A House is not a Home

Mom has always been such a proper, even prudish, lady.  Years ago, she adopted a stray kitten; an orange and white tabby, named Madison, although we already had a male tuxedo cat, Todd.  Nature took its' course and Madison went into heat, doing her dance of forbidden love in Todd's face.  Todd, being a male cat ( neutered, thank God) mated with Madison many, many times--usually on top of the nearest table.  This gave Mom fits, and when Madison yakked up a hairball one day, Mom announced "it's morning sickness--she's pregnant'.  I explained that Todd no longer had the equipment to impregnate a female cat, to which Mom replied ' what if they grew back?" in a tone that wasn't interrogative, more of a 'I've run rings around you logically".

Imagine my suprise when this very prudish soul began talking about whorehouses.  Tuesday night, in the ER, she told my sister, Ginny, that there was a whorehouse on 82nd Street.  Ginny asked her where it was, but Elizabeth refused to tell her.  Yesterday, Mom told me the whorehouse was in Southampton, and Cathy's neighbor ( who is on her co-op board as well as the board of the hospital) was a frequent customer.  I do not know if Mom thinks she is the Madame or just one of the working girls.

After two weeks of dealing with Mom's hospital psychosis, I have learned that evasion is the best approach.  Do not try to bring her back to reality: she doesn't want to be there, and given her surroundings, I can't say that I blame her.  It seems better to let her discuss things ( even houses of ill repute) .  Who ever thought that my Mom would be giving her own production of ' The Whorehouse Monologues"