Time to get caller ID

The phone rings, and it's my mom. If I had caller ID, I would know this and not pick up. But I like risky living. Hello?

"UCM, is that you?"

Yes...

"Do you *ever* think of calling me?" she yells so loudly, that I actually ask, What? to make sure I heard her right.

"Do you *ever* think of calling me?" Yep. I heard her right the first time. And I wonder just what the hell kind of answer she wants to that question. Yes, but I don't? Or Of course not! Who the hell are you kidding?

Instead, I let the question glance off the side of me and avoid a confrontation. That's an amusing question, mom. What's going on?

"I called you several days ago to tell you I'm back from Hawaii and tell you how that went. But *you* did not call me back!"

I won't bore you with the details. But this is how it is with my mom: She's rude and annoying and addicted to Catholicism. In other words, we have nothing in common but our DNA (and perhaps that some people find me rude and annoying).

At one point, though, she asks about my school. To wit: "Have you taken *the class* yet where they make you deal with your own shit?"

That's a description of every single class I'm taking.

"Oh," she says. "Did that just start this term? Because I don't think you took *that class* last term."

It's also a description of every single class I've taken.

"No, I don't think you understand what I'm asking," she says. "I'm talking about *the class* where they make you deal with your own shit."

I learned a long time ago not to take this bait. But I still had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, Apparently, you *missed* that class, mother. And, no, you cannot use my notes as a crib sheet. Gotta go now. I don't want you to miss another conversation with God. He hates when the line is busy.