SHHHHHHH!

My mother's looking for me. Shhhhh! Don't tell her where I am. She's always looking for me. This seems to be what she does. Why? Moms are great aren't they? No matter how old you are - always wanting to know where you're going, where you've been, what you ordered, what you bought, what you wore, who was there, what you talked about, and wasn't it too dangerous? There's more, I forgot, "do you like your hair that color?" and "what happened to that nice brush you used to carry in your purse?" My first response to her line of questioning is , "nowhere, nowhere, food, nothing, a skirt, no one, I don't remember and no" and "yes", and "it's still in my purse". Thank God for caller ID.

My mother and Donald Rumsfeld have a lot in common. They like short, quick, well targeted attacks; take prisoners, stay the course. I've learned to out strategize this thinking; laying low during the day, always screening calls and moving quietly after dark to restaurants she's never heard of and can't locate. Donald and mom are no test for me, besides he doesn't care about my hair color. My mother's good however, and undeterred; a relentless adversary. She calls, and calls, and calls, and calls, and calls, until I finally pick up thinking perhaps there's been a medical emergency. GOTCHA! "So where have you been?" Oh man, maybe she's just too good. She has years of experience, and an uncanny Zen like sense of patience for a Jew. Kudos on the Zen mom.

For the moment I remain under the radar and can breathe a sigh of relief. If she calls, don't tell her where I am, but that you like my hair color .