MY MOTHER AND I have met for brunch at the King Edward Hotel: a ridiculous extravagance, but she insists we need to celebrate her new vocation as an amateur eroticist. It seems that her debut submission to the Penthouse Forum has been well received by its pervy band of die-hard readers, and there's been some insinuation that she might be considered for a recurring guest column in the future.

The hostess is barely out of earshot when Mum leans over and announces, "I am following in the footsteps of the greats, you know, Alice. Anais Nin, Erica Jong... Sappho..." She struggles to come up with any other female eroticists. "You know, I might write the next Delta of Venus."

"Or, at the very least, some saucy one-liners chiselled into stone tablets," I say. "Anyway, can we not discuss erotica in front of Angel?" I nod toward the fiesty two-year-old I've had to bring along because Buddy is recovering from his me-day/night with a long sleep-in.

My mother looks at the girl for the first time since we arrived.

"Why do you have a baby with you, Alice? This was supposed to be a girls' brunch."

"It's too long a story to explain. I'm being a good friend."

She purses her lips and says under her breath, presumably so as not to offend the toddler, "Am I ever glad those days are over. Babies are such a buzz kill."

Mum waves at a passing waiter, making an impatient 'drinky' motion with her hand. They scurry right over.

"Yes, M'am. Would you like to start with a coffee, tea...?"

"Mimosas, please," she interrupts. "Proper champagne, not that Italian stuff. We're splashing out. I've been published!"

"No mimosa for me. I'll just have a water," I cut in, terrified that she's about to tell the fancy waiter exactly where she's been published.

"Oh, but why?" Mum pouts. "We're celebrating! Don't be a spoilsport, Alice."

"I would; it's just that I'm on this diet plan. I'm strictly not allowed any alcohol at all, so I've been limiting myself to a glass or two of wine every day. If I start with Mimosas at lunch, I'll end up running through all my cheat calories in one sitting."

She waves her hand as if batting away a pesky fly.

"Diets! They only make you miserable. I spent most of the early 80s on the Sexy Pineapple Diet, and I was absolutely miserable the whole time. I think that's why your father had an affair."

"That's right! I remember you eating pineapple at every meal. That was insane."

"I had cankers on the inside of my mouth from all the acidity. And I was so hangry."

A sudden, vivid memory appears: my mother, one sunny afternoon at our school's sports day, stealing a hotdog right out of my hand and cramming it into her mouth whole and then doing the same to my best friend Vivian. I was horrified, but Vivian said it was okay. That Mum looked like she needed to eat before she fell over.

"Well, this isn't a starvation diet," I explain, parroting back what the website told me. "It's a measured, rational approach to calorie-reduction that has produced positive, long-lasting benefits for millions of people."

"Suit yourself," she shrugs. "Just watch out that all your hungry, angry energy doesn't ruin your marriage."

"I don't have angry energy," I protest angrily, wishing I could down three mimosas at once now.

"How often are you and Vic having sex?"

"Mum, god. Stop. Everything is fine in that department." I pause thoughtfully. "Well, they were fine, but then Maeve moved back in. Then I didn't feel like it because I was worried. Then he didn't feel like it. Then I didn't feel like it again. Then last night, we had Angel sleeping beside our bed in the pack and play because I couldn't think of anywhere else to put her where I could keep an eye on her arsonist tendencies."

"Hmm," my mother says ominously as the waiter arrives with her Mimosa and my water.

"I've changed my mind. I'll have one of those," I say to him. "And, is there a brunch buffet?"

"There is, ma'am. But we also offer light a la carte options if you prefer...."

"No, I'm going to need options. And a bigger plate. I'm starving!"

Angel slaps her hands together like I'm finally speaking her language.

"Star-bing!"

LESS THAN THIRTY MINUTES later, I am horrified to find that I've eaten my way through the entire international buffet. The remnants of Huevos Rancheros, lox with capers, the crust of a Croque Monsieur (avec frites) and traces of a Moroccan Eggplant Tagine are slopped Jackson Pollack-like across the many plates I've used. Angel and my mother are both still demurely picking their way through a fruit salad plate.

