Today, in the car, my mother commented on another person’s yard—how bad it looked. How it had not been kept up well. I am not making this up. My dad, before he died, did the same thing every time we passed a particular yard on the way to mom’s rehab center. When it happened the second time—Mom, that is, today, commenting on other people’s sloppiness—I actually mentioned the log in her own eye. Me. I need to get the fuck out of here.