f**k!“Alan!” she says between her teeth, “behave,” then swats my hand and rolls her eyes, but she can’t help smiling either.
“Made you laugh.”
“What’s funny?” my mother asks from in back.
“Oh, nothing,” I answer. In the rearview mirror, I see mom pondering just like Betty White used to do in Golden Girls, and I’m scared to think what’s going on in her mind. My mother has a way of arriving at conclusions that defy logic, and what’s worse is when she arrives at them, they usually come rolling out of her with little regard to who’s standing nearby.
Golden GirlsAhead, I see the mansion peeking through the trees on its forested throne. The house, or should I say spectacle, is an exercise in excess, and I have to wonder why two people need so much living space, unless of course they want to
