Every afternoon for a few years now, she and I would shut off our PCs, gather up our stuff and walk out of the library together. We talked about everything and nothing. We would take deep breaths and describe the weather, the season, a distant fire or a budding tree we smelled on that breeze. Her nose was better than mine, but mine is pretty good. Each breath held stories from far and near, and we considered them during the walk from the library to the street, across the street and up the sidewalk, where we parted company every day. Yesterday, I heard secondhand that a brain scan revealed no activity, which signaled the end of speculation. When I put on my coat in the afternoon, she had not asked, “Are you ready, m’dear?” and never would again. I walked to the curb and crossed the street without looking, and cried all the way home. What with all the not-looking, it’s kind of a miracle I didn’t get flattened by a semi.

Attention Sunday morning talking heads: this is how it’s done.

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That was last night. So what the fuck is with the Today Show this morning?

After work at the family store, where I’m listening to enchanting salsa today, I’m dashing off to help Siobhan tidy up her Dad’s house. He’s being released from the local health facility after winning a 3 games out of five Battleship tourney with his mortality. How could I not want in on the Swiffer and Windex action?

It is sad that All My Children went to all the trouble of ginning up fans and foes of gay marriage with the Bianca & Reese storyline. Many of the right things were said, some truly, deeply wrong things were shouted, but the worst, the very worst thing about this storyline was that it traded in prejudice without acknowledging it. It’s classic soap opera to have an engaged person fool around the night before the wedding. Let’s get that out of the way. It’s really low to assert, however, that lesbians are confused, promiscuous, lack self-awareness and shouldn’t get married, which is the take-away lesson of the whole episode.

So AMC staged this wedding and immediately pulled the plug on the marriage, as if to say, “Don’t be mad at us, God Botherers! Do you see a couple of lesbians making out on the couch? You must have imagined it.” I just don’t have the patience for that kind of immaturity and cowardice.

Maybe I need a break from my soap. I certainly need a break from any argument that lesbians are mythical creatures on the prowl for a hot man.

This is a picture of my mother, sort of. Of course, it’s a photo of Elizabeth Taylor, whom my mother always resembled to a wacky degree except that Mom was a natural blond with lighter blue eyes. Picture that. Picture your mother being the blond version of Elizabeth Taylor, and picture men following your cart through the produce aisle. Picture what happens when the car breaks down and the tow truck arrives. Picture Mom not noticing because that’s just how people act. Picture your Mom, young when you’re born, bowling in black stirrup pants, mowing the lawn in a bikini, creating a stir at the PTA meeting with her mere presence. Your job: try not to develop a complex.

Friday afternoon, I was on a mission in the grocery store: to plan five or six menu items for a surprise party Saturday night. I walked slowly, recalculating each idea as I found or couldn’t find ingredients. Three-quarters of the way through the aisles I was exhausted by the effort. I walked in circles until I found a hand of ginger I knew must be near shallots. At the register, I stood blankly while the cashier struggled with a large order complicated by food stamp regulations. The customer seemed used to matching items to the papers but I felt her watching me for signs of impatience or scorn so I studied the soap opera magazines with what shred of attention I still possessed. Finally, I was helping the very young boy packing my groceries into my canvas bags when I looked up and saw a tiny figure behind me in a black peacoat, a Greek fisherman’s hat and black jeans.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re my mother.” The cashier stops what she’s doing and the boy struggles to bag 18 eggs. Mom says, “Why, yes I am,” and goes on to explain her appearance which, if I’m honest, looks a little unusual. She says she’s had migraine all day. That’s news and I had two simultaneous reactions.

1. Shit, Mom had a migraine. I bet she feels bad; and:
2. Shit, Mom had a migraine, which means migraines are almost certainly in my future. Shit!

“You look like Comrade Gidget controls the means of production,” I say.
“Why don’t you stay to help your Mom?” the boy asks.
“Mom, do you need help?”
“No, I’m looking forward to getting a little exercise with the bags,” she says brightly.
“Then I’m off like a prom dress,” I say, and I am.