Post-Modern Drunk: Mom of the Dead
My Zombie Mom is disappointed in me. She doesn't like me staying out so late. She disapproves of my girlfriend, too, which I really don't understand. She keeps trying to eat my girlfriend's brain. Zombie Mom wonders why I never gave that nice young girl from church a call. I keep having to remind Zombie Mom that she ate that nice young girl from church last year, and besides, that family used to bring carrots suspended in jello to church functions, and we don't associate with that class of people.

I think Zombie Mom is really wondering why I never go to church anymore, but she's afraid to bring it up directly. She does try to remind me that Jesus was the original zombie. I don't have a heart to correct her: Lazarus is the original zombie; Jesus just did a better job of it.

All Zombie Mom can talk about these days is the weather and what she and Zombie Dad had for dinner the night before. I wish they'd stop calling me every Sunday just to tell me these things. They say they just want to hear my voice, but there are only so many times that you can hear that it is cold and snowy there and that Zombie Mom thinks she undercooked the brains last night.

Zombie Mom reminded me again this week that they wish I'd taken more math when I was back in school. I don't know why they keep bringing this up these days; I have a decent job, after all. But apparently I've wasted my true talent and my god-given brains. I hung up when she kept repeating "wasted your brains" over and over again. Thanks, ma, I got it the first time. I'm not stupid, despite what you seem to think. God! I guess they just wish I'd been anything but an English major.

Zombie Mom pestered me again as to when I'm planning to visit her and Zombie Dad again. She doesn't entirely understand how in poor shape I've been recently because of the lupus and lycanthropy. She can be very supportive at times, though, and it's sweet to see how she cares. Still, she doesn't seem to understand that I'm not quite bowled over by a meal consisting entirely of sweetbreads. At least, not bowled over enough to drop everything and come out to see her and Zombie Dad.

It's frustrating, at times, but I know that Zombie Mom genuinely has my best interests at heart. I only hope no one shoots her in the head with a shotgun and ends her unbearable unquenchable agony before I get a chance to let her know how much I appreciate it.

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