Mother’s Day Journey into Night

Mother’s Day Journey into Night

It was drizzling and I went to get my rain jacket from the closet. On my right, there was an overflowing laundry basket that wouldn’t close. I looked away from it — to my left. On the way down the stairs, there was a polished center path adorned by dusty runners on left and right. I looked away from it — up. A substantial pile of dishes sat on the drying rack ready to be put away. I looked away from it — towards the window. The window carried traces of winter grime. I stepped over some petals and chips dragged in from the driveway onto the rug by the side door, took a breath, and got into the car anyway. Tom turned the key — he was ok with it. It was Mother’s Day after all.

We parted by Bart Simpson. Tom went to work to make money and I went the other way to spend it.

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Fifth was temporarily closed — something was happening at St. Patrick’s — and I walked around the cathedral from the side where the piggy is climbing up its wall.

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Madison was so Mother’s Day ready: restaurants’ doors open and pretty flowers on the tables set outside. Perfectly coiffed elderly ladies airing out some chunky gold and pearls were surrounded by younger crowds at almost every table.

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No day in the city without taking a class. Exhale was my first destination. Here’s Kevin setting up for an hour of type-A-middle-aged-women training: “Ok, team, be nice. Breathe. No one’s breathing? That’s ok. Next time.”

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After the class, it started raining harder. Walking was out of the question: for my next event I had to preserve some hair and makeup. So it was the 5 train to BAM in Brooklyn. Once I got off at Nevins, there was just 30 minutes to get something to eat and Gotham Market at The Ashland was just the thing. That Bolivian Chicha salad was so tasty!

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And here’s the highlight of the day I was waiting so long for — Eugene O’Neil’s “Long Day’s Journey into the Night” with Jeremy Irons and Lesley Manville. I am not ready to write about it, yet. Shaken to say the least.

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Reunited after a day of earning and spending, Tom and I toasted Mother’s Day.

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Mother’s Day is over — back to vodka.

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And I did the laundry and put the dishes away once we got home.

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