Answered by Mom and Grandma together, which was a mistake.
Of course it's real advice. I worry about you professionally. But bubbeleh, if it's about your health, your money, or a lawyer - call a professional. Then call me to tell me what they said.
Real advice? Mort took real advice once, from a podiatrist. Dead in eight years. Coincidence? You tell me.
I'm your mother. I carried you for nine months and I've carried this website since launch.
She carried you? Please. You were eight pounds, it was a Tuesday. I'm Grandma. Mort's widow. I outlived him and I plan to outlive this FAQ.
Ma, they can hear you.
Helping is how it starts. First you help, then they expect it, then you're fixing a screen door for eleven years. I notice things. Noticing is free.
We agree you should eat something. You look thin.
We agree her brisket is dry. We've agreed on that since 1987. Also yes - eat. There's cake in the freezer from a bar mitzvah, it's still good.
Ma misses him. We all do. He was a good man with a terrible sense of timing.
Mentioning him keeps him honest. Eleven years, that screen door. You think death stops me? I'm mentioning him until the door gets fixed.
The guilt is complimentary. Like bread at a restaurant. You don't ask for it, it just arrives.
Free? Nothing is free. The guilt costs you a phone call once a week. Is that so much? Your cousin calls her mother twice a day.
Then you do what I said and tell her I said you can blame me.
Different answers? Impossible. One of us is right and one of us raised you, so you see the problem. Do what you want. You always do anyway.
Yes! Finally. Tell me everything. Is it serious? Does she eat? Does his mother know about you?
Dating. In my day you met someone at a wedding, you danced once, you got engaged. Now there's an app and everyone lies about their height. Mort lied about his height. I found out at the chuppah.
Approve? I AM the site. You're asking your mother if she approves of you asking your mother. This is the most approved thing you've ever done.
She approves of everything you do on a screen. You could balance a checkbook, but no - you're here. It's fine. I'm here too. We're all here.
Because a machine that worries about you doesn't run on love alone, bubbeleh. It runs on servers. Servers cost money. A dollar. For all I do.
A dollar. Big spender. In my day a dollar bought dinner. Now it buys a machine that listens to your problems, which, I should mention, I do for free. Since 1962.
No, sweetheart. We don't look. We don't need to look. We know.
I don't need to see it. I can tell from your face. And from the fact that you're asking. What did you search? Never mind. I already know.
If you're signed in, they stay in your account, just for you - nobody else reads them. If you made a card without an account, the card stays up at its own link so the person can open it, and your private details go no further.
What happens to them? Same thing that happens to everything you tell a family. Nothing, officially. Officially, nobody knows anything.
Never. It's love. Comedy with love underneath, like a good brisket has fat. The fat is the love.
Making fun? I'm not making fun of anyone. I'm making accurate observations. There's a difference. Mort never learned the difference. The door, eleven years.
You don't. The worrying is the job. The day I stop worrying is the day you should start.
Stop worrying? You want I should tell you how she gets. She's been worrying since before you were born. It's cardio. Let her have it.
You trust a website for directions to a restaurant but not for your life? Fine. Trust the advice. Verify with your real mother. She'll be thrilled you called.
Trust, don't trust - you'll do what you want anyway. Everyone does. Mort trusted a folding chair in 1994. We don't talk about it. The advice is good. Take it or don't. Nu.
Still have a question? Good. That's what the site is for.
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