Expiration Interaction

"Mom?—"

Blatantly ignored. My mother, commonly referred to as "She-She Baby," "Little Sheila" or any combo of those, as her name is Sheila, is standing over the trash compactor reading old mail from no one knows when. She found it to the left of the bread cabinet that both of my parents use to hide old mail they would rather not read, i.e. Macy's catalogs and bills.

"Mom—"

I go over to her. She's sweaty. She's wearing this hot pink Nike dry-fit workout tee with black yoga pants. She looks like one of those mom's you see at the grocery store. You know the ones. The Oneees. With the tennis outfit, clearly having not played tennis that day or any other. It occurs to me that that may just be a Lake Forest thing or at the least a North Shore thing. Anywho. She's ignoring me. As goes our typical routine comes 5 p.m.

"Mom?"

"Why do you have to be so annoying to me Brigid?" She's referring to the fact that I've now gone over to her and given her a bear hug emphasizing the little waist she's widdling down from a size 10 to a 6. Maybe three months ago I went up to my mom, who is adorable, but was mildly Mom-Chubby, and had recently decided to go see a fitness trainer, that I would say goodbye to her cute mommy roll. (As I write this, I really sound like a horrible child. It isn't weird that I do this though. It's a Marshall-ism. Everyone does it.) I go up to her and flick her tummy. I do realize now that maybe that wasn't the nicest thing I've ever done, but whatever. I do it. And I did it.

So today, I notice how little the waist is becoming and give her the bear hug. Then I go for it. I try to flick the belly up, but to no avail. She's really getting taut.

It comes to my attention midway through our little back-and-forth that perhaps it's more than just the trainer. Maybe it's the diet.

She pulls out a slab of ribs though, and I sort of change my mind, though she did buy the relatively fat-less ribs. Our kitchen is one of those kitchens with so many cabinets that at any given point you can open one and find something worth eating, as long as it's not stale. I usually go for the fridge as I am a berry person, and anyone who knows anything knows you put berries in the refrigerator.

So, I'm going for the bottom drawer, and I see it. It's a vast compartment full of Dannon's Lite & Fit yogurt. Hark, it's my mother's no-tummy-roll secret! I noticed this drawer a few weeks ago, when I actually put all of the yogurts there. They're little Sheila's chosen low calorie food selection for snacks and breakfast.

"Mom."

She finally looks over to me as if I've really interrupted her intense old-mail-reading experiment. While ripping into teensy pieces an old bill (another story for another time)—

"Mom, these are, like, old," I don't say it like a Valley girl would, just your typical Midwestern street jargon, "Really old."

"Well, how old?" Pause. She doesn't even go to check the dates. "No, no." Insert a distasteful Chicago accent. Think Costa Rica, with the "O" sounding like the beginning of Apple. "No, it's good for three weeks after. Everyone knows this."

Everyone does not know this.

"No, mom. They put an expiration date on it for a reason." Which they do. Sometimes you can get away with a few days, but we learned from that time with the chocolate milk—

"Remember that time with the milk?" She looks at me with that Mom-look, with that Mommy Knows Best-face, that face that I have decided is a farce, especially in relation to refrigerated food products.

"You threw up in the sink." The story goes like this:

"Gosh, I didn't even know this milk was still in here." Me

"Yeah, it's still good." Her

"What day is today?" Me

"May 20th. What day's it say?" Her

"May 9th. I'm throwing it away." Me

"No, you're not. I bought it, we're going to drink it." Her

"Be my guest." Me

She picks it up, pours a glass. I smell it from three feet away. She puts it to her mouth. I half expect her to plug her nose. Takes a sip. And runs to the sink not only spitting it up, but letting out one of those ghastly upchuck noises. The kind you make when you stick your tooth brush too far down your throat in an effort to clean your tongue.

Attempting to separate the two stories, she says, "Part of the issue is, the weather was warmer."

And the best part is she doesn't even try to deny the milk story.

"Well, it was May then, now it's July, you do the math." Aha, a retort!

"It's still not—" She breaks off. "Brigid, please stop picking on me."

And then she moves on to another piece of mail.