2001-06-14 || 5:17 p.m.

|| but if there were accompanying music i would like it to be the song from the golden girls. i love the golden girls. ||

i am imagining my mother at the kitchen table, one leg crossed over the other, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, list of food for kelly's graduation party in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. she is wearing shorts, one of my dad's t-shirts, and sandals. we went over the menu four times.

'well you know most of the people are vegetarian.'

'you know that potato salad i make with the corn?'

'i need to get some buffalo mozzarella. do you put pesto on it? they come in little balls. remember, we had it at a restaurant at disneyland. oh you weren't there. but kelly and tito went crazy over it. was it pesto?'

'do you think that's too much food?'

'i need you guys to come over early to help. kell got really pissed when i told her that. i don't want you waltzing in at 3:30.' ('we'll come early, mom. how bout one?') 'earlier.' ('but we want to go to the beach. noon?') 'you guys could go to the beach sunday afternoon!! earlier.' ('mom.') 'well hopefully you guys will come a little earlier.' ('yeah. but we both know that isn't going to happen.') 'earlier, jenny. i'm not going to get stuck doing this by myself.'

i imagine us all in the kitchen on saturday: mum, dad, kelly, michael

('michael's moving on wednesday, mom.')

'you didn't tell me that!!'

('yes i did. a thousand times.')

'well i knew they were talking about it. woooow, jenny.'

('yeah, it's going to be terrible.')

'well you can't have your cake and eat it too.' (note: this is my mother's favorite phrase when it comes to one michael ex-boyfriend because she cannot understand why we would still be friends without something shifty going on. and my mother adores one michael ex-boyfriend.)

, and me stuck in the kitchen. cutting things on the kitchen table, cutting things on counter tops, moving out of the way as some hot dish gets plucked from the oven. i follow the dog out into the backyard and hope i have gone unnoticed. i hear from inside my mother's speech, expanded upon thiry-seven times, of why i don't like to cook. how i escape these sorts of things but am good for doing the dishes. i am sure michael chimes in and my mother pats his head and my sister laughs and my dad says 'oh, michael!' and the laugh track kicks in and the credits roll and ugh. saturday.

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