Lion and Magic Boy

Although I was tagged days ago by Isabella of change therapy with this very fun and thought-provoking meme called 6 Words, I have to address First Things First. And I’m gathering ideas. Really. (Hey, is that what they call procrastination? Because I’m really really good at it.)

Well. The Thing Which I Thought Would Never Happen has happened.

Yep, that’s right. My mom has read my blog.

I am reminded here of the approaching ridiculousness of one day (years and years away. really.) when my mother is like in her 90’s and I’m in my, what? 60’s? and I’m still addressing her as “my mom”. Isn’t that a little weird? Can really really old people still be called “mom”? Think about it.

So now when I say “my mom has been reading my blog”, it sounds a lot like “Dude! OMG! My mom’s been reading my diary!” as if I’m still that prepubescent 11-year old who received her first kiss on a skating rink and then went right home to tell her diary all about it. It brings on feelings of exposure. Cringing, cold fear. And then:

I said “fuck”. In print. And my mom has read this. “Fuck”, and “ass” (at least not in the same sentence. That would really be bad), and probably “shit”. I am so fucked.

And all that other stuff I wrote. Oh.My.Godiftherewasagodwhichthereisn’tI’mprettysure.

We actually talked about it.

And I did not implode.

I mentioned something-or-other that is going on in my life, and My Mom said, “Oh yeah, I read about that.”

Utter. Silence.

I am frantically cataloging, but cannot come up with anywhere I have written anything about that thing except here. On the blog. Which has the word “fuck” in it. More than once.

“On your blog,” she mentions helpfully.

Instantly I assume that faux-casual stance that Steve Martin is so famous for, leaning metaphorically against a doorjamb.

“Blog?” I say, trying to keep my voice from squeaking. “You read my….blog?”

I am not breathing at this point.

“Yes, “she says, “It was great. I love what you write about the children.”

Long, slow exhale.

Actually, I exaggerate. Somewhat. My Mom is cool. I mentioned something about the words, the language (without actually saying “fuck”, which I am pretty sure I have never uttered within, say, 20 feet of My Mom), and we both laughed that casual laugh, the one when you’re 9 you are convinced that people at swanky cocktail parties laugh.

So it’s cool.

And it explains that psycho nutjob from San Francisco who read 79 pages of my blog one day last week, for like 127 minutes. I figured someone had fallen asleep while on my page somehow. Nope, that nutjob was My Mom!

Hi, Mom!

[tags]moms,psycho nutjob,blog, blogging,being outed, fuck[/tags]