Posts Tagged ‘Mothers’
October 6, 2015 | by Sadie Stein
I used to have a superpower. I never told anyone, of course—that’s the rule with powers—and in the grand tradition, it was a mixed blessing. It was this: mothers loved me.
It’s true. Mothers of all kinds wanted me to date their sons. Hell, they wanted me to marry them. Not shockingly, the actual sons in question were less jazzed about the prospect. It seemed like the very qualities that rendered me totally unsuitable to boys my own age—my good manners, my bookishness, my lack of any adult sexiness, even my runty size—were the same things that drew their mothers like catnip. Read More »
September 17, 2015 | by Dan Piepenbring
From letters William Carlos Williams sent to his mother as a student at the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine. During his time there, Williams, born on this day in 1883, joined Mask and Wig, the nation’s oldest all-
July 17, 2015 | by Sadie Stein
My mother called me to ask how much to tip on a haircut. “A normal haircut,” she said.
“I usually tip upwards of 20 percent,” I said, “but of course it’s at your discretion.”
“That seems awfully high.”
“I don’t know, not for something you wear every day. And if you have a relationship with your hairdresser—” Read More »
May 5, 2015 | by Sadie Stein
My mother’s loathing for the word lady occupies a special place in her pantheon of negativity.
To be specific, she doesn’t actually mind lady as a word or a title of the peerage—as seen in, say, Lady Day*, The Lady Vanishes, or Lady Chatterley’s Lover. It’s when the word appears in lyrics that she puts her foot down. (And even then, there’s a disclaimer: some lyrics are okay. “Luck Be a Lady,” “The Lady Is a Tramp”—these, among others, are acceptable.) Read More »
March 6, 2015 | by Dan Piepenbring
A letter from George du Maurier to his mother, March 1862.
My dear Mamma,
I have just received your letter which is disgustingly short and disappointing after I’ve been waiting day after day—as if you didn’t owe me a letter—fact is, you don’t care half so much for your firstborn as you used, and I’m not going to stand it Madam. I must have you over here to remind you by the fascination of my manner and the charm of my conversation that you ought to have quite a peculiar pride and affection for me. Read More »
February 5, 2015 | by J. D. Daniels
Being the last man on Earth.
On a recent Sunday evening, trying to relax, I turned on the television and saw an ad for a new comedy series called The Last Man on Earth. It wasn’t clear how everyone else had died.
I had learned what I needed to know, or had remembered it: television does not relax me. I turned the television off, took an Ativan, and listened to The Teddy Charles Tentet, a terrific jazz record.
Phil Miller is the last man on earth—which makes him the world’s greatest handyman—world’s greatest athlete—[etc.]
The last man on earth.
But of course one is not the Last Man on Earth. There are other people, equal claimants to the Earth. It can be vexing to share it with them. Read More »