January me (standard:other, 6099 words)
Author: Violet	Added: May 22 2003	Views/Reads: 3002/2167	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The tale of a caffine adicted sarcastic british chick living in san Francisco... who says that an insane mother, dates with idiots and the fact that nearly all your peers are already married can stop you from having a good time?

My mother is insane.  That's what I thought as I left work that morning
of September 1st, 2002.   It was, of course, upon discovering that she 
and dad were all prepared to fly all the way to New York to be on ‘The 
Jerry Springer Show'. 

“Come, now, darling, it'll be fun”,  she had said earlier in an over
bearing voice one might hear in a crazed mental patient.  Or maybe the 
mother from that book Bridget Jones' Diary.  “Taylor's coming along as 
well.  Don't know about Maddy yet, but I'm sure she'll be completely 
gung-ho about the whole bloody thing.”  Gung-ho?  Was this the fucking 
square dance or something? 

“No, mum, I am not going onstage in front of a million hillbillies who
have the dire need to hear about our non-existent family issues.  Thank 
you.”  With that I had hung up, then un-plugged the phone in case God 
forbid she tried to call again (which, knowing mum, she was doing at 
that very moment). 

I then notified the man in the nearest cubicle that I was leaving,
stepped in the elevator, rode it 6 floors down, then walked out into 
the bright sunlight and headed for Starbucks.  That's where my friend 
Steve works.  It's also just a block away from where I work, and the 
first Starbucks you come to after leaving China town. 

“I just don't get it, Steve,”  I mutter to the back of Steve's buzz-cut
ridden head.  “Why does mum want to publicize our family problems?”  It 
is now the 3rd of January and mum's ‘Jerry Springer' is set to premiere 
at 3 o'clock today. 

“I don't know.  Why are you going to watch it?”  He mutters back
distantly.  He has a point.  I only got out of work early by saying, in 
my most pathetic whimpering voice “my fish died today.  I loved him, I 
loved that fish.  Bert,”  which not only set me free, but convinced at 
least a third of the surrounding co-workers that I was legally insane.  
I don't even like fish. 

“Well, 2:58.  It's almost time.”  Steve flips the TV (since when did
Starbucks become a sports bar?)  to UPN 44 and turns up the volume.  
Luckily the only other person in here is an old lady who is rambling to 
her diseased husband about geriatric diapers.  The screen suddenly 
reads Next, On Jerry springier.  Jerry Springer appears and voices over 
a few arguing hillbillies, then it suddenly switches to Taylor and 
Maddy as he says “two sisters realize they are Siamese twins separated 
at birth!”  Oh, bloody brother.  It turns out that mum is 8 months 
pregnant, dad is her brother, and Maddy and Taylor were born attached 
to each other at the arm, and mum's just never said anything.  “It's 
crap, I know.”  Steve says.  He is being unusually cynical, for a 
Wednesday. 

“What, your date didn't go well last night?”  Steve's grimace gives me
the answer, though he usually says Tuesdays are ‘his day'.   “What?”  
Steve is staring out into space, looking oddly depressed. 

“Aren't you the middle one?”  He changes the subject. “I mean, out of
you, Maddy and Taylor?”  I give him a look.  “Of course you're the 
middle one.  Here I am, answering my own questions again.”  He stares 
out into space again. He is really starting to scare me.  Then he says, 
“his name is Gary, and he wants to go to Vegas to get married.” 

“Oh my god!”  I screech, secretly pissed that he's getting married
before me.  “Did you say yes?”  I scan his hand for a ring, although I 
don't really think gay couples have that sort of thing.  Do they? 

“Of course not!  Piper, we'd been on one date, okay?  You don't even...
well...it's a big...”  Before he can finish his sentence, Monica, who I 
sometimes have coffee with, bursts through the door sulkily.  “She 
didn't get the promotion,”  Steve says.  See there?  I didn't even know 
she was up for a promotion. 

“Ass holes.”  She sits down next to me at the counter and sets money
down.  “Anything with lots of sugar,”  she says to Steve.  “They are 
some fucking sexist pig ass holes.”  Oh.  Maybe she should have gone on 
‘Jerry Springer'. 

“Why, pray tell?”  I ask her. 


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