Obsessive Component

I read that Hemingway said that it's always a mistake for a man to write about one's father. I can't recall reading if he thought it was a good idea to write about your mom, but Hemmingway was a total fucking asshole so who cares?

This week my mother is visiting me for the first time since I have lived in Chicago.

I think it's best I keep that statement concise, because I've been sitting here for twenty minutes trying to write a sixty word opening statement. Mom comes to us live via frequent-flier-miles from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma (the city so nice they named it one and a half times) near where she has lived since my birth. She is, like most all mothers, the sweetest, most beautiful, absolutely perfect product of genetic coupling in natural history. Mom is extremely bright, free-thinking, culturally aware, and socially conscious. These are all qualities I hope to have myself someday. She is also, I must add, great fun to spend time with, a wonderful conversationalist, and possibly the least obtrusive houseguest to have ever guested a house. I love her unendingly and am forever indebted to her, not only for her deciding to allow me physical existence, but for allowing me to develop with her guidance the thought-tunnels that I can now perceive my universe through.

Hmm, that last sentence really just makes her (or maybe me) sound like some mud encrusted hippy with no aspirations beyond bong ownership. That is defiantly not the case, as hippies are not allowed to own property or to show themselves outdoors after mid-day without the escort of an elder Christian male captain in all of Oklahoma and most of Kansas. So forget that bit about the tunnels and shit.

Not my mom.