Motivations from my Mom

Ever since I started talking of applying to out-of-state graduate schools, my mom has decided to furnish at least one reason for staying in Utah every time I see her.  Sometimes she repeats herself.  (I've heard it pointed out many, many times that my niece and nephew and their future little brother will be here)

 

But I've decided her latest reason for me to stick around is by far the funniest and she's getting the most laugh-mileage out of it.  And she knows it.  Her latest reason: the Jazz, specifically Kyle Korver.  She was ecstatic when a young attractive man joined the team, figuring it might have a chance of luring me back into watching the Jazz.

 

Don't get me wrong, I like basketball just fine.  But it's not something I go out of my way to watch and I haven't really liked a Jazz team since Jeff Hornacek left the team.  That's just how it is.  I was a fan of the team that made it so far in the playoffs because the majority of the players were class acts.  They didn't rough up the referees, sport a bazillion tattoos, or badmouth their teammates on national television.  Karl Malone hadn't gone all sour on Utah yet.  And most of them didn't flaunt their fame, instead preferring to keep a low profile.

 

Anyway, when my mom read about Kyle Korver coming to the Jazz, she had to tell me.  Even though I looked at her blankly with my spoon full of soup halfway to my mouth and said, "Who?"

 

"You know," she said.  "The basketball player who looks like Ashton Kutcher."

 

I choked on my soup.  "Do you even know who Ashton Kutcher is?"

 

"Somebody famous."

 

"Do you know what he looks like?"

 

"Well, no.  But the article told me."

 

"I see."

 

"Doesn't matter.  I call him Cute Boy, anyway."

 

More choking.  I don't think he's attractive.  Ashton, either, for that matter.  But ever since he joined the team, my mom has decided I should have a vested interest in him.  (This may, in part, be my fault for telling her I would stay in Utah if a cute boy were involved.   A cute boy who could commit.)

 

I tried to make it stop by convincing her any intelligent boy would laugh at me for being such an ignoramus about the Jazz.  Any conversation would involve me saying, "Now, let me see who I can remember is on the team.  Kirilenko.  Mehmet Okur.  Darren Williams.  And Cute Boy."  That didn't work.

 

And now, she has taken it upon herself to make sure I am up to date on Cute Boy's achievements.  Every time I stay overnight, I'm sure to find one randomly placed newspaper clipping picturing Cute Boy when I least expect it.  And it always reappears once after I throw it away.  Sometimes he's lurking under my dinner plate.  Last week, he was in between the towel and wash rag I grabbed from the linen closet before I showered.  He reappeared, in each instance, on my pillow before I went to bed.

 

When I visited on Sunday, he somehow managed to sneak into the sleeve of my coat and then, when my mom hugged me goodbye, found his way back into my coat pocket.  At this point, my mom does it for the laughs.  I think she's actually attempting subtle subterfuge (I know that's kind of redundant, but just deal) by making me thing I won't find anyone who can make me laugh this much with such a small thing if I move out of state.

 

Either that, or clippings of Cute Boy will start following me in stamped envelopes . . .