"You want to watch that waistline," Mum says, avoiding the pineapple. "Catches up with you at this age."

I'm on the verge of making a cutting retort when the polite, high-brow quiet of the upscale hotel restaurant is upset by the high-pitched squeal of a teenage girl.

"Oh My God, Becky, Look At Her Butt!" the teenager shouts as she barrels toward our table like a freight train. "It's you! AliMac!!"

"Oh my god," I mumble, wishing I could slide underneath the table.

"Excuse me?" asks my mother, who is completely confused. I haven't mentioned the whole TikTok embarrassment to her because something in me knows she would find it an absolute scream.

"Can I take your picture?" enthuses the girl, camera already out and pointed at me.

"Her name is not Becky," my mother says. "You've got the wrong person. And there's nothing really wrong with her butt. That's quite rude of you...."

I hold my hands up. One facing the girl and the winking eye of her iPhone and the other toward my mother, who isn't helping.

A slightly older woman appears at the table beside the girl, presumably her mother.

"Natasha!" she said, followed by something Russian sounding. The daughter replies, also in Russian, showing her mother the phone.

The tinny sound of "Baby Got Back" filters out into the restaurant as the mother looks at the screen, wide-eyed.

"Da! It's her. It's Ali Mac!" shouts the girl, looking like she's about to faint from excitement the way young women would flutter and fan themselves over Paul McCartney decades ago.

The mother starts laughing, holding her hand up in front of her face, clearly embarrassed for me, while my own mother gets up out of her seat to get a better look at the video.

Angel, who has been surprisingly well-behaved to this point, shouts "Bawasing!" and throws pineapple at me.

"Is good dancing," says the mother, touching my shoulder. "Don't be embarrassed."

"WHAT IN GOD'S NAME ARE YOU DOING ON THIS GIRL'S PHONE, ALICE?" screams my mother, getting now the full gist of what is going on.

"AliMac, hashtag Big Butts," froths the girl. "We love you in Russia!"

I slink further down my chair, wishing I could disappear. The whole restaurant is looking over now. Phones are coming out to film the spectacle. Most probably don't even know what's going on, but on the off-chance I'm some kind of celebrity, don't want to miss their chance to document the moment.

"Natasha! Is enough." The mother says finally. "Leave poor woman and her baby alone."

"But Matushka!" whines the girl. "Can I take a selfie with you?" She whirls around and points the camera at both of us, making the obligatory V with her fingers.

I try to smile for her but am finding it impossible. My eyes whirl around the restaurant, looking for a quick escape route.

And then I see him. Joss Carvil of Carvil Foods. Looking over with a bemused expression on his awfully good-looking face. He's standing across the restaurant with an absolutely stunning woman. He leans over and whispers something in her ear, presumably explaining what a nutcase I am.

What in hell is he doing here? Is he following me?

I stand up, grateful for any excuse to leave the table, and storm across the restaurant.

"Are you following me?" I demand.

His eyes light up with mirth.

"No, AliMac, viral sensation and All Good Things cafe owner. I am not following you. I'm here for lunch. Like your many other fans, it seems."

I look back toward Mum. The Russians have gone back to their table, but dozens of other tables still have their phones trained on me. I stand tall and pull my shoulders back, remembering that slouching adds 10 pounds.

"I should get back to my mother," I say grumpily. I'm about to stalk away but then realize I've forgotten my manners. "Sorry," I say to the beautiful woman on Mr. Awfully Good Looking's arm.

"Sorry," she says back at me.

The Canadian code of conduct met in full, I return to my table to endure the relentless questions of my mother.

"Who was that? He's awfully good-looking," is her first question.

"Is he single?" is her second question.

"Do you think he's on Tinder?" is her third.

I have the sense that she's willing to brush the whole Big Butts video under the carpet, and for that, I'm grateful.

"Let's get another round of mimosas," she suggests gaily. "I'll show you some of the men I've been chatting with online."

"There won't be any old man penis pictures, will there?"

"Oh. Well, never mind that, then. Shall we get a dessert menu?" She brightly switches gears.