Wonderful Mama

Last week my mama called me at work to say she'd heard on the radio an announcement for a worskshop sponsored by Telemundo that aims to cultivate the next generation of Spanish-language television writers. She even took down the web address, no small deal since mom can't use a VCR and has never used a computer (she can't find the "on" switch).

At the risk of jinxing this whole endeavour, I'm letting you know that I am indeed applying. If I am selected, I'd have to spend six months in either Miami or Los Angeles. It's a little unclear who decides where I go and when. I'm pretty sure Mama thinks if I get in I'll move down to be with her.

For years mama and her sisters have tried to convince me that I should be living in Miami. The sisters argue that mama is all alone and needs her only son to protect her and care for her in her old age. She's 70 and spry as a caffeinated squirrel. When she visits in New York, she walks 10 paces ahead of me, she's THAT limber and speedy. So I think she can fend for herself. Physically, anyway. Emotionally, well...that's what therapy's for. But as my aunts are want to say (and as mama repeats)"there's no better therapy than the love of a mother's son." Clearly I'm responsible for mama's mental state. I'm like a dopamine dispenser. Yeah. That's me. Mr. Meds.

What mama doesn't realize is the fact that the workshop may actually take place in Los Angeles, in which case I'd be moving FARTHER away from her than ever before! Isn't it ironic, don't you think? And as my boyfriend, Rey, pointed out: this IS ACTUALLY irony; not like all those coincidences people like to label as irony. Fools. We should call those idiots Morissettians.