It is pouring. My office is a poorly-built room stuck on the tuchis of the house, and the joints of the room leak. There’s a stupid deck on top of the office too, and Maggie reported us anonymously to the Department of Buildings for illegal additions.

So I am sitting in this illegal addition, which I have to locate documentation for and then submit it to the boro of Queens and then the City, and there is water coming into the room, 2 towel’s worth of moisture. The cats poke around it, fascinated.

My mother is here visiting and having a great time. We had a lovely dinner out on Friday and then came home and watched 3 episodes of Succession. She does not notice any similarities to our family yet, and probably won’t ever. It was so great to start it all over. Everyone is there in episode 1 and it was good to see Frank and Gerri and Roman (looking rough, I have to say) and Marcia!

My mom is being as lovely as she can be, but I did draw the line when she wanted me to read this incredibly long poem she wrote about the mountain behind the house, Mt. Lamborn. It was 3 pages long and single spaced. I said no, I cannot read this.

It is a bridge too far

I love my mother. I enjoy my mother. I dragged myself to an octogenarian cocktail party last night, in the rain, on the Upper East Side and then schlepped over to Williamsburg for a dinner party with my delightful peers because she wanted me to be there with her. I arrived 20 minutes before she did and had a good time, and it was really not a big deal but I am positing that I do my share of daughterly duties.

Soft duties, I know! I’m not giving sponge baths or seeing her fade into dementia. But it’s not like you spend your time celebrating the lack of that reality.

But I am not going to read her poetry anymore. I have attended poetry readings—like flown to Colorado for a reading—and been informed that she did not reserve a ticket for me so I will be across the street in the movie theater watching the reading as a live feed. Seriously! I was like, I’ll stay home and watch it on my laptop, thanks.

Ultimately, I was allowed in the smaller theater and she was great—she and her pals all read poems about death. DEATH DEATH DEATH. I think Friday’s poem was about death and I just put my foot down. No, I will not mother you. I will not read your poem about death and you and death. Maybe I’ll read it at your funeral?

I did say my boilerplate bit of ‘You did not mother me much, and I don’t think it’s like an even trade at this point.’ But why go down the mean road? She did lay off and didn’t mention it again but I am a bit tormented.

I gotta wring out these poor towels. It’s still leaking.