August 1, 2008

I hung up the phone with my mother and wondered for the millionth time why it was that I bothered trying to talk to her at all. I had only been on the phone with her for about 30 seconds when she went off, yet again, on one of her favorite subjects: Vivian’s lack of a husband—oh, what a horrible waste. She is forever pestering me about getting married.

“You know, Vivian, no man wants an old maid. Have you seen a calendar lately? You’re already 29! Just how long do you think your looks are going to last, huh? And without your looks, how do you suppose you’re going to get a man?” she sniped. “You know, when I was your age, I’d already been married for 10 years! I had everything: three kids, a house...”

“And five gin and tonics to get you through each day,” I thought bitterly, as I tuned her out.

Why does she have to keep harping on me all the time about getting married? It’s so frustrating. It really irks me that my own mother can’t see that I have more value than just my looks. It doesn’t seem to matter to her who I marry, either, just as long as I do it. What are her criteria exactly? Is he male? Does he have a pulse? Yes and yes? Well, hot damn, let’s get this girl married off! It’s no wonder she’s been married 4 times.

The sad part is that I really would like to have a relationship and be married someday, but it’s not like I could ever admit that to her because that would only make her increase the pressure on me. So, I continue to pretend I’m not interested in marriage, and she continues to drive me up a wall.

It’s so hard to relate to my mother, but I try to tolerate her from a distance because she’s the only mother I’ve got, as I’m so often reminded by my relatives. I bet if they knew the real woman behind the facade, they wouldn’t be so quick to criticize me for not visiting her more often. They wouldn’t want to be around her either.

I should call Sonia and get out for a while.

“Hey, chica. I need to decompress after yet another wonderful phone conversation with Lois. I swear, if they ever make a Mommy Dearest 2, I’ve got their leading lady.”

I heard Sonia laugh, and I asked, “How about some margaritas at the cantina tonight?”

“Absolutely!” she replied. “I could use an escape. Paul’s been making me nuts trying to pick a paint color for the kitchen. Honestly, I can’t tell the difference between ‘mocha cream’ and ‘cafe au lait’ anyway. They’re both just brown to me.”

I heard Paul gasp in the background, feigning indignity.

“You know, you really don’t have a flair for details, Sonia.” I teased.

“That’s an understatement!” she laughed. “I probably wouldn’t even notice if the kitchen didn’t have walls, let alone what color they are.”

“Yeah, and I can’t claim to understand you.” I said jokingly.

I’m a freak about details, or so I’ve been told. I notice if a picture is hanging slightly off center or if books aren’t lined up straight on a bookshelf. I guess that’s part of what makes me a good graphic designer: my attention to detail. I think I’ve finally gotten over my perfectionism, too—well, for the most part anyway.

I used to get so caught up in the small details like a line of text being off by a smidgeon or an image not popping off the page just how I wanted it to that I’d spend hours at work after everyone else had gone home, trying to get my layouts exactly how I wanted them to be. My clients always appreciated my level of commitment to their projects, and since I couldn’t see billing them for my anality, they got a pretty good deal, too.

Now that I’ve decided to let some of that control go, I know that the world won’t explode if I don’t get things “just so”. And maybe now I’ll have time to have a life.

After I hung up with Sonia, I showered, got dressed, did my makeup and hair (ugh, I really need a haircut), and headed off to the cantina to meet her.

I was driving along 3rd Street when I saw a mouse suddenly dart out in front of my car. Without even thinking, I slammed on my brakes to avoid hitting him, and before I knew what was happening, the car behind me smashed into me.

My neck snapped forward, and my forehead hit the steering wheel. I didn’t hit it very hard, but it was hard enough to hurt.

I looked up to see if I’d run over the mouse, and I saw that my mouse had actually been just a leaf that was blowing across the road.

“Great.” I thought.

I shook my head a bit and tried to catch my breath. I was shaking when I got out of the car.

“Are you ok?” I asked the man who was getting out of his car behind me. The front end of his car was dented in, and my rear bumper was laying in the street between us.

Even with the pain in my head, I couldn’t help but notice how good-looking he was. He had to be at least 6 foot 2, and he had wavy dark brown hair.

As he approached me, I saw he had the prettiest teal-blue eyes I’d ever seen. Like the ocean in the tropics, they were almost an unreal color. I couldn’t look away.

That is, until he opened his mouth.

“What the hell did you slam on your brakes for?” he yelled. “Were you trying to kill me?”

“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I thought I saw a mouse run out into the street, and I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“Oh, but it’s ok to hurt me? What’s your problem, lady?” he snapped.

This guy was really catching me off guard; I didn’t expect him to be so angry. It wasn’t that serious of an accident. But when he kept pushing, I couldn’t help but push back.

“Well, what were you doing so close to my bumper anyway? If you weren’t so close, you could have stopped without trying to sit in my trunk!” I snapped at him.

Before I could even finish my sentence, he was dialing his cell phone to call the police. I went back and sat in my car until an officer showed up to take a report.

After we each told the officer our version of what had happened and she had taken down all of our personal information, she gave each of us a copy of the report. She told us that since she was feeling generous that day and the damage to each of our cars wasn’t that bad, she would let both of us go without issuing any tickets. At least that was one less thing to worry about.

I grabbed my bumper off the ground and threw it in my back seat.

I drove over to the cantina to meet Sonia, and when I walked in, I was relieved to see that she was already there, sitting at a booth near the window in an empty part of the bar. I was glad for the isolation because then I could complain freely about the guy who’d rear-ended me. There was no need for anyone else to hear what I had to say.

Sonia smiled when she noticed me walking in, and she waved me over. I smiled back as I realized how grateful I was that I had such a good friend to talk to about the day I’d had.