Face, meet palm.

No, Ma, you don’t get to sit outside St Mark’s in town waiting for glimpses of Keith Olbermann’s extended family, let alone Himself. Paparazzi killed Princess Di. Don’t be like that.

My mother, who is nothing if not a gossip-monger, saw a Marie Olbermann on the prayer list in the St Cate’s bulletin. Sure enough, this Marie had a daughter called Jenna, and said daughter’s husband apparently preaches at the Lutheran church in town. Keith Olbermann does have a sister by that name — hell, it’s all out there on Google.

So my mother, in her infinite wisdom, has decided she needs to start sitting outside the churches in an attempt to get Olbermann’s autograph, and I’m thinking, Ma? That’s lunatic behavior, right there. The man comes to our town, he comes to our town, but Christ, leave him be when he’s here. It’s family time, not public-face time. I’ll shake his hand if I see him in the beer tent at the carnival this year, how’s that?

My mother is talking about inviting the pastor and his wife (and his brother-in-law) to a candlelight supper. Dear God. My mother has turned into Hyacinth Bucket.

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