The things that my mother and I discuss are all about what's new in entertainment, political scandal, and whatever is the popular culture of the day. We both adore magazines, especially The National Enquirer, which we refer to as the "rag magazine". We like to chill and order pizza. We like almost all the same stuff.
Straying from these topics is never good. Occasionally, one of us will make the mistake of bringing up some personal topic that is actually based in reality, or as we like to call it, "the past". Never-ever a good idea, but it does happen. When this happens, the conversations become surreal and yet to us, perfectly reasonable.
Last week, I received the following voice mail:
"Paula? This is your mother. How are you feeling? I know you've been angry with me, and I'm sorry. Why can't we remember the good things. Like when you were in the hospital and you wanted me to come be with you, and I brought Hershey bars and magazines and stayed with you all night. Those were wonderful times we had together."
She filtered out the part where I wanted her there in case I died. Only my mother would remember that night as a slumber party. Well, compared to the Holocaust, ("well, at least we're not in a concentration camp!"), I guess those were some great family times.