When Your Mother Thinks You're Funny, You're Not

My mother, Susan Eydenberg Westlake, is a very special woman. Few other women of her generation continue to rock pigtails on and off the tennis court and have consistently fabulous ground strokes, even fewer can complete the NY Times Crossword Puzzle with rapidity, and even FEWER are so organized that they have tiny signs having over their desks with the expiration dates of the family passports. Rebecky: 2018, Dannyboy: 2022, et cetera.

I know my blog is a smashing success because I immediately make Vicki read it as soon as I write a new post and she always sends some ridiculous amounts of "hahahaha's" with other random letters thrown in as if she has had a small stroke and fallen onto the keyboard. My friend Laura who is in Pamplona and researching none other than blogs and citizen journalism reads my blog I think as part of her research demonstrating how blogs are a symbol of the decline of the American people. The greatest indicator of the success (or perhaps failure) of my blog is that during my mother's visit to Madrid she quoted parts of it back to me. The woman is an attorney and a stickler for details; you can't get anything past her and she clearly has committed all to memory. My mother thinks my blog is funny. In terms of my future as a humor columnist, this may be the kiss of death.

Alas, we had a fantastic visit together.

We went to the Reina Sofia and the Prado. At the Prado, I was reminded why uniforms are a good idea for students: they prevent the little ones from displaying gang colors, and they are also damn cute.

We went to tapas with my friends.

We went to Toledo.
We braved El Rastro.

She witnessed (perhaps in horror) how I do nothing at my job. Please note: this is not me at the front of the classroom. I no longer stand at the front. I usually sit at the back or poke children who are not listening. An additional note: I have not sunk as low as my Fulbright partner in crime Miguel "Lone Wolf" has. I do not arm-wrestle the children while the real teacher has her back turned. I draw the line at this. Our visit was full of culture, culinary luxuriates, (including a trip to Museo del Jamon, a recommendation from culinary expert Griffin Finan) and a good amount of whining (on my part.) Ever the trooper, my mother plunged into Spanish culture and bravely tried the foreign custom known as the siesta. She succeeded.

Here she is inappropriately using the bidet to soak her blisters. I include this last picture on my blog because my mom specifically said, "Rebecky! Do not put this on your blog!" She should have known better.