I talk to my mother on the phone once a week. She always starts the conversation/answering machine message with: Hi, it’s Mom. Like I wouldn’t know it was her. I’d swear even the ring sounds different when she’s on the other end of the line. My mother really does have the strongest Long Island accent you could imagine. Actually, think of one and then multiply it by ten. You might then have idea what my mother sounds like. And for the record, I am the only one allowed to make fun of/mimick her accent. For one, she’s my mother and b. because I am freakishly good at it.
Anyway. Our conversation last week went something like this:
Ma: I read your article on the socks.
Me: It’s a post, but OK.
Ma: Whatever. I noticed you didn’t tell them about the socks I make you.
Me: I know, I’m sorry. I was on a roll. And it really wasn’t about the socks.
Ma: You told them about your Mona Lisa damn socks and your starry socks, but you didn’t tell them about the socks your mother makes and sends every year. With my own two hands. Out of love.
Me: …. Would you like me to write a post about how I forgot to mention your Christmas socks in a previous post?
Ma: Oh, no. You don’t have to. But that would be nice.
And so. Every year, my mother sends me three or four pairs of socks. Other stuff too, but I don’t want to forget about the socks. She bundles them with ribbons. And they just might be warmer than my store-bought ones.
One year, she sent the socks and other stuff along with a talking Gilda Radner card. This card provided hours of out loud laughs and is now simply referred to as The Mom Card. And it comes from this clip:
Thanks for the socks, Mom. And the card. And all that other stuff. I love you.
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