I just met her for the first time yesterday, and it will likely also be the last time as she is apparently dying of an inoperable brain aneurysm. We all had a nice supper; I hadn’t seen my cousin for many years, and hadn’t met his wife or mother-in-law before.
At one point she turned to me and asked, “Has anyone ever told you that you resemble a celebrity?” I admitted that occasionally comparisons have been made, although the precise celebrity varies depending on how much weight I’m carrying around: Dan Ackroyd, Jim Carrey, “the weird guy” from Ally McBeal. She shook her head: “No, none of those. I think his name’s… Brolin? James Brolin?” James Brolin is older than my dad, but he’s a fairly well-preserved gent so I tried to take this compliment as intended.
After a moment she corrected herself: “No, not James… his son, I think. Josh.” Well, dang. Josh Brolin is actually a pretty good-looking fellow. Granted, this was the opinion of an elderly woman who has recently suffered multiple strokes, and I don’t kid myself that I’m really getting any better-looking with age; but it’s still the most flattering such comparison I can recall anyone ever making about me. She seemed extraordinarily amused at my flustered response. What a silver-tongued charmer that gal is. Thanks again for the generous, unsolicited but much-appreciated ego boost, ma’am.