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am i adopted?

MOTHER, Prologue


"Your father plays Tetris much better when he's naked."

I am sitting in my parents' bedroom with my mother engaged in head-to-head combat with her new SuperNintendo version of Tetris 2. The game system and the game itself are both presents to my parents from my brothers and I. My parents' Nintendo had given out just a few days previous, and they were suffering from severe Tetris withdrawal.

I freeze in terror as my mother manages to destroy her last few blocks, edging me out of my Tetris crown.

She's quite the clever adversary.

"Good tactic, mom." I begin to reset the game.

"No, he really plays better naked. It's fascinating."

I drop the controller and flee in terror. She calls out after me, her throaty voice echoing down the hallway. "Come back! You have to play! I paid for your education!"
.....

I would like to say that these stories are pure fiction, but even the SlackMistress herself isn't clever enough to pull stories like this from the ether.

I should probably preface this with saying I love my parents, I really do.

(And thank god they can't demand a refund on my education.)

MOTHER, Part One

My father throws a annual Christmas lunch at a prominent Italian restaurant in Chicago. It's a seemingly dressy affair, attended by fellow lawyers and clients of my father. Meaning, the lovely SlackMistress has to smile and keep her mouth shut a lot.

Of course, this always makes my father slightly nervous.

My mother threw open the blinds in my room.

"Your father's lunch is today."

I rolled over in bed under the mountain of covers. "What time is it?"

"Nine," my mother answered as she began picking through the contents of my suitcase. "So you better start getting ready."

MOTHER, Part Two

My boss is having an elegant, black-tie required engagement dinner at the end of January. Of course, this means the SlackMistress needs to go out and purchase the required uniform: a gown. Now the SlackMistress hates to shop as a rule, and buying a gown is all the more painful.

We stroll into the Lord and Taylor outlet confident that we'll stroll back out with a purchase in our greedy little hands. This is one thing I have to give my mother credit for: she knows where to buy good stuff, cheap. We head to the back of the store and begin the easy part of the process: picking out gowns to try on. My mother starts at the beginning of the row.

After turning down three or four gowns, I can see we're locked in a battle of wills. I have said the dinner is black-tie required. I think this to be elegant, reminiscent of the charity galas I've seen photographed in Town & Country magazine (which my mother finally stopped subscribing to because she was sick of me asking, month after month, looking at the glossy WASP-y families, "are you sure these aren't my real parents?") My mother's impression of black-tie was stuck somewhere between mother-of-the-groom dresses and "Dynasty." Being neither Alexis Carrington nor a 50-year-old woman, you can only imagine the arguments that ensued.

But finally! We have our loot and parade into the communal dressing room. Women in varying stages of undress speaking at least four different language. I rip off my clothes and my mother begins to unzip gowns. The ones that fit are ugly. The ones that don't I attempt to shrug off as quickly as possible.

However, mom won't give up the battle that easily.

"C'mon...c'mon..."

She tugs at the fabric of the dress. Suddenly, a woman half-clad in a Liz Claiborne suit comes over to assist. "That's it honey! Tug here, it'll make it!" Another woman in bra and panties looks at me disdainfully and says to my mother and the Good Samaritan:

"You'll never fit that dress over her ass."

Suddenly the dressing room is split into two factions: The Dress Will Fit and You've Got To Be Joking. Discussions are being had of juice fasts and tomato soup diets, non-surgical liposuction and girdles. I mumble something about going to the gym and eating healthy before the big event. With one statement I've united the crowd: this will never happen.

I slink out of the dressing room, cloaked in shame. My mother, however, has emerged victorious. She has managed not only to embarrass her daughter publicly but managed to look the sympathetic parents whilst doing it. She exits the dressing room with a slap on the back and a few nice words about putting up with her daughter's "moods."

We did manage to find a gown a few hours later. I actually like it. My mother's already promised me full access to her Dynasty-like collection of large gold earrings.

Oh, goody.