“All right, Punky Brewster,” she says, which means she thinks I’m being a punk. It doesn’t make sense. I found that ’80s sitcom on YouTube, and despite the character’s name, she was a nice little girl. Same thing with the Rudy Ruettiger—what Mom calls me when she thinks I’m being rude. I’ve seen the movie about the plucky Catholic kid who finally got to play for Notre Dame. I’ve told her it would make more sense to call me Rudy the next time I persevere and overcome all obstacles, but she doesn’t care about making sense.
