(NOTE: I began writing this several weeks ago. Who says procrastination dies after college?)

I haven’t written lately, as I’m sure you’ve all noticed, clutching your computers, refreshing, refreshing, refreshing, ‘WHEN??!?’ you scream into the wan evening air, yearning for a new post. My mom was here and then I left town and they keep expecting me to work for some reason. Anyway, here is the first in a few…

So, my mom came into town for a visit. Bear in mind many things as we get into this: 1) she has never been to NYC. 2) This is her first flight in a good 10 years. 3) All things outside of a Midwest suburb, ie: grass (my astroturf on the balcony did NOT count), chatty, friendly neighbors (our neighbor threatened us and our tikki torches with a garden hose) and bodega free neighborhoods (ours is downstairs and specializes in Mexican goods), are to be considered a ‘ghetto.’ Right. And we’re off.

I couldn’t get out of work quite when I wanted, so that I could be there at the airport to greet her. Her darling, angelic, only child. Instead, her realistic, spastic, basketcase of a kid, made a frantic call on her way to the bank, before getting on the subway to begin the trek out to her place in Queens. (Yeah. Not Manhattan. Screw you too.) And this is all after her plane had landed.

I explained to her that she needed to get in line at the taxi stand, tell them where she was going and sit back and relax. Thank god I had a demented, speed freak, train conductor cause we tore through the underbelly of Manhattan and shot out into Queens in record time. I called to check in on her and let her know I was minutes away. I asked where they were and she said they were going too fast for her to see the street signs. Awesome. And super. I asked if the driver knew where he was going based on the address she had given him. She mumbled that she wasn’t sure. I asked what happened when she gave him the address and she said she wasn’t sure because he was speakin something she couldn’t decipher (my folk are suited quite fine to the non-descrept midwestern accent and not much else) and, out of fear of looking silly, didn’t want to inquire further. Aww. In’t she sweet?

From a block away, I see her step out, line up her bags on the sidewalk and spin around in a tight, slow circle. Hmm. I couldn’t get a read on that. So, I rush up, hug her, sniffle at the sheer joy of having her here on my turf and drag her luggage upstairs.

Now, anyone who has lived in NYC understands a ‘nice’ apartment versus a god-forsaken, rat infested, shithole is a pretty fine line to teeter on. It may, to the eye seem not so quite as pristine as in Sex in the City, but I have a great apartment. You can live in a closet (many do) but if it’s clean, and your closest bug/rat neighbors are not hanging out, eating dinner with you, then you get a couple big thumbs up and may even get laid in there. Now my place is large, 3 bedrooms, a kitchen I can spin around with my arms open in, view of Manhattan (Empire State AND Chrylser buildings), great balcony (not just a fire escape. I have my chairs, grill and turf out there) and completely rat and mostly bug free (I’ve seen 1 bug in the year I’ve been here. It took me a week to get over it and we had to throw the rug away that we had killed the bug on, but I feel pretty good about it now.)

Apparently I should have written this post before she got here. Mom’s did not so much agree with the ‘awesomeness’ I had told her my apartment exuded. She said it was ‘nice,’ but it was said in that slow, sort of, ‘I feel like this is what I should say so you don’t cry, but I’m really puttin on my acting skills with this one. And not very well.’ It was the way we used to refer to less than desirable girls in my sorority when you wanted to be diplomatic but clearly wanted everyone to know you totally mean the opposite.

It was a rough start to say the least. But, we walked, ate and did the requisite touristy things. I took her on ‘The Beast’ (if you ever some to NYC, go on it!) It’s a huge speed boat with green eyes and sharp teeth painted on the side. We bought the tickets and stood on line waiting as she told me over and over how she wasn’t getting on that thing. But she did. And we did. And it was fantastic! Whipping down the river at 40 mph, music blasting, and our illustrious guides threatening anyone who might be a Red Sox fan on the boat. (baseball is taken very, very seriously here. Very.)

We did a more tame tour that evening to see the city all lit up. We cruised under the Manhattan, Brooklyn and Williamsburg bridges. We had dive pizza and classy pizza. We talked and I think she wasn’t so much in awe of the city as she was with my place in it. I had to distill the idea that Sex and the City is totally realistic. You have to bust your ass to have just a fraction of what those chicks had. But, I did take her on the Sex and the City bus tour, which was fun (even though I don’t really know much about the show) but they gave us cupcakes and that was good. And some guy proposed to some girl on the steps of Carrie’s brownstone and we all pretended to care (maybe everyone else did care, but I couldn’t get over the newly proposed to girl’s choice to wear tiny short white shorts, in the rain, and these hideous strappy, white, 3 inchers to go hoofing around the city in. You can call me a bitch. I call myself a Fug Girl in training. Check my side bar. We’ll all get there one day.)

On Monday evening, I picked up a copy of NY TimeOut magazine to find something worthwhile to do. We decided stand up comedy was in order for the evening. We set off to find the bar and when we got there were told that it was a bit early for us to go in, so we stepped out, grabbed some nosh and came back a little later. We wanted good seats, dammit! We came back, and were told that the show had to be cancelled. Grr. BUT, silver lining! They have Monday night bingo! woot-woot! So we headed into that, took a seat and the real fun began.

The host was a slick haired chap with full on mustache and a circa 70’s suit. It was all very classic game show host. Then host spoke. Oh. Why that’s not a boy at all. Uh, mom, just so you know, that’s a girl up there. Don’t freak. But she was distracted by the girl that was coming around selling bingo cards. Oh, not a girl. Right. I see what’s going on here. “Um, mom, that’s a girl and that’s a boy. No. The other way around. Ok. You’re ok? Yes, please bring her another beer.”

All joking aside, we had a blast! She loved the all of it! She may have been disappointed if the hosts were the actual gender they were portraying. They were great and even gave me mom a shout out for being the Midwest Mom in the house. Aw. We ate a block of deep fried mac and cheese and fought feverishly battled for the burger bank prize. We didn’t get it. Damn. Anyway, if in NYC, go to Mo Pitkins over on Second Ave. on Monday nights for bingo. All the money they collect from the bingo cards goes to the grand prize. (We didn’t win that either. Oh well.) Super gay bingo night was mom’s favorite part of the trip.

My favorite part of the visit was on our evening cruise. A guy behind my mom stood up to take pictures with his monster telephoto lens, digital camera and my mom stood up right in front of him and clicked a picture with her disposable camera. Not only was that part great, but it was the last pic on the camera, so it went ‘click’, and then she kept thumbing the little plastic wheel in that oh so distinctive, ‘disposable camera out of pics now,’ sound. God I love her and her casual, midwestiness.

At least she didn’t wear a fanny pack.