I Blame Mrs. Harkins- Chapter 6

Chapter 6 of "Exit, Stage Left"

I don't know whether I've said this before, but I suck at sharing. I haven't figured out if it's a Virgo thing or because I'm an only child, but either way, I blame my second grade teacher, Mrs. Harkins. My parent's didn't raise me to be selfish or anything so it's not their fault. I had to share toys with my cousins, I shared a locker for a semester in high school with my best friend, I loaned a jacket to my neighbor once. So, I'm not incapable of sharing. It's just not my first instinct. It doesn't come easily, I guess. 

Furthermore, I think that Mrs. Harkins could have taken a little more time to really instill that whole sharing lesson. It's like she just glossed over the finer points. "It's polite. It's respectful", yadda, yadda, yadda. Who even knows what that s**t means at six or seven years old? I feel like she could have been more honest and said something like, "It's what you're supposed to do to avoid getting in trouble," or "It's expected at all times," and then perhaps had us do some role playing. I'm just saying, all in all, she could have done a lot better in the "Teaching How to Share" department. When Toby Schiffer helped himself to my Crayola crayons, and I clobbered him with a dusty blackboard eraser, she merely took me aside and said, "That wasn't very nice, Dina. Go say you're sorry to Toby." I did it, but I certainly didn't mean what I was saying. Oh, I wasn't sorry at all. In fact, I was even more angry because when I got back to my desk, I saw that Toby had broken the Cornflower Blue Crayola crayon and everyone knows that's the special one. I don't recall "sharing' that info with my mother, either. So, it wasn't just material things, it was information, as well. 

So, things went downhill from there, I'd have to say. I hated sharing. Like in high school when girls were passing around the Marlboro Reds and 7-11 Cherry Slurpees, I would steer clear. One time, in 10th grade, after gym class, in the locker room Susie Marshall wanted me to share my deodorant with her because mine smelled better, so I just gave it to her because to me, it was easier to go buy a new one rather than share it. I was well aware that I had problems with sharing. I made an effort to get better at it and by senior year, not only had I shared my liquor stash with my friends, I even divvied up an entire bag of Halloween candy that I snatched from punky freshman with my whole circle of friends as we got stoned in woods behind the Circle K-Mini Mart. I was getting way better with material things, but still having issues with the info-sharing. I clearly remember not telling Matthew Rothcamp he had girly looking hands while we played spin-the-bottle at Melissa Milo's basement birthday party. I certainly didn't tell him he kissed like a cat cleaning their a*s when the f*****g bottle I spun pointed to him later that night. 

I think it was the logic I used on myself that hindered my efforts to get better with sharing my feelings. The line between being honest about how something effected me and just being hurtful seemed to always blur into one.

It was just as hard to say "You've really hurt my feelings because you cheated"  as it was to say "Your eyeliner looks like Alice Cooper on a bad day."  I didn't get that one is necessary and one is not. They all felt better safely staying in my head, never hitting the air.

As I got older, I had a freakish fitness-nut of a friend give me this huge lecture on how holding feelings in does more damage to your body and your mind than bad weed or fettucini alfredo. I took this under consideration one night while I was actually eating fettucini alfredo after smoking a joint, and decided to put forth an ongoing effort to get better at sharing my feelings. Later that night, I even called my great Aunt in Batavia, NY to tell her that I was the one who plugged her toilet at cousin Joey's confirmation party when I was 12 and I felt awful that I blamed it on Uncle Rudy all these years. I remember feeling pretty good about it, but that could have been because I was stoned.

I work on it regularly now, though. I mean I went through a huge improvement when I was with Billy. I probably got lucky with him, because he wasn't a game player from the onset. He was open and honest about everything, good or bad. Sometimes, too much. I felt like Billy was the captain of Team Honest & Open, and I was learning from him. He was making me a better person. I'm sure it helped that I trusted him with my feelings, and my material things (most of them, not all of them, especially anything made of ceramic or porcelain). He was always honest if he broke something, he was always careful at how he reacted when I opened up about feelings and stuff. He was genuinely considerate. For a guy. I mean, for all I know he was oblivious, but it completely came across as considerate. 

After I came out, I had a few setbacks, because let's face it, girls can be overwhelming in the sharing department. I don't want to know about your bad ear piercing experience at the mall, and I don't want to talk to you with the bathroom door open when you're peeing and I don't want to know that you're not sure if you lost your virginity from a bumpy bike ride on your brother's ten-speed bike when you were 13 or if it was from the line backer on your high school football team when you were 15. There is such a thing as over-sharing, and I think I got a bit frightened by that in my first few years out on the lesbian dating scene. Women want to share everything. Pets, clothes, cars, Facebook accounts, beds, friends, food, jewelry, feelings and keys to name the Top 10. Not me. I liked my space, I like my cat, I like my clothes and don't eat off my plate, unless we've discussed and agreed on it beforehand. I'm not opposed to sharing a plate of onion rings, but let's play by the rules and have a discussion about it first before the whole evening goes to s**t and anarchy ensues because you casually reach for one off my pile. 

