My mother tells me she’s not worried about the calendar.
Of course, she hasn’t actually SEEN it yet. Here’s her e-mail:
The theatre ladies wanted to know if Daddy and I knew about your “Ms.
October” escapade? If we didn’t know, were they going to hide all the calendars before this afternoon’s show?
Tell them we’ve seen you naked, covered with poop. Tell them we’ve gotten through your age 13-18 years without having heart attacks. Tell them we’ve been through at least a dozen of your “Don’t worry, everything will be fine” issues. Tell them we’ve been through more things than they could imagine. Tell them we worry about bird feces causing cancer, fish not getting fed, Madison missing us, your driving anywhere, freezers not getting defrosted and burning out the motor on your refrigerator, taxes not getting filed, Madison not getting shots, appointments for Ruiz and allergy shots, the sink in the shower. The list goes on and on and on and on. The calendar worrycomes after these.
Anyway, we have Richard and Pat Nixon masks for the theatre so no one will recognize us.