That's it. That's all I want to say. I'm not offended, or even surprised.
Maybe that isn't all I want to say. Since she doesn't read my blog, I can safely talk some smack about her, now can't I? As smart as my mother is, she's just not a reader. I think the last book that she finished was Valley of the Dolls in 1966. Come to think of it, I think she just saw the movie. I think we watched it together when I was 4. We split a pack of cigs and a pitcher of Pussycats, and cried our eyes out when Patty Duke broke down ("My dolls! My beautiful dolls!"). But I digress.
The only thing my mother reads with any regularity anymore is her morning Chicago Tribune, with the following priority:
- The obituaries, because there is almost always someone listed that she knows, or at least knows of.
- The grocery store sale papers, so that she can plan out her week which includes trips to no fewer than five grocery stores so that she can the best prices.
- The crime blotter, so that she can jump to the conclusion that, whatever the offense, the husband/boyfriend/baby daddy did it. She's right about 90% of the time.
- The "Celebrations" section, which includes notices of engagements, weddings, graduations, etc. I must admit that I love this section too, especially the anniversary notices which are most commonly for 50th anniversaries and usually show an original wedding photo side-by-side with a current one. We both scour them every Thursday morning and then check in with each other and cast our vote for The Couple With The Biggest Increase in Head Circumference.
- The letters to the editor, in the hopes that her favorite geriatric contributors will have one of their patented incoherent ravings printed that day. First there is Jack Spatafora who is either a Joycean streams-of-consciousness kind of writer or on a constant vodka-Red Bull drip. Some of his recent letters have included references to trombones, The Wizard of Oz, barber shops, attics, Claude Raines, risotto -- you could literally go cross-eyed trying to figure out what the guy is on about. When I got a letter to the editor published in the Tribune, I was relegated to the little-read "local" section, but every time ol' Jack farts out a thought it's front-page news. Then there's cutie-pie Mil Misic whose letters cover exactly four topics -- the shining sun, the turning leaves, the falling snow, and the blooming flowers -- but that doesn't stop her from getting published 18 times a year. And thank God, because we cannot reasonably be expected to keep track of the seasons on our own here in Chicago.
Yes, I am bitter. But I guess I will leave the old folks to their old media. Except that I just Googled Jack Spatafora and he has a blog. Doh! I'd better not find my mother amongst his followers...