Gotta talk to Mom about some things.

My mother lives with us since Dad passed away. Old School Spanish farmer who will be 80 years old next spring and is finally learning to take it easy and do what old Spanish ladies are supposed to do: Watch Latin TV equivalent of Jerry Springer/People’s Court and argue with the cat instead of cleaning the house top to bottom and do the laundry every frigging day. We gave up on cooking; you do not tell a Spanish mom not to cook or she will make your life miserable with guilt. Jewish mothers are mere amateurs compared to my Mom.

However, she is not naive when it comes to security. Living almost 40 years in a country with a murder rate of 60 per 100 K will make anybody an expert. She will not open the door to anybody but fully uniformed cops, Firemen or people she knows have been vetted by me or my wife. Where she fails is that she sometimes forgets to warn me that somebody has come in and that may lead to awkward moments.

About an hour ago, I am out on the porch enjoying the 72 degree weather while answering some email when the corner of my eye detects movement and a silouette that does not fit with the pre-programmed shapes that are supposed to be in the house at that moment. Next to the laptop lays my .357 Mag Rossi snubbie and I grab it. One very surprised landscaper froze on his green tracks, his eyes bouncing between me and my gun. I said an embarrassed hi and clumsily deposited the snubbie in my short’s pocket as the landscaper finally remembered the mechanics of breathing. The poor guy did his thing faster than usual and I actually had to chase after him to pay for his services. In retrospect that might have not been the most sensitive thing to do. I have a feeling that I might need to find another landscaper.

Mom is taking a nap right now and the contents of my ashtray just caught on fire. I’ll talk to her about early warnings later.

 

 

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