I was watching a DVD of one of Bob Marley’s concerts with my dad. My mom walked into the room and settled on the beanbag chair just as they were playing “Lively Up Yourself”. This is what my mom thought Marley was singing:

“You better tidy up yourself….”

That’s selective perception for you. Ladies and gentlemen, my mother. There ain’t no one like her.

I was curled up on my bed this afternoon, rereading “A Kick in the Seat of the Pants” (aside: a great book on creativity and ideas) when my mother came into the room, looking for missing (albeit clean) underwear. Clothes tend to get lost in the shuffle a lot in our house.

She looked at the pile of clothes on a monoblock chair, my unmade bed, and the readings I had attempted to stack in a neat pile on another chair beside my pc.

As I said, I was engrossed in the book, so I said “Hi mom” without looking up from what I was reading. Which is why I failed to catch the expression on her face as she looked around my room. But I didn’t miss the all-too familiar tone of voice. Read the rest of this entry »

You guessed it. Another griping session about how my mother doesn’t understand why I read what I read and why I write what I write. Another rant about how writing is a lonely road to travel. Blahblahblahblah. 

I’m giving you two seconds to hit the back button.

One.   

Two.

Still here? Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.  Read the rest of this entry »