For Terry

I call my mom, aged 86, every week to ten days. I know I should call more, but that’s all I can stand. 

First Week June: Let The Games Begin

“Hi Mom. How are you?”

She carps, “Baby Sis still hasn’t printed out your blogs for me to read. I don’t know what her problem is.” 

Baby Sis works a sixty+ hour week as a high-powered criminal defense attorney for the feds, and puts in another forty between home and parenting two young children with her equally busy architect hubby.  Maybe she sleeps. She and Mom live in the same megatropolis.

“A blog is an online magazine, Mom. I’ll be glad to send you the pieces I’ve published to mine.”

“I know what a blog is! No, don’t bother. Baby Sis will do it.” 

Mom doesn’t “need” a computer, e-mail or the Internet. Her time is too valuable to waste on learning such nonsense. Besides, she knows everything already. 

I print off and mail Mom the year’s collection of posts.

***

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***

Back to the arena, where Mature D is interviewing Little D. 

Mature D:  So little girl, you threw down the gauntlet! Will Mom dish up some approval, do you think? 

Little D: I hope so!

Mature D: Knowing Mom, not likely.

Little D: Really?

Mature D: Oh yeah. Keep your guard up. 

Little D: Oh no, will she hurt me again?

Mature D: Probably. Still, it’s noble of you to shield Baby Sis from further harassment.

Little D: Thanks!

Second Week June: Phone Round 2

Me: Hi Mom. How are you? 

Mom: I got your big envelope today. With the blogs.

Me: Great! Just so you know, it’s one blog, lots of essays. 

Mom: I know that. I don’t have time for so much reading! I have this to do, and that to do, not to mention the other thing (put-upon sigh). 

Me:  Sorry. When you said Baby Sis hadn’t printed them out for you, I assumed you wanted to read them. I guess I misunderstood. 

Mom: (even more put upon) And, I have a book to read for my book group too.

Me: Read it whenever you want. Or not. No pressure.

Mom: Well, I don’t know when I’ll get to it. 

Me: Don’t worry about it. (You’re so welcome, Mom. Enjoy.)

***

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***

Back to the match and a short analysis from Mature D on the current state of play. 

Mature D: Well folks, it’s not looking good for Little D. It's obvious Mom couldn’t care less about our writing. That hurt Little D, which made her mad, and then she had to get even. Thus the sarcastic comment bolded above. 

Little D: That was brilliant! I got her good!

Mature D: Wrong. See, you blew her cover. 

Little D: What?

Mature D: She doesn’t want to read our stuff. She said she did though, and blamed Baby Sis for not being able to. That was her cover. Which you took at face value. Receiving our writing has put her under an obligation she doesn’t want to honor. Thus, her petulance. 

Little D: She deserved that jab.

Mature D: Yes, she did. But. Now she knows we know she doesn’t want to read our stuff. 

Little D: So? 

Mature D: She’s lost face.  Payback.  It’s coming our way. Soon.  

Little D: Oh. 

Third Week October: Round 3

Me: Hi Mom. How are you? 

Mom: Fine.  So.  I finally read some of your blogs. They’re so… hmmm… (put-upon sigh)… so… so… exaggerated.  So, so… intense.

Me: (En garde! Ignore the tone. Reply just to the words.) It’s supposed to be amusing, Mom.

Mom: Well, I don’t get it. I don’t think it’s funny.

Me: That’s OK. Humor is very personal. 

Mom: I know that! I have a sense of humor! I just don’t understand your writing. It’s too much! It’s so, so extreme. (She snorts derisively.) 

Me: Maybe it’s just not your taste. 

Mom: And, you talk so much about yourself! 

Me: (Here we go. Watch yourself, D.) Well…. They are personal essays.  

Mom: But you write about psychiatric cases! That isn’t right. 

Me: Why not? I’ve scrambled all the details to protect the innocent. 

Mom: You shouldn’t write about your work.  It makes me very uneasy. 

Me:  Mom, psychiatrists have feelings too. Not just patients.

Mom: (Long silence.) (Wow…. No riposte?) 

Me: That’s why I’ve called the blog Shrink Unwrapped. I write about how my personal life is affected by my work, and vice-versa.

Mom: I find it all very disturbing.

Me: I’m sorry. Then don’t read it. 

Mom: I don’t see why you have to write about these things. 

Me:  Please, don’t read it. 

Mom: It’s not good; it makes me very uncomfortable.

Me: (Will she ever stop?) That IS good Mom. Writers like it when readers get uncomfortable. That means there’s something new and unconventional going on in the writing. 

Mom: I’m not conventional!  I like the unconventional! It’s your writing! It’s, it’s so, so, exaggerated!

Me: (I sigh. She’s a Chinese water torture.) That’s a writing strategy to create amusement. It’s called hyperbole. Really, feel free to stop reading. It’s OK. 

Mom: Does anyone like your writing?

Me: (Did she really ask that?)  A few do.

Mom:  Why do you write anyway? What for? 

Me: (Did she really ask that?) Well, why do you weave Mom? 

Mom: You know I’m selling my loom? I’ve made that decision. My hands are too weak. And the pain is terrible. 

Me: (But enough about me!) Uh huh.

Mom: Someone is knocking on my door. You have to let me go. 

Me: (Saved!) OK then. 

Mom: We’ll talk more later. Bye! 

***

Mature D: MATCH OVER! Mom: zero.  D: WON!

Little D: Yay!

Mature D: Indeed! Kudos to you, Little D! For letting me run the show! Thanks for listening! 

Little D: I guess you know what you’re doing. It was relaxing actually, trusting you.

Mature D: Great team work! Mom failed to get under our skin! Yay us! 

***

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***

Post Mortum

I text Baby Sis: Ur mother is crazy. And that’s my professional opinion. 

Ten minutes later, my cell phone rings.

“What’d she do?” 

“She called to tell me my writing is—“ I mimic Mom’s voice— “‘so… so… exaggerated!’”

Baby Sis laughs. “Yeah.  She said—“ mimicking Mom— “‘What is this about? I don’t get it.’ Fishing for me to explain.”

I laugh. “Right!  She got very frustrated when I wouldn’t bite.”

“I told her humor is personal.” 

“Just what I said!” 

“Then, get this— she asked me if she should tell you!” Baby Sis drops her voice into Mom’s sotto voce conspiratorial tone:  ‘You know how sensitive D is.’”

We crack up. 

Baby Sis resumes, “I said, ‘Then don’t tell her.’ She says, ‘But what do I say when she asks me?!’  ‘She won’t ask you.’ ‘Yes she will!’ ” 

I laugh. “No need for me to ask. She told me when she got the package. Before she’d read a line.” 

“Then she asked me if I read your blog. I told her, No!” 

I crack up again. 

“She asked if you knew, and I said— Yes! She was flabbergasted.”

 We both laugh like hyenas. 

“How long ago was that?” I ask when we wind down. 

“Last week.”

“She couldn’t stand it, waiting for me to ask. She had to give it to me!” (Ha. Pun intended.)

“She wears me out.”

“Yeah, I’m so—“ I drop my voice— “sensitive, she spared my feelings.” 

“Soul of tact. Always the kind word.”

“Yup. Well. Let me go shower off the slime. No acid burns today, thank god.  My skin is finally thickening up.”

***

Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much. ~Oscar Wilde