Possumblog

My pleasure, Pops.

Curmudgeonry is actually listed as one of Instapundit's original blogchildren under my husband's name. That was back before the Revolution under which I gained ultimate power. Bwahaha! I guess the blogfather for my Curmudgeonry would actually by my husband's version of Curmudgeonry.

Yes, Jordana, but remember, the victor gets to write the history.

I started out with 10 blog-daddies, though you (PossumPapa) were probably the most influential. I'll have to ruminate on this.

I didn't know that you used to exchange regular e-mails with the Bleatmeister. Most impressive! I only got one or two terse ones out of him in 2002, when he was already a big cheese.

[Don't blog-daddies ask for money too?]

I think blogdaddies make you go get stuff out of the fridge and change the teevee channels. It's the kids who're always asking for money for dates and to borrow the car.

Ya know, Reynolds isn't such a noodge about the hair. And he gives us ice pops. And puppies.

You're not my REAL blogdaddy, anyway.

[This moment of adolescent whining brought to you by a month solid of holidays.}

A) Reynold's isn't a noodge about the hair, because he's a HIPPY!

B) Well, you got me there.

C) Yes, but what child want's a puppy that has been liquified in a blender?!

D) Hmph. Well, that must be why you never call. Would it break your finger to pick up the phone and call once in a while? And quit slouching. And why are you starving yourself? EAT! You know that's what the doctor says--you know, your blogbrother, the doctor? HE made something of himself, you know. HE calls. And has that lovely house in Westchester. Not that I'm complaining. I love you all equally. But you could call more. Holidays? Oh, sure, run all over the state during the holidays, and not once drop by here. Is that so much to ask?

That, sir, was some mighty fine Jewish Mothering. I may not know dual carb from a hambone, but I know the JM, and you did very well for a reb.

You forgot one thing, though.

"It's alright, I'll sit in the dark. Who needs light? All I would see is my lonely, empty house without you in it anyway. Or maybe I'd go up on the stepladder myself, with my arthritic knees, and try and change it myself, and fall, and break my neck and be dead. That happened to Aunt Yetta's cousin's husband, you know. Blows out a light bulb, gets in the car to go get a new one, can't go to the local store, not Herman, he's gotta go to the fancy place a mile away to save 50 cents, and BOOM! An atomic bomb hits and PFFFT! he's gone. All for a light bulb.

Nu, darling, you're not eating - you look so thin."

Well, I think there's some kind of Jewish-Southern mama cabal. They get together to swap notes and kvetch. Then, after the meetings break up, they go home and complain about each other.