Michelle Obama's Garden

Someone - not naming names, so let's just say 'Tim' - accepted a Facebook friend request from my mother. Tim should not have done this, because Tim is a very close friend of mine and is privy to all that goes on in my life. Therefore, now with my mother examining all of Tim's Facebook pages, unfortunately so is she.

Not good.

Two weeks ago, she discovered through Tim a link to this blog. And went to it. And read it. And did not take it well. At all.

At first, I thought this would go quietly into the night, as I took the girls to her house for Spring Break and she said not one word about it. Later, when I rejoined her for Easter weekend, initially there was still no word regarding my profane and mildly-explicit story-telling.

So far, so good.

But then - out of the clear blue, never saw it coming - she dropped it.

I was reaching for a wine glass in my parents' kitchen Saturday night and felt sudden close breath on my neck. So I turned around, and there she was. Close-up.

Do any of you remember that creepy scene at the end of "Cinderella" when the stepmother locks Cindy in her room to prevent her from trying on the slipper? Do you remember the look in that stepmother's eyes? That cold, unforgiving, steely gaze? Get that in your head.

Because that's the look I got.

"Please. Do not go to that blog of yours while you're in this house. Especially on your father's computer."

Oh, sh*t.

"But. But. But. But it got Blog of the Day...???"

Yep - that's the best I could do.

I felt like I was riddled with syphilis or strung out on heroin, the subject of an intervention. Or that she had discovered a porn site that I moderated and posed for (God help us all). I felt - ashamed! Dirty! So, so WRONG! Thank God (literally) the Resurrection was the next day.

So Easter came and went, though no redemption was to be found in my Easter basket. We all headed back home (with 'Tim' in the doghouse), school started up, and things got back to normal around here. Until the phone rang this morning.

"Tara? It's Mama."

"Hey."

"I want to talk a little more about this 'blog' thing. What award did it get, again?"

"Well, it's not so much an award as just a little recognition. I really don't know, to be honest. It's just an email I got."

"You mean from computer people? Or do you go and get an award like Pop did with that Governor's award? "

"No, Mom. Just a verbal recognition. No big deal, really."

"Well, who gives you the award?"

"I don't know. Judges. Some guy who started it. I have no idea."

"I'm just curious to know what kind of award a blog gets."

"None, really. It was just a comment."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry, but I also didn't realize you liked to say f**k so much. And talk about having sex. I thought you were against all things crude and crass in this world."

Yes, she has met me.

"Ummmm... welllllll... it's writing. It's different from talking. You know."

"What do you mean? That writing has lower standards than talking? Let me process this for just a minute."

"Yeah. It's just different. A different realm."

"I'm trying to understand. I just didn't know you were like that."

Like what, exactly?

To distract myself from this horrible, awkward conversation, I first tried to make myself invisible, but with no success, so I then answered an email.

"And now you're typing again."

"Uh, yeah. (More distraction) Nanny is doing this gardening project with the library. She has to be ten, though. Which she turns next week. As you know."

"What kind of gardening project?"

"Just a project where kids come and garden at the library."

"Like Michelle Obama's garden."

"Huh?"

"You haven't been keeping up with Michelle Obama's garden?"

"Noooo..."

"Well, she has this garden where kids come from all over to plant plants."

"Oh. That's nice."

"I thought you were interested in the Obamas."

"Sure, Mom."

"Well, I think Nanny might like to know about Michelle Obama's garden. And I really thought you would have known about it."

"Okay. Look, I love you. But I have to go. And have sex. And to be honest, I don't actually give a f**k about Michelle Obama's garden."

No, I would never actually say that last quote to my mother.

Because I am, after all, against all things that are crude and crass in this world...