Mother Issues

Didn't happen.

That's the long and the short of it. After double-checking the website for the ITC Triathlon I was supposed to do on Saturday and confirming that it was indeed a rain or shine event, and in the face of certain fallout from Hurrican Ivan, I got myself up to Westchester, woke up at the ungodly hour of 6:30 in the morning ON A SATURDAY! and drove down to Mount Olive, New Jersey with my brother, only to discover that... yup... it was cancelled.

See, rain or shine only refers to a certain amount of rain, beyond which, they will call the event on account of weather. Would have been nice to know before we made the hour and a half trip down there, and more than two hours trip back (lots of flooding, and many detours...).

Grrr.

So I went back to my mom's, worked on my latest quilt, and enjoyed an always lovely conversation with the aforementioned parental unit on my weight. Delicious. Brought up, I should mention, while we were eating lunch.

Wherein, just in case you were curious, my abilty to complete a triathlon in no way assuages her fears that I will keel over and die from a heart attack or diabetes because I'm fat. Forget healthy. Apparently, that doesn't matter. Nope -- it's all about appearances.

Her: "I was looking at pictures of you from Patty's wedding. You looked so pretty. You went on a diet for that, didn't you?"

Me: "mwamhufm" (eating sandwich)

Her: "Is there any way I can bribe you to go on a diet?"

Me: staring out the window at a squirrel, who doesn't have to worry about his mother telling him he's too fat. No, little squirrel mom encourages him to eat!

Her: "You know you're the prettiest of my daughters. You have the prettiest face."

Compliments aside, what a giant pain. And I can't now go on a diet, like I was considering, because she'll just take it as a victory, and god knows I can't have that.

Plus, and this is just too good not to mention, when I casually mentioned Wicca in a conversation (looking at my calendar, trying to figure out when one of their holidays is), she wondered aloud, "What's going on with you?" (In the same tone in which mothers of Death Row inmates are prone to wonder, "Where did I go wrong?")

Like I'm some fat Satan-worshipping giant disappointment to her. Super.