The 70-year-old virgin.

My father used to tell a story about my mom. When he was working, he had voicemail, long before the time of cell phones. He told us that when my mother would leave a message, she would start her messages by saying, "Hello Joe, this is your wife...Janet." He would tell us, "Good thing she said her name, I wouldn't know which wife was calling." I'm telling this story just to give you an idea of the naive little person that is my mother.

She just turned 70. She's older, but not very much wiser. I love her dearly, but she really is a very naive 70. And more than just a little behind the times. She's never touched a computer, let alone a cellphone. My mom once told me to be careful about dating women I meet on online dating sites. Like I'm a ten year old boy in a chatroom with a bunch of priests. (Didn't want to go the "child molester/priest route," but somehow it works.) To her, the internet is a place where sickos hang out looking for their next victims, and people get your credit card number to steal your identity. In her mind, the idea of owning a DVD player is like placing a hungry crocodile in her living room. The most high tech piece of equipment in her house is a cordless phone. Of course, it sits next to the couch where she watches TV. The handset is never further than a foot from the base, totally missing the point of being "cordless."

I'm sure that there are many seniors out there who are just as techno repellent, but I also hear of alot of older folks surfing the net and carrying cells. I would love that to be my mom. Just once, I'd like to hear her tell me about a site she visited, or about something she bought off the 'net. Although, if she discovered an online slot machine, there goes my inheritence.

When my dad died 12 years ago, my mom was totally lost. She probably hadn't written a check in thirty years, had no idea how much money was in the bank, and knew that you had to put something in the car to make it run. It was actually a good thing that my dad knew he was terminal during those last months. He took care of everything before he died. My mom didn't have to worry about a thing. In fact, when we heard what he left her, we realized why we spent most of our childhood choking down peas and pasta or ground meat casserole dinners. He was saving all his money for her to blow on lottery tickets and monthly trips to the casino.

My mother takes pride in her house. And has for the 30+ years she's lived there. That's probably why she hasn't changed the decor in as many years. Oh, the wallpaper has switched from red flocked paper, to flower prints, to textured white Sanitas, and I remember at one time there were green rugs instead of the rusty brown ones there now. But the bathroom is still a lovely avacado, the paneling is still holding up the drop ceiling tiles and the lamps still have cherubs on them. Okay, there's no plastic on the couch and the 42-year-old fridge was finally replaced last month by a new model. I chalk it up to her being so used to her surroundings that changing it would be like getting a nose job at her age. She couldn't wake to a new face looking at her in the mirror. It wouldn't be comforting.

So, why did I title this blog "The 70-year-old virgin?" Well, that's how I see my mom. Sure, no one can imagine their parents having sex. Not that anyone would really want to either. (Unless they're one of those Internet sickos my mother always talks about.) But you see, my dad was very outgoing, upbeat and fun. I could imagine him having sex. He was that kind of guy. My mom? Never. I honestly don't think she ever did. Okay, I'm kind of sure she did. At least three times. There's no denying she's my mom. I have the same round nose as her. And W.C. Fields. But she just seems too damn naive to have known what to do. I'm getting a little creeped out thinking about it, but for the sake of art...So, just like a young virgin, who seems uncertain of the ways of life, she's definitely cherry when it comes to the world around her. And just so you all know, I never thought I'd ever refer to my mom as a "cherry."

So now, at this age, my mom will probably never write an e-mail, text a friend, see a movie in high def, know the joys of On Demand, understand what a blog is, listen to music on an iPod, or drive anything but her beat up '89 Honda Civic. And that may not be fine with me or my brothers, but it's absolutely fine with her. Because she's happy being cherry. And I guess that's pretty good at 70.