Perfection

My mother has been searching for the perfect little abode since descending on us almost three weeks ago. I have personally spent ten hours in Subarus helping her scope out neighborhoods, searching for the elusive "For Rent" sign, and generally trying to convince her that a two bedroom apartment in a desirable area will cost her more than $600 per month. She is unconvinced and remains resolute in her quest.

So far some of the duds have been memorable (or easily forgotten). There was the little duplex that had icky white tile floors, cold brick walls and a caterwauling cat outside the window. There was the quaint little house that abutted the Section 8 apartment building. The ex-con property manager lived only a stone's throw from the front door. Bonus! Oh, and let's not forget the apartment building with the graffiti and missing window screens. That place was a real winner in a field of losers.

I think she has finally found a place that she likes, but in classic mom form, she is hell-bent on talking herself out of it. I don't like a/c window units. I don't want to cut the grass. I don't like apartments. I want to go back to my house.

Usually after that last bit she comes to her senses and remembers that "her house" is in a part of the the southeastern United States where the Klan is still active, where blacks benignly speak of the "man" and his oppressive ways, and where the humid, stale air, as pervasive as the racism, cloaks one's body in heat and sweat. Her town reeks of body odor and death and it is a place to which noone ought to return.