queen of Flakes–actually remembered to call me on my birthday, although she did not remember precisely how old I was.  One step at a time, right?

I am in the land o’ the lakes, basking in the no-nonsense love of my relatives (”We like you. You’re one of our favorite relatives. It’s hard to believe you’re so normal, given your mom.” Which is better than what some of her other siblings say, such as “I can’t believe Abby’s still alive.” (my mom doesn’t take great care of herself.))

My son is out power-washing the deck with my uncle. How much more suburban does it get?

I am contemplating getting to bed not too late and having time to write my synopsis, which a new kick-ass friend just bitched me out about (”Wait. So you’re holding your career up writing this other thing because you don’t want to write a synopsis?” “Uh. Yeah, I guess so.” “You know how dumb that is, right?” “Uh. Yeah, I guess so.” Notice what a sparkling reply I give.).

Then onto something resembling a career, right?

After some sleep. And, perhaps, a little Cherry Garcia frozen yogurt.

So my mom is visiting (going really well, actually, a total surprise for anyone who has ever met her, met me, heard of her, or ventured here. So yay), and I know she likes suspense drama. A ha! I thought, we can watch MI-5!

BBC America no longer has them on demand. WAAAAHHHHH!

So what do I do now?!? I am SO not watching Robin Hood. My mom would add to the excruciating pain by being a mom, and asking, “Who’s that? Why is that person there? What did he say?” I can’t wait until I reach that level of baffled cluelessness.

And the Synopsis Of Doom is haunting me.
And I have a great Che Guevara t-shirt story, only it’s too hard and complicated for me to write down. So you can’t stand in awe of my quick wit.
But I got a huge weight-on-shoulders project mostly done today, so that is good.

All in all, I guess things are okay.

So Mom called today, very apologetic that she hadn’t called me back. And honestly, I believe she was–she is just kinda clueless, sometimes, and we both know she wasn’t crazy about being a mom, but she likes me okay.

And here is some fun with our new scanner:

This was taken close to twenty years ago. I used to wear contact lenses and very, very dark lipstick. I still wear silver hoop earrings a lot, but my eyebrows aren’t quite as heavy-handed, I don’t think.

Anyway, my mom and I look a lot alike, don’t you think?

This is the message I left for my mom today:

Hey, Ma, it’s Megan. Did you know that all across America mothers are weeping because their children don’t call? But I called you six days ago, and you still haven’t called me back. So, um, happy freaking late Mother’s Day and all, Mom. I hope you’re doing all right. Call me when you can.

Too harsh? Not harsh enough? You’d think I would get used to her laissez-Megan attitude, but it still smarts. I know she’s not dead, because I made her boyfriend promise to call me if anything happened to her.