My mother would laugh when I would tell her stories about me eating calamari the three different times I went out with this one girl because I knew she didn't like it. Or that when I date a vegetarian, I always order the biggest, thickest burger so she won't ask for a bite. 

"Dina, you're kidding, right?" Mom would say.

"No, Ma, those chicks are sneaky b*****s. They order a salad and if I get a pasta dish, they start poking around at my cheese tortellini because, who are we kidding, they aren't getting full on a salad."

Now, lately, with Liz, I don't mind sharing a piece of cheesecake. I'm pushing myself to say what I feel. I'm monitoring how much say, because I don't want to be like a broken levy and the dam overflows-it's all about baby steps and they're coming easier. 

Today, when I stop in at my Mom's cafe for a bagel and coffee on my way to the theater, I find myself a little antsy and somewhat anxious to tell my mother about Liz. This is a sign of how far I've come. It's been over a month, and I've not really let on anything about how it's going. Just that I met someone nice and I'm dating her. That's been my standard go-to line for when anyone asks. Lately, I feel like talking about it more. That's a very good sign. 

Walking into my mother's cafe is a lot like coming home. She's always there, there is always something good to eat and she's had the same staff for 12 years, give or take my friends and cousins who have all done heir time as wait-staff at one point or another. The restaurant itself has undergone a lot changes to keep up with the ever-changing times. The entire mall underwent renovations a few years ago, and it's become more of a "plaza" with out door shops and store fronts yet, you can still get into the mall from a main entrance. Mom's restaurant is more of a cafe now, it's a more "trendy" atmosphere, simpler menu, less hustle and bustle. It's almost a perfect reflection of my mother, especially at this stage of life. There is far less staff to manage and things are routine and easier for everyone, yet the place still kicks a*s and always has people eating, grabbing cofee, chilling out, working on their laptops and iPads, or meeting friends. There are the regulars, especially the employees who work in the mall or the surrounding stores and they all seem to love my mother and her crew.

Ben is an adorable gay man who runs the kitchen. He's a snarky smartass and I love it. His uptight partner Stephen ( "with a 'p-h'.." ) works at the eyeglass place in the same plaza, and together they have a pompous little miniature Yorkie named Pauline, that's no bigger than a crap. Marti, is like my mother's best friend, she handles orders & serving and has a perpetual ray of sunshine streaming out of her a*s at all times, even though she's been divorced twice...from the same man. She has 17 year old son who carries a "man bag", sings in a choir, and records and learns the numbers from "Glee' and yet she is always looking out for a girlfriend to set him up with. Carlos is a older Spanish man who buses tables, does dishes, and just about any other grunt work that the girls, including Ben, don't want to do. He's a hard worker, soft spoken and always willing to jump in and help fix things if Mom's boyfriend, Frank needs help or is busy. Carlos reminds me of an old Benicio Del Toro, who's all mellowed out now after a life of beer and bullets in Mexico. Of course, he's really just a nice older retired city worker with a sad story that you would never know unless he told you. His wife suffered a stroke at the age of 54 and lives in a nursing home for the last 10 years. He took care of her for two years at home before it became too much for him. He's 65 now, refuses to date and still spends his mornings at the home, having breakfast with her and picking out his wife's outfits for the day. My mother is always giving him leftovers from the cafe in the evenings, if Ben hasn't taken them home for Pauline. Sandy is the young hottie of the crew. She's the floater who helps in any area and has been working there since she was 15. She has the best schedule anyone could ask for, working 2:30pm to 6pm, mainly for during the dinner rush, and it's allowed her to not miss any school. Every summer she increases her hours, because Mom stays open a bit later. On weekends, she busts her a*s at an animal clinic as a veterinary assistant finishing up an internship. Next year, her plan is to become a full fledged head Vet and eventually run that place. All through her city college years, she worried me. I never got the feeling she understood she was going to be cutting open people's pets and saving their lives. I had to keep reminding her that she wasn't going pass by simply blowing every male teacher, she was going to have to take some initiative and study to actually get certified. It's kinda funny to see her now, all grown up and having goals. 

They're a loyal bunch and we've always been just like a real family, wIth jokes and laughs, fights and tears, and always hugs. Sometimes, after they close, everyone goes to my Mom's and she orders pizzas and opens the wine and they kick back. I'm sure I never appreciated it when I was working their because I was so focused on what I wanted to do with my life that I couldn't see what I had in these people. As an adult, I adore them all. I feel like they all look out for my mother, not that she needs looking out for. They know she has me and Frank, and that she can take care of herself, but if she looks tired, they send her home and that makes me feel good knowing they have her back. The other thing I love about them is that they don't allow my mother to go in on Sundays. They run the place open to close and my mother never has a thing to worry about and she can relax.

The weather is oddly still nice for October. The patio tables are still set up out front, I notice as I drive round to the back parking lot, where I can park in the loading spot because I'm a lazy a*s. The back door to the dishwashing area that leads to the kitchen is propped open with a milk crate, as usual, so Carlos can go out for a smoke when he wants. Ben and my mother are sharing a gelato sample like two little kids. Each with a spoon in their hand, hovering over the dish.

