I will never forget it. It was Tuesday night, November 8, 2016. Election Day, of all days. We were in my family room. Mothah was on the small couch. JC was on the big couch. I was in my chair. The Baby was sitting between me and JC, on the arm of the big couch, belting out songs from Hamilton, nearly at the top of his little lungs. JC was on his laptop, trying to figure out Mothah’s Hilton Honors account, as she had no recollection of even opening that account or filling out any information regarding Hilton or Honors of any kind, yet there was a Hilton Honors account- in her name– associated with our upcoming reservation at the Midtown Manhattan Hilton. Go figure. We needed that damn number, or we were going to be sans internet for three whole days. I was on my laptop, trying to escape the chaos-at least in my mind. The Election was on the television. This was a lot going on, if I even need to point that out. I was trying like hell to block out the noise of The Baby’s singing and the television, when Mothah said, “Jennifah, I need to talk with you about my Advance Directive.” I looked up, over my glasses and across the room. “WHAT?” I said. “I want to talk to you about my Advance Directive,” Mothah said again. “RIGHT NOW?” I said, having to raising my voice over my little Daveed Diggs, who was mid- What’d I Miss? in my right ear. “Jennifah, it’s nevah a good time, so I figure that now is just as good a time as any”, she said. I had to admit that she had a good point. Lately, it seemed I had had zero time to talk to anyone but myself, and when, was it, really, a good time to talk about anyone’s Advance Directive??? I told The Baby to hush the Hamilton for a few, and turned down the television. Mothah began: Alright. I have finished my Advance Directive. This is in case I evah have to be on life support or any decisions regarding my life have to be made without my input-all of the directions are in my Advance Directive. It’s all taken care of and you don’t need to worry about a thing, Jennifah. “Okay,” I said, wondering if I was supposed to feel some relief at this declaration. I need to tell you something about it-something that is in the Advance Directive, Mothah went on. She had my complete attention. If, at any time, you and youah (your) brothah cannot agree on ‘when to pull the plug’ , “MOTHER!,” I interrupted, as The Baby was listening, wide-eyed and completely enrapt in the conversation. No, Jennifah, it’s fine if he hears this! she said. I backed down, simply because I still do what she tells me to (most of the time) and she continued: If there comes a time when you and Eli (my brother) cannot agree to ‘pull the plug’, you are to play Rochambeau until one of “WHAT?!” I practically yelled, “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? ROCHAMBEAU?!” YES, JENNIFAH, ROCHAMBEAU!! she yelled back at me. Now, let me just tell you, in case you do not know, because I have found that many do not know, that Rochambeau is another name for ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’. (Now, I am not going to go into the many theories of why this is, because there are too many, and, well, the truth is that nobody really knows why. If you are interested in learning about some of the theories, then Google it. It’s a very interesting read if you have nothing better to do! ) I had this sudden mental image of Eli and myself…standing at Mothah’s hospital bedside, where she would be all hooked up to monitors, and with tubes coming out and going in everywhere, her hair looking like Kramer on Seinfeld….and the two of us playing ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’ to see who would get to decide when to ‘pull the plug’. I started laughing. Surely she was not serious! But she was serious. Dead Serious (pun intended) LOL. I MEAN IT, JENNIFAH! IT’S IN THE PAPAH’S! AND IT HAS BEEN NOTORIZED! Mothah said. Oh Lord. That meant somebody outside of our extended family had actually witnessed this! Mothah had more to say about it: Now, Jennifah, I came to this decision because I realized that if I was on life suppoht, that Eli might be ready to ‘pull the plug’ aftah, say, seven days, but then you would want to give me a few m0re weeks, and y’all would get into a fight. Rochambeau will keep you from fighting with each othah. You have to do it, Jennifah, because it is in my Advance Directive. “Okay”, I said, “We will. Can we stop this now?” Yes, Mothah said, laughing. She knows I hate talking about the mere possibility of her not being immortal. The Baby started up another Hamilton song and JC turned the tv volume back up. He had managed to locate Mothah’s Hilton Honors account, somehow. I sat in my chair, realizing yet again, that I have bat-shit-crazy blood running through my veins, and thinking that perhaps (in 25 years or so) I should start honing my ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’ skills….. Seriously, people. I could not make this shit up if I tried.