used to laugh about Mommie Dearest, a book written by Joan Crawford’s daughter, which neither of us had read, but which my mother often invoked, saying “Mommie Dearest” in a high-pitched voice, whenever she made me do anything. Then I remembered another joke my mother used to make, when she did anything she thought was wrong, like telling a white lie over the phone, or unbuckling her seat belt while driving: “Don’t put this in your novel.”
