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Margo: Mother knows best

While you guys are sitting under the white tent sipping ice-cold chard between bites of this year’s take on pork belly, I’m sweating it out in Denver in 107-degree weather with my mom.

Oh, yes, my mom is one to rise to the occasion when she is needed. For all of her uncensored comments and unabashed opinions and “I can’t believe she just said that” moments, she sprouts wings and a halo or maybe a cape and some muscles when her children need her.

Normally, though, she can be a tad rough around the edges.

Once, I was telling her for the millionth time how I’m working out 17 times a day and eating four calories and not losing an ounce, and Mom busts out with this little golden nugget:

“Oh, my God — your body hates you!” she exclaimed, almost too enthusiastically.

I realize she meant to be supportive. In Lindarose speak, what she was trying to say is, “It’s not your fault” and “I know you’re trying” and “You’re screwed because we come from a long line of Russian Jewish peasants who survived on nothing but vodka and potatoes in subzero weather and forever altered our DNA, resulting in our slow metabolism and short, round, stout bodies.”

Then recently we were coming back to our condo in Denver from the fertility clinic, and she stops, like, dead in her tracks with this big epiphany and says, “When you get pregnant, your body probably won’t change at all! Your baby will have so much room!”

I know this was meant as some kind of demented compliment, which is why I did not bat her in the side of the head with my oversized purse.

I’m in Denver for a week for regular monitoring. I have to inject myself twice a day with these drugs that have to be mixed in little vials with, like, 19 different needles and alcohol swabs and gauze pads. I’m sitting there like I’m in the middle of some demented science experiment, and it may be of little surprise to you that I did not do well in science. I am so not a science person.

Of course I’m a nervous wreck, having no idea how these drugs are going to affect me or if I’m accidentally going to inject an air bubble into my body that’s going to travel up to my heart and I’m going to die right there on the spot and no one is going to find me until Ryan gets home from work. When you live on the Fryingpan, it is not uncommon to be woken up at 6 a.m. on a Saturday to the sound of gunshots. It’s like I’ve been kicked out of my five-star resort playground and dumped into some Wild West movie set, except it’s real. But the point is, if someone came over to my house and decided to murder me with a shotgun and my neighbors heard it, no one would bother to call the police. So if I died silently, by my own hand and needles, for sure, no one would ever know.

Anyhoo, it turns out that these drugs are kind of awesome. I was expecting to be a psychotic mess, ruining all my friendships and sabotaging my business with regular tantrums and breakdowns. But I actually kind of feel great. My boobs are, like, awesome, all plumped up and round (injecting yourself with hormones is cheaper than plastic surgery, I suppose). My normally crappy skin is aglow, crystal-clear and soft as a baby’s bottom (no pun intended).

“You are going to be the poster child for pregnant women,” my nurse said when I reported my lack of symptoms.

Truth be told, I did have one little fit when the state patroller pulled me over going 72 in a 50-mph zone in Glenwood Canyon at 6 o’clock in the morning, but I came up behind him — hello. Who knew the speed-gun thing was two-way? For sure, this guy had it out for me.

I tried everything. I tried explaining to him that my car is very powerful and that I had to accelerate to get on the highway and that it takes awhile for my car to slow down. I told him I am not used to waking up before 9 and so my eyes were still a little puffy from sleep and I couldn’t read the speedometer right. I told him I was going to Denver for medical treatment. I even showed him my little plastic bag of drugs and needles and said, “Here! Look at my drugs!” But he was not impressed.

“Ma’am, I’m issuing you a court summons for going 72 in a 50 and not having proof of insurance.”

Then I started to cry. “But I have my proof of insurance on my iPhone! I cued it up for you! They said you can do that on those Geico commercials! I can’t afford this,” I sobbed, banging my head against the steering wheel.

He handed me my summons without so much as a “Have a nice day.” All he said was, “Slow down.” And he left.

I could just picture him on the radio with his buddies going, “So, I just pulled over this psychotic blond chick from Aspen in a black Audi who said she couldn’t afford a speeding ticket.”

The truth is I am a spoiled baby, and I have my mom to blame for that, too. I might be middle-aged and halfway to menopause trying to have a baby, even though I’ll probably be dead before the kid makes it to college. But no matter what it is, when I need her, she is there. And it’s largely for that reason that I’m pushing ahead with this crazy science-fiction baby-making plan.

God forbid if I ever do become a mother, Lindarose has already taught me everything I need to know.

Email your love to alisonmargo@ gmail.com.


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