No Filter

My mom is the sweetest person, but dementia has damaged her “filters” and she’s not as tactful as she used to be. She pretty much just says whatever comes into her head. Two recent comments she made to me:

“I like your outfit.” (Thanks, Mom.) “It doesn’t hide the belly, though.” (Ouch.)

“What’s that on your arm?” (It’s a mole. I’ve had it forever.) “Well, why don’t you get it removed? It’s ugly.”

Maybe this is payback for the time I walked up behind her sitting on our back steps when I was a kid, looked down at the top of her head and said “Eww, Mom! Did you know your hair is all gray on top?” Heh.

Today we were having dinner in a local diner and a woman walked in. She was probably around 70 with peroxide blonde hair, makeup a la Tammy Faye Baker, and wearing a very short and very tight skirt. Mom laughed out loud, rolled her eyes, and commented on the woman’s short skirt several times. For once, I was grateful for her new habit of talking so softly that you can hardly hear her.


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