dead on my feet

We have spent the day, my sister and I, in Ocean City, shopping with our father. We are here, frankly, to be spoiled. My father doesn't cook, and he rarely cleans up after himself (at least not well enough for my mother's liking), so when my mother planned her trip to Atlantic City this weekend for a mah jongg tournament, she suggested my dad bring his girls to their condo at the beach.

It's a nice enough apartment, but there's little to do besides eat and shop. And that's the purpose, I guess. Our shopping excursion netted about five sweaters, a shirt, two sets of pajamas, a pair of pants, a cake topper, and some handsome measuring cups and spoons—all of which I needed like I need two assholes.

I mustn't forget the giant papier maché skeleton, which will become a part of my daughter's new bedroom decor.

The best part about the trip is that we're all relatively happy. I'm happy for the book deal. My sister is happy to be getting, finally, her Korean baby (she's been on the list for two or more years). And my dad is happy to be a new grandfather for the third time and the father of an author; all that schoolin' he paid for has paid off. He couldn't be prouder.

My mom is proud, too, and very excited. But she is also become more and more the Jewish mother that my grandmother was to her. She was nearly in tears of joy when she called me Thursday night. "Did you hear? Your sister's getting her baby?"

"Yeah, I heard! It's great!"

"I must be really sick."

"Wha—?"

"I must be really sick."

"Are you sick, Ma? What do you mean? What's wrong?"

"You've got a book, your sister's got a baby—I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop."



That reminds me. I forgot to buy some shoes today.