“I’m fed up with her, all the time calling him ‘The One.’”
“I think I know who you mean.”
As usual on Sunday, at the stroke of noon, my more-than-105-year-old mother was calling from Florida. She takes special pride in doing so each week at precisely that time, seeing it as evidence that she, as she puts it, still has her “marbles.” Or, as she has recently come to modify it, in acknowledgement of her very-advanced age, and reality, “at least some marbles.”
“Doesn’t she know what he’s facing? She should know better, that Maureen Shroud.”
“Maureen Dowd,” I corrected her.
