I confess

Waiting for mother to return from one of her unscheduled journeys back to LA is like being in a constant low-frequency Hitchcock moment. She never calls from the airport or from the cab, she just shows up, her keys in the lock like a sudden lightning bolt and there she is, always hiding behind those oversized Balenciaga sunglasses.

She checks the three or so weeks of mail as if she's waiting for something important. What she doesn't know is I've already gone through everything that looks interesting, opening, reading and resealing every letter with the address hand-written on the envelope (nothing found this time).

She proceeds into the living room, still in her high heels and fur overcoat, and discovers that her precious Calvados bottle is opened and emptied. "You know I got that from Elvis!" she shouts (she means Costello). I do know, it's one her favorite stories but it must have slipped my mind. To her it's an act of war. This is going to be a fun Sunday.