My Dear Sweet Mom
As most of my readers know, I live a little too close to comfort to the parental units. I live in the apartment upstairs from them. It’s interesting and sometimes it can be the same scenario as “Everybody Loves Raymond”. I’m the baby of the family; therefore, I’m treated as such. Fun. Sometimes I still feel as though I’m thirteen years old when I leave my parents’ house to go somewhere else. “Where ya goin’ Deb?” My mom calls out, as I’ve already said goodbye to her for the fifth time. “Oh just out with some friends.” Not elaborating too much on my whereabouts. It’s not like I’m out dealing crack or anything or that I live somewhere out in the ghetto. Now, the funniest thing is, my mother says this certain phase that’s so funny when you think about it. As soon as I walk in, I hear, “Ya home?” Sometimes I bust on her and just tell her it’s all in her head, but I go along with it and say ‘yes’, because it’s what I’ve been hearing all my life ever since I was a kid. I also hear the famo...