SON MIS LOCURAS

I’m a David Sedaris fan, especially at Christmas.  His seasonal tales never fail to amuse.  They replayed him reading “Santaland Diaries” on the radio today and I laughed all the way to work.  It’s a 15-year-old story, but I still like it.

Here’s the link:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5066175

The U.S. Postal Service has me rolling on the floor tonight.  It managed to take the mailmen eight days to return the Christmas card we sent the neighbor.  This is the neighbor who lives directly across the street. 

When the card did get returned, the word “Vacant” was scrawled across the address and “not deliverable as addressed” stamped on the envelope. 

Guys, the address is literally across the street.  If you’d looked up you’d have seen the numbers and a house with decorations on it.  Hardly vacant.

Next year, we’ll address it to “The Rodriguez Family” seems “Los Rodriguez” threw you.

I’ve spent the past week nursing my mom through a series of what she considers near death experiences.  Extreme chills, possible pneumonia, fainting, and absolutely nothing showing up on any test.

She’s all better now, but she’s got a real sense that she’s on death’s doorstep.  She’s told me that she doesn’t want flowers at her funeral.  She’s also repeatedly explained her sense that our relationship has come full circle.  I am now the one taking her to the ER and the doctor and the grocery store and buying her thermometers and medicine.  Problem is, some of the memories aren’t real.

“Te acuerdas cuando te nalguie porque te comiste el Ajax,” she’ll say.  And this one always gets me, because it is wrong on so many levels.  In my mom’s mind, I am seven-years-old and foaming at the mouth at a sink with a can of Ajax sitting suspiciously nearby.  Right before calling the poison control guys she spanks me because she is so angry that I’ve decided to brush my teeth with household disinfectant.

The true story, as I again reminded her while sitting in the ER, is that I had eaten a Flinstone’s chewable green vitamin and then dutifully brushed my teeth.  Hence, green foaming at the mouth over the bathroom sink (under which the can of Comet resided).

There is always standoff over which version is right.  It’s not that she’s delusional.  She’s just stubborn and has never believed that I didn’t brush with Ajax.  She just looks away with an attitude-full “Whatever!” just waiting on her lips, if in fact there was an equivalent word in Spanish. 

This arguing over which memory is right seems very odd in light of the week’s events.

I’m always intrigued by the little quotes and notes some folks attach to the end of their e-mails.  You know the ones, those that say stuff like “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a few steps” or “Teamwork:  It means all of us.”  No one ever sends me gems like those El Chavo thinks up.

Nevertheless, I do find the notes interesting for what they allow me to dream up about their writers.  The thought is generally something like, “Wow, that person must spend a lot of time reading Hallmark cards at the Rite Aid.”  Or something like “Does that attorney know he’s putting a three paragraph legal disclaimer on a personal note that says ‘Boo-yah’?”

This week I saw a new note.  It said, “Sent without spellcheck from my Goodlink Wireless Handheld.”  My thought was “Guau, that guy has a lot of guilt.  He even has to excuse his spelling errors.”

Keep ‘em coming, I’ll use any excuse to practice pop-psychology without a license.