Missing Mom and 5 o'clock Hangovers

I’m fortunate. My mother is healthy, intelligent, funny – and not dead. We don’t live in the same state, so visits aren’t as frequent as I’d like. The pandemic has created the longest period of time between visits to date, but even before that, we only connected in person one or two times a year. Pulling out of the exhausting grind of daily life for even a long weekend seemed overwhelming. And mother? Well, she has a part-time job, beautiful plants, and a home she enjoys tending to, not to mention a full bridge schedule.

The last time we spent meaningful time together was January 2020, traipsing around Salt Lake City screening a few films during the Sundance Film Festival.

Prior to that, I can’t remember when we gave each other meaningful time and tended to our relationship. But, when we did, it always included at least one day of shopping and lunch.

Scottsdale, Kansas City, Denver, Salt Lake City, Las Vegas – all places Mom and I have lunched and shopped. Occasionally we felt strong enough to go for a dining two-fer. Shop, lunch, shop, dinner, shop. But, a typical mother-daughter shopping day doesn’t include dinner. We get tired.

Over many years and many outings, I’ve noticed two things that have remained consistent. One of us is guaranteed to arrive home with a matching article of clothing and a 5 o’clock hangover.

We never, ever, never set out to accomplish either of these things. Why would two strong-minded, quasi-vain, fiercely independent women want to buy matching anything? And, who likes a 5 o’clock hangover?

I blame Mother.

Shopping Day

10 AM

“Mom, you said you’d be ready. We want to get there when the mall opens. C’mon,” I beckon from the kitchen, ready to go.

“I’m coming!” she not quite yells from the bathroom as she makes one more pass with the curling iron.

I sneak to my bathroom and do the same.

Finally, we meet in the kitchen.

“You look cute,” we say in cheerful unison as we grab water bottles and hurriedly say goodbye to the men and boys in the house. We rush to the car like we’re late for a wedding.

11 AM

“Are you hungry yet?” Mom asks.

“We just started. No,” I say.

“Well, I need a Coke. Just to tide me over.”

We find a Coke, she takes a few sips, then tosses the rest.

1 PM

Waiting for a table, she says, “I’m starved.”

“Me, too,” I reply.

Once seated, we discuss what appeals to us on the menu and explore the possibility of splitting something. Which we never end up doing.

One of us says, “Get whatever you want, I’m buying. This is my treat.”

And then, without fail, Mother asks, “Are you having a glass of wine?”

And without fail, I say, “Yes.”

“I suppose I will too, then,” she says.

The meal is always delicious – we treat ourselves to nice restaurants – and we always have another glass of wine.

2:30 PM

Satiated and buzzed, we return to shopping with childlike enthusiasm and honesty.

Sitting in dressing rooms, wine goggles in full focus, we take turns trying on clothes and offering brutally frank and ridiculously manic opinions.

“No, no, no. Take that off. It’s not right. Look what it does to your rear-end. My God, that was horrible.”

“That’s adorable! You have to get it. It’s [classic/fun/cool]. You need the update. Maybe I should try it on. Do you think it would look good on me?”

Inevitably, something is just too cute for both of us not to purchase. We’ve ended up with matching sweaters, a dress, clogs, jean jackets, and too many shirts to count, always justifying it since we haven’t lived in the same state for over 20 years. We’ll never experience showing up somewhere in the same outfit. We’re so clever.

Except, it’s happened so many times when we’ve traveled together or visited one another that we’ve had to negotiate who’s going to wear the perfect sweater, or the dusty blue, suede clogs.

5 PM

With the buzz gone, strap marks in our forearms from carrying heavy shit neither one of us needed, fatigue and a headache setting in, we climb into the car.

“I could use a Coke,” Mom says. “I have a little headache.”

“Me too. We’ll hit a drive-through. I have Advil and Tylenol in my purse. Want some?”

*********

When we arrive home, we attempt a lackluster show and share of our purchases to Dad and my husband. They feign interest but notice duplicate items, exchanging not-so-subtle glances and grins.

Mom and I grab our goods and head to our respective rooms to change into pajamas, knowing it’s too early to go to bed but desperately wanting to.

We ignore Dad as he asks, “You girls want a glass of wine?”