You've Got To Pinch a Penny or Two, Girls, You've Got To Pinch a Penny or Two

Well. I guess this just goes to show that you never really know anyone as well as you think you do. Take my mom, for instance. No. I am not stealing that old Henny Youngman joke. I would not want anyone to actually take my mom. Though if I did, I would say "please," because she raised me to be polite like that.

This morning I called her to check in before she went to church. We only chatted a few minutes, because, as she was the first to say, she didn't know anything. We commiserated on how we could manage the Cardinals better than their current manager, and how he better not mess things up in today's game like he did on Friday. Then we hung up.

At 9:45, the time Mom normally leaves for church, my phone rang.

"Did you give me the papers this week? I was going to put them in my neighbor's mailbox, but I don't remember reading them, and I can't find them. I cleaned up a stack of papers yesterday, so I could have misplaced them. But I don't think The Pony ever brought them to me." Of course she meant her weekly hand-me-down tabloids, The National Enquirer and The Globe.

"I'm sure he did. I had them laid out. Remember how I told you that Camilla called Kate in a drunken stupor and told her to watch out, because Charles had Diana killed, and now he was trying to have herself killed, and to be aware because William would probably want to have Kate killed, too? There were some good stories last week."

"Oh. I know you said that, but I didn't read it. That's okay. I'm on my way to church. I have to go to the bank first thing tomorrow morning and get checks without your name on them. I can't use my other checks. Friday was the last day."

"I know how much you distrust me, and won't write a check with my name on it. I assure you, your money is safe with me." I was just needling her a bit. Her bank was bought out, and they sent her new checks, but they included my name and my sister the ex-mayor's wife's name on the checks because we are on Mom's account. Little things like this really bother Mom. Can you imagine? You'd think the custodian had been moving her classroom furniture around or something.

"I was just telling you that in case you try to call me tomorrow morning and I'm not home. I might go to Aldi's after church, because the regular preacher is still gone on vacation, and we might get out early. But I might come straight home to watch the game. That bothers me about the checks, because now I can't write one to donate at church today."

"Mom. I pretty sure they'll take cash."

"Oh! I don't feel right about putting in cash."

"Mom. I don't think anybody is going to steal your cash out of the collection plate."

"No, I'm not worried about them taking it. But I want a record that I donated."

"So let me get this straight. You won't leave cash, because you wouldn't get credit for donating. So to avoid that, you are simply not going to donate?"

"Yes."

"That seems kind of...I don't know...odd. That you want to make sure people know you donated, that this fact is really important to you, yet you are purposefully not donating. So not only will you not get credit, but you are not actually donating. I don't understand that reasoning."

"Well, that's just how I am."

"Okay. You'd better get going. I'll see if we still have the papers around here." Let the record show that I found the tabloids in my school bag, a must when spending two days working during the summer to make up snow day hours.

Huh. If mom was Fagin in the musical Oliver!, she would sing her own little song. Rather than, "You've got to pick a pocket or two, boys, you've got to pick a pocket or two," my mom would sing, "You've got to pinch a penny or two, girls, you've got to pinch a penny or two." The choreography would be Mom twirling around between the pews, passing that collection plate right across to the next parishioner without putting in even a farthing.

Yes. Mom has her own dirty little secret. Make that HAD.