What would be a perfect Mother’s Day? A perfect Mother’s Day for me would be set in Brooklyn or Cable TV (who can tell the difference anymore?). It begins with me reading on the toilet for half an hour uninterrupted. Finally, when I exit, a cappuccino mysteriously floats into my hands. It is perfectly prepared: no need for sugar, no hint of bitterness, high on froth. Sipping the cappuccino I promptly turn around and return to the bathroom for another half hour. Some people work from home. I work from the bathroom. It’s just where the idea’s flow. I’m like Don Draper when I’m hiding in bathroom. I get so much done in there! I respond to emails and texts, read and write odd articles (like this one), and basically plan my whole day. Today that includes reserving a class at a new yoga studio called Keanu. Looking at my calendar, I realize I forgot Teacher Appreciation Day. I suddenly get a text from my husband informing me that he handled it during the week. Wow! He’s the best!
Still reading on the phone, I come across an article about a woman with a nut allergy who went into anaphylactic shock after having intercourse with someone who just ate Brazil nuts. I think, “Gee. I’m glad I read this. I’m allergic to shellfish. Eh, it’s Mother’s Day. I surely won’t be expected to do that.” Suddenly another text comes in from my husband. He just picked up the packages that UPS now delivers to any random deli when we’re not home. I think, “Hmm. Maybe I shouldn’t let him eat shellfish today?”
Finally, my hour of bathroom solitude ends and I’m on my way to Keanu Yoga. The class is team taught by Jordan Peele and Keegan Michael Key. Key performs all the adjustments. It’s a special Mother’s Day brunch class called Moms and Mimosas on Mats. The class is a sweat-less dream. During Shavasana Peele chants gibberish while Key’s lavender oiled fingers gently scroll my forehead. Namaste Key and Peele.
After my “Momosa” I head for another cappuccino. As I place my order, I overhear Peter Dinklage hitting on Jemima Kirke. He’s actually telling her she’d make a better Daenerys Targaryen. At first this hit my ears like blasphemy. I’m not sure destroying an apartment with Kylo Ren quite equips one to become the mother of dragons. Then again, who among us is ever truly prepared for dragon motherhood? So Happy Mother’s Day, Jemima! Take the compliment because no one ever hits on moms. I pick up my coffee only to sit down right next to Jason Francesco Schwartzman who puzzlingly offers to buy me another coffee. I accept it because who am I to look a gift Schwartz in the mouth? Jemima and I nod at each other. It’s our day.
Double fisting cappuccinos, a text comes in from Abbi Jacobson. She and Ilana want to meet up at Whole Foods. Even though it’s Mother’s Day, it’s still Sunday and that means gathering my weekly 365s. We meet at the bridge on 3rd St. Smiling, I open my mouth to issue nothing more than a cordial greeting, when Ilana pops something unknown into it. Panicking, I remind Ilana that like her, I am allergic to shellfish. Ilana assures me it is not shellfish. Still choking we enter Whole Foods. Time seems to speed up and stand still simultaneously. What transpired next, I have no clear memory except that our actions were likely inspired by a soap box sermon given by Dr. Bronner in Bob’s Red Mill. The next thing I know I’m back on the bridge holding a jar of Manuka honey. Ilana and Abbi are gone.
Confused, I toss the honey in the canal, an action I immediately feel guilty about. What is a Manuka anyway? Looking at the honey polluting the Gowanus, I start to feel wistful. It’s mandookie honey now. Everything on this planet is turning to mandookie. I scream, “Why is it never turning to womandookie?!” Then I receive a text from my husband. He already took care of the groceries! Aw. He is truly my Manuka Honey!
Now I’d better get home. We’re having dinner tonight with Bobby Cannavale, Ray Romano, and Brad Garrett. They arrive with a bag of Italian sandwiches from Esposito’s and we all sit down to watch Young Frankenstein. I’m really enjoying my eggplant sandwich when Ray exclaims, “I don’t know who would make a better Frankenstein? Bobby or Brad?” They both get pretty steamed and start breaking furniture. I stupidly light the stove to boil some shrimp. Brad and Bobby yell “Fire Bad!” and storm out through a wall! Ray chases after them laughing, “You left before they put out the shrimp cocktail!”
My husband looks at the shrimp. Then he looks at me. I shake my head, “Just enjoy your shrimp.” I retire to the bathroom with my phone. Mother’s Day continues.
(Author’s note to husband — This was all just a way to convey to you that all I want for Mother’s Day is coffee, quiet time, and yoga. I would like to be free of parent-teacher responsibilities, groceries, and package pick-up. A sandwich might be a nice gesture, but no sex.)
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