Further proof of Mercury Retrograde:
Yesterday, my mother flew into New York to start her "Auntie Mame" weekend. She invited her two close friends from college, her cousins (1st, 2nd, and 3rd--all women), and her aunts. Indeed, I will basically be the only male present during this 3 day celebration.
My day started at 7 am, when I got a call from my great aunts stating that they still had yet to leave the train station in Lynchburg, Virginia. The train was running 4 hours late due to track problems in North Carolina. I check Amtrak's website and it said that the train was estimated to arrive at 4:10, instead of 2:33; optimistically, Amtrak thought it could make up that much of a delay.
When I go to the airport to meet my mother, I pass on this piece of news and her reaction is akin to "oh, what can you do." It would radically change as the day wore on.
First setback, her room at the hotel is not ready. So we drop off her bags and head off to lunch.
After lunch, we go back to the hotel and the room is ready. After unpacking, we call Amtrak. The train is now scheduled to arrive at 5:27. Mother gets a little peeved. She has the concierge check to make sure that is the case.
(A little sidenote here: Amtrak now has an automated "assistant" called "Julie" helping you over the phone. It's creepy, because "Julie" uses collaqialisms like: "and that's for today, right?" Freaked me out.)
Meanwhile, mother starts the first of several calling blitzes to reschedule the limo to pick up herself and her aunts from Penn Station to the hotel, as well as the limo taking her aunts, her cousins, and herself from the hotel to that night's restaurant and back.
Come 4:30, we get a taxi over to Penn Station, because by now, it's apparent that the train could come in at any time. We go over to the Customer Service office, and the train is now estimated to arrive at 5:40. Mother smiles widely at the agent. Oh boy, she's angry. You see, my mother is one of those people who when she receives bad news, she doesn't openly fly into a rage, but displays the exact opposite emotion. The wider she smiles, the more irked she is.
We sit down, and I have two beers. (Sunday is one of my drinking days.) After a leisurely jaunt across Penn Station to find an elusive seating area, we opt again to go back to the Customer Service office. A nice Irish lady informs us that the train's arrival is now 6:30! Mother smiles widely. The woman tells my mother "you keep smiling, dear." Oh, if she only knew.
Eventually finding a place to sit, Mother lets her hair down...figuratively, and says that she wished she hadn't planned this. I mention "Mercury Retrograde," and add that she didn't necessarily have to invite her aunts nor her cousins. (The original plan was basically for her old college friends and myself.) Alas, she admits that guilt got the better of her, so she invited her Regional Jet-phobic aunts.
Somehow, through some miracle, her aunts do appear via wheelchair. I have to say, the women in my family are hardcore. These two women have been through breast cancer, heart trouble, and all other sorts of maladies, and the travel chaos of the day strikes them as funny. (They had been up since 4 am.) Mother on the other hand is fit to be tied. Her irritation shows when she tries to tell the limo driver to "drive! You're going to get paid. Just drive!" I tell her to "breathe and relax.")
When they get to the hotel, I break to go back to my apartment, because frankly I'm stinky by this point. The group, however, is hellbent on going to dinner. This means that I have to dash down the apartment, change, and basically sprint down 10 blocks to get to the restaurant. I had probably smoked about 8 cigarettes during the sprint/walk down there to calm myself down. Hysteria is contagious.
The resturant is a Southern & Jamaican place in Chelsea. Go figure, it's busy with Chelsea boys and their Guyland* female friends. Into this mix comes our group, 4 full-figured black women, a 2 year old girl, and myself. The toddler is in her assert-my-independence stage and I am seated right next to her. So throughout the meal all the conversation is peppered with "YAAAAAH!" and "Noooo!" right in my ear. I asked my mother if she spiked my milk when I was that age. She smiled and said "no." Uh huh.
*"Guyland" = "Lawn Guyland" aka Long Island
I can honestly say that was one of the longest meals of my life. Made even longer by the fact that my appetite was already shot by lunch. Fortunately, the benefits of eating Chelsea, means that it's just a skip and a jump back home via Splash.
Oh yes, I needed Splash after that day. I do love my relatives, but that was just too much for me. It was now just about 10, and I find a nice seat downstairs, and order a beer. Around the time of the second beer, the PA starts barking "Mattttthew Ruuuush is in the house." Oh lord.
It becomes like a chant, "Matthew Rush, Matthew Rush, Matthew Rush." I think that I can withstand the curiosity factor. No, I'm not that strong. So I mosey on upstairs and indeed see Matthew Rush dancing his heart out for dollars.
I have to say, he has always struck me as being overly muscled onscreen, but in real life, he does look more proportionate. He certainly is quite the energetic dancer, and when he finishes his set he ends it with a kiss to the audience and a "I LOVE YOU GUYS!"
Things can only get more Lewis Carroll-esque for the next three weeks.
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