My Mom claims that when I was younger, I used to get irritated that she didn’t, and I quote, "brag about me as much as [my] Dad did." Looking back, I see how ridiculous that sounds, but I won’t dispute the claim because really, this is the same person who had an unhealthy obsession with Drakkar cologne and oversized flannel shirts, so it’s clear my thought processes weren’t exactly optimum. That said, I don’t know why this is something that I would have wanted, since my Dad took (takes?) great joy in highly exaggerating any quasi-success of mine; according to him, I’m sure that I’m close to becoming the CEO of Google any day now. Regardless, it’s flattering and sweet, and I’ll leave it at that.
My Mom, as of late, has embraced this practice, and no matter where she goes, she has to point out to EVERYONE that I’m her daughter and that I WORK FOR GOOGLE! (Emphasis necessary – it’s usually said as a half-squeal, half-exclamation.) Whereas before she would try to set me up with anyone she came in contact with ("Look at this picture! Isn’t she beautiful? Are you single?") she now glosses past that (since all of my photos in her wallet have been replaced by ones of my puppy, her undisguised longing for a grandchild) and goes straight to the Google thing. (Perhaps she thinks my looks are waning and that my job is the ultimate aphrodesiac…hmm. That’s certainly disconcerting…but I digress.) "GOOGLE! SHE WORKS FOR GOOGLE!" She was in town this weekend and I lost track around the twentieth person she had to share this tidbit with; I instead nursed my embarrassment in my second glass of wine as she attempted to pick up yet another throng of young gay men who found her "darling" and me, certainly, playing for a different team.
She’s been crafty over the years; one of her best friends and she got together at some pharmaceutical rep convention armed with the best photos (respectively) of me and her friend’s son, shared a bottle of wine, took a trek to Kinko’s and made colored copies of these ‘albums’, rolling them in a mailing tube and sending them to each of us. Imagine the glee in the sorority house after the "hunky Nick" photos arrived; let’s just say there were bets on how long it would be until we got together, despite the fact that I was in North Carolina and he was in Florida. (My pals knew how persuasive Sue Sabala can be…) Rumor has it that Steph (my Mom’s friend) threatened to cut off her son’s allowance until he emailed me. (Which he did; we’ve since met, became friends, and he’s now married – not to me. So much for the ‘wedding contract’ they conducted on the back of an envelope at a sushi restaurant in DC.) That, I suppose, was one of the success stories, if by ‘success’ I mean ‘I wasn’t raped and murdered by a homeless random accosted as a potential suitor for me.’
It seems my Mom is back on her quest to find me love, or at least her desire to tell the world that I WORK FOR GOOGLE! I HAVE A DOG! I HAVE CATS! (And oh yes, I’m cute.) Despite me trying to dissuade this behaviour often conducted in public transportation, convention booths and – her favorite – planes, she appears to have turned a deaf ear to my pleas. I protested on the grounds of safety; she can’t go off giving random people my email and phone number; she countered with the fact that I have this website. (Hmm, well, I *sorta* see that, but at least I control what I disclose here.) I can handle the embarrassment of her public exclamations of my glory (wine is an amazing thing), but who KNOWS what she says when I’m NOT around?
Looks like the Mom Matchmaker-Bandit is back on "The Mysterious Case on Why Aubrey Can’t Find Love (and how her loving Mother can fix this by telling the world SHE WORKS FOR GOOGLE!)" – I received the following email today:
My name is [deleted] and I sat next to your Mom for almost 5 hours on Tuesday going home to Cleveland from San Fran. She’s quite an interesting lady. I learned a lot about you. Not all of which I’ll share w/you now (Trust me, it’s better this way!)
I’ve not included the rest, and while I’m sure he’s a lovely guy, I’m going to say it once and for all:
MOM – STOP GIVING OUT MY EMAIL OR PHONE NUMBER OR PICTURE TO RANDOMS YOU MEET ON/AT THE PLANE/CAB/TRAIN/BUS STOP/HOMELESS SHELTER/TJ MAXX/GROCERY STORE/HOTEL/CONVENTION HALL/STREET/VALET PARKING/BOOKSTORE/TRADER JOE’S/PET STORE/SUBMARINE/SPACE SHUTTLE/MARS.
(Now if you meet them on a Hollywood movie set and they’re a dreamy, single leading man, I’ll make an exception, but just this once.)