I was looking forward to work an appearance at a club from 11 p.m. to 1 a.m. last Saturday. I’d be able to spend all day at the beach and then go out and get paid to ogle bruthas. It was perfect!

Perfect, at least, until I remembered two things: (1) I was the only street teamer scheduled, and (2) since I was the only one scheduled, I’d have to walk across a dark parking lot and into a deserted office building at 1:30 by myself.

That might not sound like much of a problem, but it’s important to know that I really hate the dark, and I really really hate being alone in buildings. If you don’t believe me, peep mah knees — they’re full of scars, permabruises, and dead spots from knocking into walls and careening through glass doors (while fleeing invisible monsters in empty buildings). Add that I just read The Shining ­– a story about an evil arsehole of a building – and my perfect workday turned to this real quick:

By the time I thought about all this, around 8:30, it was too late to do anything except accept my fate. And be mean to my mom.

Mom: Almost ready for work, baby darling daughter?

Me: No.

Mom: You look so beautiful, my darling babiest of baby daughters.

Me: Quiet, you.

Mom: Those earrings look darling on your baby ears, don’t you think?

Me: NO TRICK MOMMA!! And you know my ears ain’t baby and they ain’t darling. They’re huge and dangling, just like yours.

When she stopped asking questions I knew I’d been a straight up C-unit, and I felt I needed to justify my sasshole behavior. So, I told her what was bothering me, my I-swear-to-lawd belief that I was going to get murdered that night.

I’m not sure if she heard the quaver in my voice, or thought I was actually being rational, or finally felt bad about the time she called me a “dirty piggy bitch,” but my mom said the sweetest words I’d ever heard:

“I’ll go with you!”

Even though my mother is 57-years-old, and was in her pajamas, and isn’t really into the Providence club scene, I took her up on her offer. Five minutes later, we were ready to go. She even let us take her car.

And, although super nice, taking her car caused an entirely new problem. The keys to get into the station are attached to my car keys; I didn’t have my car keys, so I couldn’t get into the building. Fortunately fellow street teamer Nick came to my rescue and let me borrow his.

While waiting a few minutes to get saved, I pulled out my phone to go over the e-mail my boss had sent about the appearance. In it were answers to every question I could’ve possibly had – from what prizes to give away to how to dress. I seemed to be doing everything I was supposeta, but just for fun asked my mom what she thought about my outfit.

Me: This says I should wear something “club appropriate.” I look club appropriate, right?

Mom: Of course not, you dirty, dirty piggy bitch.

I couldn’t believe she didn’t think I was dressed for da club — I was wearing what I’ve worn to every club I’ve ever been to! Flip flops, jeans, and a green scoop neck T-shirt. How was that wrong!? I WAS EVEN WEARING EARRINGS!

After a few minutes of debate on whether or not I was fancy enough, my mom came out victorious, and, for that second time that night, she also came to the rescue.

She said I could wear her clothes (as in the clothes she was wearing) and she’d find something in the trunk to change into. When Nick got there to lend me his keys, I ran inside to grab the prize bag and left my mom outside to do some clothes rearranging.

By the time I got back, she had the top she’d had on waiting for me, and was wearing a wrinkled red T-shirt from 2001 and a purple sweater. Still standing in the parking lot, I stuck my torso into the car and pulled on the black tank top. From Chico’s travelers line.

It had looked good on my mom – she had the sweater and the pants to make it work – but on me, it was short and shapeless and made my arms age about 20 years. Keep in mind that they look like this on a good day:

No matter, my mom was adamant I wear her shirt. She said a forest green T-shirt was not club appropriate. She was right, but the borrowed Chico’s shirt wasn’t club appropriate either. It might have been wrinkle free, but it wasn’t fa me. After yet another few minutes of debate, I was back in my fresh tee.

I still managed to get a bit clubbed up. I found a pair of heels a size too big, slapped on some red lipstick, and tightened my bra straps to hoist my sagboobs and squeeze as much class out of my shirt as possible.

When we finally got to the club, my mom and I mutually decided she might want to sit this one out in the car. It was a real fist pumpy place – lots of stiletto heels and Booty Pops and angry neck veins – and if I had the choice, I probably would’ve stayed in the car, too.

I went into the club and set up the prize table, feeling like a little girl playing dress up. Except I wasn’t a little girl playing dress up — I was a 22-year-old working at a swanky nightclub, hobbling around in ill-fitting heels, clenching my butt to keep from bombing the place with buffalo chicken pizza S.B.D.s, and occasionally checking on my mom to make sure she hadn’t become a victim of a gang crime. Oh, and when I went to the bathroom I saw I’d missed the target when I’d done the lipstick slapping. Cute!

I left two hours later with a sore back, a stained clown face, and a new appreciation for my mom. And the phrase “club appropriate.”