The Blotter

I recently had a conversation with myself while shampooing my hair one night. It was following Easter Sunday and while I’m no longer religious, of course I indulge with my family for certain religious holidays, as I’ve done all my life. We had celebrated with a lunch at my aunt’s house; I picked the most, the only, somewhat frilly dress I own to salute the occasion and picked up flowers and an assortment of sweets for the family on my way. The weather was one of April’s best and it was a perfect day for indulging in a deviled eggs spread and a sangria. It was the type of warm and breezy you had to open all the windows and crack the porch door during or it would feel like a wasted opportunity.

We had wonderful conversations, as our family always does, and I rarely miss a chance to spend time with my family when I can, but a couple days later I found myself daydreaming having an argument with my mother. Nothing had happened prior; leading up to or after Easter. No quarrels were had, no uncomfortable attitudes to ruin the mood, no unpleasant situations or subtle undertones of a potentially unpleasant conversation . . . .

We were arguing about a difference of opinion, the details of which were the kind that daydreams don’t allow you to remember, but the theme was along the lines of the lengths the two of us would go to save each other, if ever there was a necessity.

You are correct. That is neither a typical lunch nor Easter conversation — although one could argue that the story of Jesus’s death is a portrayal of the lengths he — yeah, yeah, okay.

Here we were, in my head, having this argument in my aunt’s living room. In our Easter garb we stood as we yelled and spiraled toward tears.

While naturally one can’t possibly remember every nook and cranny of a dream, I remember I did say something along the lines of It’s not about whether or not I would take a bullet for you, it’s about how many bullets I’d take.

I stopped shampooing once I finally realized what I had been thinking — not even realizing I was daydreaming. I paused my shower routine to ask myself why the hell I was subconsciously imagining such a scenario. I wanted to finish the task I had at hand, obviously, but I also wanted to hurry up and get out so I could call her. I hadn’t talked to her in a couple of days and I thought she’d get a kick out of the odd thought I had.

I thought about it, for maybe six seconds, then realized what an awful idea it would be. There’s a saying in the south and if used correctly, it’s usually said as a passive-aggressive put down toward someone you pity. That’s not what I’m saying. My mother needs her heart (or soul, potato/tomato) literally and figuratively blessed.

Her eyes start welling up at the mere mention of me or my younger sister growing up. Or dying. We’re in our twenties.

Now while I’m fully aware of and always grateful for the loving and meaningful relationship I have with my mother, this was not about to be a phone call that I potentially upset her night with. To some people, what I had said could be taken as poetry, and I get that. To each their own.

While the testament to how much I love her might be an endearing sentiment, the thought of me dying for her would’ve been the main visual. Not the intended takeaway.

Hanlon’s razor states never attribute to malice what can be attributed to incompetence.

Sure, people make mistakes every now and again; we tell a joke that comes off the wrong way, make a comment during a conversation at the wrong instant, or incorrectly read the room. All these situations and many other like them people actively work to not be in.

Or should at least.

Calling her at 9pm would’ve done nothing good for her and little for me. Corporate jargon likes to call that value add. And there would’ve been none of that there.

Olivia