Well, it was bound to happen at one point or another.

Sunday afternoon, I woke up, turned on that All in the Family marathon that TV Land was running in honor of Carroll O’Connor and went outside for a cigarette. I’d been occupied most of the weekend, so I hadn’t checked any of my phone messages. I am unpopular; there was only one, from 11:15 the night before.

It was my mother. She didn’t sound happy.

“Yes, Will, it’s your mother. We’ve been gone all day. Your dad was dragging me through Lowe’s [a hardware store in Illinois] and we just got home. [pause] I wanted you to know that I read your last two columns. Not only did you put my age out there on the Internet for the whole world to see, but I have to say that I was just disgusted - disgusted - to read that you had made a pornographic film. I just hope you are proud of yourself. Goodbye.”

Ahem.

I haven’t talked to my mom all week and I haven’t yet figured out the main reason (or even, for that matter, who is avoiding whom). Yes, obviously, discussing filming sex with an old lover is hardly the most ideal conversation topic to have with your mother. I can’t even imagine how the conversation would go.

Will: So, uh, you read the column, huh?

Mom: Yes, yes, I did.

Will: Well ...

Mom: Yeah ...

Will: So, how’s Jill doing?

Mom: Oh, she’s great, great.

Will: Yeah ...

Mom: All right, well, I’ll talk to you later.

Will: Yep, catch you then. Oh, and Mom?

Mom: Yes?

Will: I’m glad we had this talk.

But that’s not the real reason. The fact is, my parents have never read any of these silly columns, and that’s always been comforting to me. Not so much because I’m always writing things that would embarrass us both, giving out dirty little secrets about myself, but because, well ... I like not worrying about them. When I started this column, I vowed never to make it into my personal sounding board. It wasn’t intended to be a way to send veiled messages to those close to me.

But I knew if my parents read it, and I knew they read it, and they knew I knew they read it, it would be impossible for it not to be. I wrote a column once about my father and I getting drunk at a baseball game and lamenting about penis size on the drive home. Embarrassing? Yes. Would I want him to read it? No. But that’s nothing compared to the column I wrote a few weeks ago, about how he was the greatest Little League coach since Walter Matthau. That was basically a love letter to my dad. But I would be more mortified if he’d read that than if I’d written a poem threatening to kill him. You don’t talk about shit like that in the Leitch family. We never have. Why do you think I write about it?

When I first started writing these columns way back in March 1999 - Christ, has it been that long? - I wanted everyone I knew to read them. It didn’t take long for me to change that view. Whether it was calling my best friend’s dad a “jerkface,” a stripper whose story I told posting a nasty missive on the message board or just general paranoia that the ex-fiancée would read everything and sue, it became clear it was better to write with strangers in mind rather than people I knew. But you know parents: They always want to know what’s going on.

So I begged, pleased, cajoled, whatever I had to do, to make certain I had free rein to write about what I wanted. I basically used scare tactics; trust me, Pops, you don’t want to know. It will just make you upset. And it worked, though my parents’ general fear of the Web and computers - watching my father search for the “T” on a keyboard is one of life’s more sublime pleasures - certainly didn’t hurt. Other than that, there is the occasional blip. Recently, I went to dinner with the parents of a girl I’m interested in. They’d just read my temping column, about how I had no money and was merely hoping to pay rent. We were looking over the menus, and the father said, “Will, listen, this meal’s on me, so you go ahead and order whatever you want.” Instantly, I went from Writer to Unemployed Guy in their eyes - all was well.

But then word got out about my column concerning my parents’ anniversary. More specifically, cousin Denny told my mother at her surprise birthday party that, “You don’t want to read Will’s column this week.” My mother knows the rules about my columns, but she’s human, and a temptation like that is difficult to resist. Unfortunately, she resisted a week, during which time another column was posted, this one about my sexual habits. She read them both, and freaked out, understandably.

So I’m torn. Truth be told, I’m a little upset at my mother. These columns are very important to me, and they’re not a diary. To truly get across what I’m trying to do with this series - and, uh, if you know what that is, could you let me know? - I have to give up some personal details. It’s cheating not to. Sometimes those details make me look like a productive, wholesome member of society; most of the time, not so much. The notion, however, that my column is just a place to ramble on about myself and besmirch the family name, that it’s not an artistic endeavor meant to find a common bond with other confused fools out there, is an insult. I suppose I can’t expect my mother to understand that, particularly when she’s reading about me having sex on videotape ... but still. And, come on now ... she can’t say she wasn’t warned.

I dunno. I guess I keep waiting for my mom to call and apologize, which, of course, is what she’s waiting for me to do too. Maybe if I don’t call her for a couple of more weeks, she’ll forget about it. If I received the same revelation about her that she learned about me, however, I’m not sure it would have been that easy.

That’s why this column, in case you were wondering, has said absolutely nothing. I guess I was due for one of those too. One thousand, one hundred thirty-five empty words, leading nowhere, big piles of nothing. There, Mom. That should make you happy. Now, I’ll say it again: Please stop reading so I can write about my life again. Thank you.

*BT*

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