I like to think that I am a good friend -- loyal, caring, funny (in both its comic and unusual implications), low-maintenance. And so far, I haven't had too many complaints, other than people telling me that they have heard my diatribe against Titanic many times, and, frankly, they are tired of it.

Perhaps what is most agreeable about me is that I don't mind at all if my friends talk about me behind my back. As a matter of fact, I prefer it. I would rather they keep their theories and analyses of my shortcomings far away from me and let me hold on to my fragile self-esteem.

But sometimes a friend feels compelled to share the theories and analyses with me, and does so before I can burrow into the ground or otherwise thwart disclosure. Such a moment came about a week ago when a friend told me that conversation at a recent get-together had pounced upon my bachelorhood. Once that subject had been gnawed to the bone, he said, the reason that I am still single was as clear as the summer sun: I am tied to my mother's apron strings. And I am probably fearful of my father as well.

This to me was a deflating vote of no confidence. I mean, don't my friends know me well enough to believe that I am quite capable of screwing up my own life without leaning on my parents? I mean, c'mon; I take money from Mom and Dad, but not neuroses.

Still, it was not welcome news to learn that I am regarded as a mother-smothered wimp. So the first order of business is to dispel that notion. I figure if I land a haymaker or two on Mom's jaw the next time I see her, then the mama's-boy image would shatter like crystal in a marital dispute about drapes that goes a little over the top. Or maybe I should shoot at Mom's feet like she's the town drunk in an old Western movie. Whatever. It just looks like it's going to be a long day for the old broad next time I see her.