Forgive me, I don’t usually discuss politics.

*Note–for some reason 1/2 this post got deleted before the first post–I went back and added the first part again, so if you read it in the interim, double check. It makes more sense now!)

I really don’t (discuss politics that is) although most of you have figured that I’m sort of rabidly left-wing. (I’m not sure if it’s been the appeals to the Goddess that tipped you off or the human rights slant to my books. Either way, good guess!) I’m not going to go on a rant right now–I may later, because, well, some of you live outside of the U.S. and if a certain ticket wins next month, I may be asking you for asylum–but right now I’m going to talk about my mom.

My real mom did an awful lot of drugs in the ’70s–she was self-medicating for mental illness–but she hasn’t been able to take care of herself for most of her adult life, so she lives in a senior care home. She’s a little out of it sometimes–enough so that I forget that she’s hella smart. Crazy smart. Paranoid/schizophrenic genius smart, to be exact. Every now and then she has a completely lucid moment that reminds me that I get my weird sense of humor from both branches of the family tree–and it also reminds me that even if there’s only one monkey in a barrel, the barrel can still be a lot of fun.

One of my favorite moments was when I saw a cat outside her care home–I was sort of excited because I knew she liked cats, and most halfway houses don’t let you keep them.

“Oh, mom–you’ve got a cat–that’s awesome!”
“Yeah, honey,” she said with a completely sweet and straight face, “He’s a real mother fucker.”
I was absolutely stunned until she explained that he beat the carp out of every cat on the block. She adored him.

This weekend we had a similar moment. Actually we had two.

The first will appeal to my editing staff. I was discussing the resurrection of a certain character with my grandma, and my mom spoke up. “Yeah–don’t kill her off, honey. Fooey on that.”

I smiled. “Well, three out of four editors had a stronger word than that,” I said mostly to myself.

Grandma heard me–so did mom. They laughed heartily, and I remembered that grandma worked for the OSS during WWII. I’m pretty sure she knew EXACTLY what that word was. Mom was laughing because she agreed.

The other moment came when I was driving my mom home.

I honestly didn’t know if my mom followed politics–she has to share a television with a zillion other people, and their tastes run from Spongebob to Hannity and Colmes. So I saw a McCain/Palin sign and, out of curiosity asked her what she thought of Sarah Palin.

I should have known–most people who did that many drugs in the ’70s usually started it as a political statement.

“Oh honey,” (and here’s where I should have known I was in trouble. ‘Honey’ seems to precede some of her most shocking moments). “Palin’s fucked. She really is. No good. No good at all. Don’t vote for her. She’s totally fucked.”

I had to crack up–even if I’d been a rabid Palin supporter, it was the delivery!!!