"Is this the best gelato you've ever had? My God, I could die!" I hear Ben say, as I walk in.

"Hey, Benny Butthole!"

"Well, hello, Miss Dina Dyke-O!" he says with a big smile. I give him a quick hug and my mother is already holding out a spoonful of the gelato for me to try. 

"You have to," my mother says.

"Ma, I haven't even had coffee yet."

"Trust me," Mom says, with the spoon an inch from my mouth. I try it, because I'm not in the mood to argue. I nod and grin, "That IS good."

"We're going to start carrying this next week." Mom sets her spoon in the sink and hands Ben the dish to finish it. 

"She's trying to give me thunder thighs," he says, lapping it up. 

"Come on, let's get you coffee," she says, leading me out to the front area, behind the counter with her hand on my back, patting me all the while. I pour my coffee in a to-go cup, as Marti buzzes by. "Hey, kiddo, you look great!" she says, leaving a wake of pastrami smell in the air. Before I can say anything she's out on the floor delivering a sandwich to a waiting man, sipping a Coke. I add my milk and join my Mom at the designated "break" booth near the cashier station. 

"I called you last night, did you get my message?"

"I got it this morning. I had my phone off because I had company," I say, hoping she takes the bait.

"Mrs. Marlow from next door has a bag full of salon props for the play, if you want them," she says, folding Carlos' newspaper that's scattered across the table. Nope, she didn't take the bait. Let's try again. 

"Oh, great. I can't pick it up tonight, because I'll probably be having dinner again with Liz but I can probably swing by on Sunday to get 'em."

"Ok, no rush. Whenever. Or Frank can always drop them off, if that's better?"

"Ma!"

"What?!"

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yeah, you're busy, I get it, that's why I'm sayin' Frank can drop it off..."

"I'm busy....with Liz. Again. Liz. Busy. Me. And Liz..." I can't get my eyes to open any wider.

My mother slides her glasses down her nose a bit and looks at me from over the top of them. 

"OooOoh. Okay, okay. Is this the part where I ask how it's going, and you say, 'Fine. She's nice,' and I know to not push for anymore..? Is that what we're doing?" 

"No, we're not doing that anymore, Mom."

"Oh, so you're ready to talk?"

"Yes."

"Okay, well, I feel like we've been treating this like the first trimester of a pregnancy where you don't say anything until after the first scan."

"I don't even know where to begin. I just know that I'm over-the-top happy and it just keeps getting better and better!"  I am well aware of how absolutely insane the words sound coming from me. My mother puts her hand over mine and squeezes and she scrunches up her nose with a smile.

"Good. When you're happy, I'm happy," she pats my hand. "So, tell me."

"I don't know, Ma. I just feel like even though she's a lot older than I am, we're on the same page. We have careers, we have family, there's tons of things we want to do, and see together and we just GET one another in every way. She's not the least bit needy, or clingy, she's got her act together, her business does well, she's smart, she's patient, she's supportive and she's incredible in ...."

My mother's eyebrow raise.

"...the looks department. She's stunning."

She slowly breaks into a big smile. "Well, then. When do I get to meet her?"

"Maybe I can bring her by on Sunday when I pick up Mrs. Marlow's stuff. Are you guys going to be home?"

"Of course, of course."

"Great! I think you're going to really like her, Ma."

"Listen, if she's got you feeling this happy, and looking this good, I'm sure that I'm going to like her. Oh, honey. I'm thrilled for you. I don't like all that bouncing you do from one woman to the next. This is a good thing."

"It is. Okay, I've got to get out of here. We're going to try and get through a complete off-book run through today, and I have a feeling it's not going to be as smooth as I hope," I say, gathering up my coffee. 

My mother takes my coffee cup from me to top it off.

"Really? They aren't ready? You know, Josie Dobson said she saw 'Steel Magnolias' in Miami at a little theater in Coconut Grove and she loved it. She went with her sister and said it was a big bonding thing." She hands the cup back to me, and then takes a bagel from the basket, cuts it and drops it in the toaster, without me even having to ask.

"I'm sure. It's a good girls night out because there are no men it," I snicker as Carlos give me a wink on the fly by with his tray full of dishes. 

"What do you mean? What about M'Lynn's husband? The Tom Skerritt part? And Dolly Parton's husband, Sam Shepherd, like in the movie? Oh, no. Dina. You guys aren't making this a lesbian thing, now, are you?" she says, smearing cream cheese on the bagel.

I let out a huge guffaw at that. "Ma, that's how the original stage play by Robert Harling was written. It's just the ladies and it all takes place in the salon. We aren't changing anything. The movie adaptation is completely different from the stage play. The only thing that's the same is the dialog. You'll see."

"Alright. If you say so."

She hands me the warm bagel all wrapped and my coffee, and gives me a kiss and hug. I wave to Marti, Ben and Carlos as they stay busy. "Okay, I'm off...." I head for the back door.

"Don't forget. Sunday!" I can hear my mother yell after me.

Christ, I feel like I'm walking on air. Maybe this sharing stuff isn't so bad after all.