New YorkerWhen one stops blogging, one ceases to be an entertainer. Despite the fact that my brand of storytelling falls along the lines of “hey y’all, watch this” antics, I gleaned a sort of affirmation as a shambolic raconteur for a voluntary audience (as opposed to the folks I met at parties or work or central booking). After losing that affirmation, I felt like a two-year-old who’s fallen down without any parental witnesses–there is no one to hear me scream–every time I experienced something funny, or sad, or irritating and had NO WAY TO BLOG ABOUT IT. The effin’ narcissism of it all.

This is meant to be an intro to a lagniappe from our recent vacation in Florida, which at least N was also witness to. At the beach with my mother, her sunning on the shore (with no sunblock, I might add, but how are you going to tell a 69-year-old woman she’s going to ruin her complexion?) and N and me standing 40 yards out in the Atlantic at low tide. We stood facing the shore. She had pulled that week’s New Yorker out of our bag, the one with the drawing of the Iranian woman examining a ballot for hanging chads–oh, so witty!

“I can see the Onion headline right now,” I quipped. “‘Area Woman Doesn’t Get New Yorker Cover.'”

N laughed.

Later, when we were toweling off, my mother held up said magazine. “I don’t get this cover,” she said.

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is what makes this all worth it.

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