My Mother and The Golden Girls



I’ve been thinking about my mother lately. It’s strange, memories flash through my mind-mostly fleeting. Even years after she’s been gone, I sometimes expect her to call me on the phone. I usually have a few wacky hyper-realistic dreams involving my mother every week. They mostly are nonsensical. Some are sad. Some are hilarious. My mother usually does things in my dreams that she never did in real life. For instance, cooking steaks on the grill in the backyard while it was raining. I’m pretty sure she never used the grill in her life.
It is fair to say that nothing reminds me of mother more than when I catch an episode of The Golden Girls. My mother was an old Italian, her mother was an old Italian. They related to Dorothy and Sophia (my mother was named Dorothy). I can vividly recall those two talking on the phone laughing about Sophia’s latest antics. Personally, my mother was Blanche. Not the slutty part, but the fashionable-dressed to the nines, side of Blanche.
So, yes, I do watch The Golden Girls when it’s on. It’s fucking still funny all these years later. I can just hear my mother laughing along with me.


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