Nashville Trashville - Chapter 3 by Mary Wakeford |
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
Brunhilda, my bitchy inner voice, is of the opinion that trips with one's adult children sound better than reality--excessive partying, drinking, lack of sleep, and finding out things you really don't want to know about your kids can spell disaster. It becomes a lose-lose adventure when you eventually have to pull out the mom hat and become the last line of reason, otherwise referred to as b.i.t.c.h. When I was asked by my daughter to tag along on a weekend trip to Nashville for a friend's wedding one January, I jumped at the offer and opportunity to visit a little town named McEwen where I spent one summer forty years earlier as a crappy housekeeper for my uncle, a newly installed priest at St. Patrick's. My son joined us at the last minute for the Nashville party of three. Oh boy! I should have listened to Brunhilda. <><><>
Witnessing my daughter, clad in stilettos and a short dress balance red wine as it whipped rim to rim in a long-stemmed goblet was nothing short of inspiring. Its frenzied circling took me back to Eric Heiden speed skating in the 1980 Winter Olympics--round and around and around and around. Brunhilda snarled that it didn't end so well for Eric, and wasn't looking that great for the potential tattoo-aholic swaying before us either. I conceded as I fired off a second frenzied S.O.S. to her brother for an A.S.A.P pickup as the energy bar on my cell phone took a dive to 6%. Time and available battery were of the essence. In trying to get my daughter to focus on where she left her brand spanking new $200.00 jacket of five hours, and camera/purse case containing both of our ID's required for our flight home the following evening, my tattooed drunkie was approached by a group of funsters including the hunk-a-licious Pancake Pantry Four, inviting her to join their after-party on Printers Alley. Brunhilda thought the reference to Printers Alley uncanny, considering the big reveal of her torso tattoo the night before. Fear ran through my veins as Brunhilda screamed "THAT'S IT---IT'S TIME TO PULL THE MOM CARD, GRAB HER AND TELL THEM SHE CAN'T PLAY ANY LONGER--SHE HAS TO GO HOME AND CLEAN HER ROOM!!!" I reminded Bruni she was nearly twenty-three years old; her room was sixteen hundred miles away, then scanned the group for the slightest indicator of a potential rapist. <><><>
As my daughter continued to jostle the wine along with the wedding keepsake mementos after nearly decimating the display table with a partly executed involuntary somersault akin to a pole vault maneuver while wearing a mini-skirt, I introduced my daughter to the bride's aunt, a lovely southern woman observant who had observed her near take down of the wedding favor table and impending shit show. The woman was gifted with the perception of identifying an imploding wine-out when she saw one in the making. Following my introduction, which conjured up another of my daughter's shit eating grins--this time a tad lopsided, the woman erupted with a faux southern coughing fit. Between an acute onset of fake coughing, she asked my daughter if she could have a sip of her wine to quiet her scratchy throat. My happy drunkie responded with "Of courrrse, herrre yuuuu goooo" while precariously relinquishing the vessel of whirling crimson. My daughter has always been an excellent sharer. I was relieved this share didn't end up all over the front of my new friend's sequined blouse. Ms. Southern Comfort graciously thanked my daughter as she accepted the slopping baton, told her what a beauty she was, then with a tilt of her head proceeded to drain the stupid juice in one swift yet classy swig, completely draining the vat of joy before handing the empty goblet back to my daughter, now staring somewhat bewildered at the extent of her share. Brunhilda thought the move was "Fooooooking GENIUS" on the part of the auntie and wished she'd thought of it first. Pleas for my daughter to forego the extended party invitation and return to the hotel with me, using our early wake-up call for our McEwen trip as impetus, fell on deaf and drunk ears. It was obvious the tatt'd hot mess wobbling before me had every intention of taking the party to the next level. Following my FBI equivalent survey, I was assured my daughter would be in good hands with the group. I hoped none of the hands were of the marauding type. Once outside the high-rise, my daughter waved goodbye and wobbled across the intersection for the short walk to Printers Alley with the group. At one point she stumbled on a tar bubble, but recovered quickly. No doubt her four year/three sport high school and college varsity athleticism saved her the second time that evening. I summoned Jesus, Mary and Joseph, and all the angels and the saints to keep my daughter safe as I waited for my ride outside the Lowe's building, while swearing under my breath to never travel with my kids again. Brunhilda hoped we weren't raped while waiting alone outside in the wee hours. I told her to shut the fooooook up, I had enough to worry about without adding more to my plate, then began rotating in circles to avoid anybody with nefarious thoughts taking me and Bruni unawares. <><><>
It seemed like an eternity, but my son finally rolled up in the rented beater. I crawled into the front seat with half frozen bones, bitched about the cold; his delay in collecting me and the lousy beater-heater, as I filled him in on the whereabouts of his sister. He responded with, "Mom, you let her leave drunk with a bunch of strangers????" I snapped my seatbelt into lockdown with the realization 2011 would mark yet another year I'd be denied a Mom of the Year award. Brunhilda suggested this could be my worst mom year yet, considering it was only January. My mom card took a second hit as we peeled out from the curb. I informed my son I couldn't go bar hopping with him as planned because I needed to get back to the hotel and charge my phone so I could keep tabs on his sister, and be available if she needed me. His disappointment was palpable. The 'plan' for both of us to hang out with him following the reception had been torpedoe'd when little sister changed up the blueprint without his consent, or blessing. Now I was bailing because of her and my dead battery. He dropped me off at the hotel fifteen minutes later--about the time I realized my license and hotel key were inside my daughter's camera case, somewhere in downtown Nashy. The thought of both of us being denied a plane trip home because of missing ID's sent a shudder through my frozen bones. With my son's electronic room key secured in hand, I sent him off to resume his bar hopping solo, and began the mama walk of shame across the marble lobby of the hotel to a horde of cheerful parents and their soon-to-be commodore's buzzing with excitement in attending Vanderbilt in the Fall. Brunhilda muttered under my breath, "Just wait, your time is coming." As I rounded the corner to the OTIS trifecta, continuing to second guess why I didn't insist my daughter leave the reception with me, I passed the bar area adjacent to the elevator bank and considered a stiff drink to quiet my worry. When the elevator door closed with me on the other side, Bruni reminded me one of us had to stay sober, and it likely wasn't going to be child #1 or child #3. It was up to me to carry the weight of worry and sobriety. Once again, the little snot was right, so I pushed the UP button again and awaited a flying OTIS and ascension to the eighth floor, where McEwen Karma would find me in 3.2.1. I entered our room at the end of the long carpeted corridor; plugged my phone into its charger, then proceeded to the warmth of a hot shower. I changed into my Betty Boop PJ's a short time later wondering if plans for the trip to McEwen the following morning would be scrubbed considering the potential for two impending hangovers. Bruni was quick to add, "Screw them; we'll go it alone if we have to!" I've always loved Bruni's spunk, but she can't read a map to save her life. Even Ms. Boop and her little dog, Pudgy, couldn't cheer me up as I sat on the bed and dialed up my husband when my phone's energy bar displayed a 15% charge. Mamabear's energy bar was circling the drain. BREEENNG, BREEENG, BREEENG... "Hey, how is it going? How was the wedding?" Brunhilda blurted before I could stop her, "OH MY GAAAAWWWWDDDD!!! You are NOT going to believe what YOUR daughter did at the wedding, and your stupid wife let her leave the reception at midnight with a bunch of fooooooking strangers!!!" ~ TO BE CONTINUED
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Mary Wakeford
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