Motheeeerrrr
In this installment of Nobody Tells Me Anything:
I called my mother last night, to catch up and hopefully get a clearer idea of when she planned to come visit. I told her about the asthmatic cat ("Cats can have asthma?!") and my increasingly unreliable cellphone alarm, and she told me about shaving the husky for summer (must...have...pictures...) and taking Coral shopping for her birthday. After a bit, she started to yawn, and said,
"Sorry, I'm getting old. And I'm beat after crutching around the mall all day."
Pause. Cover face with hand.
"...mother, why are you on crutches?"
"Didn't I tell you?"
"NO! BECAUSE NO ONE TELLS ME ANYTHING! NOBODY TOLD ME GRANDPA HAD CANCER, NOBODY TOLD ME CASSIE GOT DIVORCED, NOBODY TELLS ME ANYTHING!"
"Oh! I broke my foot!"
"How, mother, how did you break your foot?"
"I dropped my motorcycle on it."
Pause. Drag hand down face.
"How does one drop a Harley Davidson on one's foot?"
The paraphrased story goes: she and Marc were out for a ride on Memorial Saturday, and paused at a stoplight. When the light went green, they cornered onto the intersecting road, but mom's bike stalled out and died mid-turn. The wheels stopped spinning and the whole thing fell over on her left foot. Marc and another rider pried the 700+ lb bike off her leg, and they drove home to put some ice on it. They played 18 holes of golf that Sunday, and she was completely unable to walk on Monday.
"YOU THINK? YOU PLAYED GOLF ON A BROKEN FOOT."
She went to the doctor, who took X-rays and proclaimed the foot badly bruised. He suggested she continue to ice it, which she did. Come Thursday, the doctor's office called her at work to inform her that they'd misread the X-rays and that she had multiple fractures in her foot. You know, the one she'd been standing on for five days.
Smack forehead.
At this point in the conversation, Coral returned from walking the newly-shaved husky.
"I'm on the phone with your sister!"
"How come she'll call you, but she won't call me?"
"TELL HER SHE DOESN'T DESERVE A PHONE CALL," I told my mother, "BECAUSE SHE CAN'T BOTHER TO TELL ME THAT OUR MOTHER'S HAD A BROKEN FOOT FOR A MONTH."
"I," mom said, with great dignity, "am not going to be in the middle of this."
Then she handed the phone to Coral and beat a retreat. On her crutches.
All that said, HAPPY BIRTHDAY CORAL! The big 20!
I called my mother last night, to catch up and hopefully get a clearer idea of when she planned to come visit. I told her about the asthmatic cat ("Cats can have asthma?!") and my increasingly unreliable cellphone alarm, and she told me about shaving the husky for summer (must...have...pictures...) and taking Coral shopping for her birthday. After a bit, she started to yawn, and said,
"Sorry, I'm getting old. And I'm beat after crutching around the mall all day."
Pause. Cover face with hand.
"...mother, why are you on crutches?"
"Didn't I tell you?"
"NO! BECAUSE NO ONE TELLS ME ANYTHING! NOBODY TOLD ME GRANDPA HAD CANCER, NOBODY TOLD ME CASSIE GOT DIVORCED, NOBODY TELLS ME ANYTHING!"
"Oh! I broke my foot!"
"How, mother, how did you break your foot?"
"I dropped my motorcycle on it."
Pause. Drag hand down face.
"How does one drop a Harley Davidson on one's foot?"
The paraphrased story goes: she and Marc were out for a ride on Memorial Saturday, and paused at a stoplight. When the light went green, they cornered onto the intersecting road, but mom's bike stalled out and died mid-turn. The wheels stopped spinning and the whole thing fell over on her left foot. Marc and another rider pried the 700+ lb bike off her leg, and they drove home to put some ice on it. They played 18 holes of golf that Sunday, and she was completely unable to walk on Monday.
"YOU THINK? YOU PLAYED GOLF ON A BROKEN FOOT."
She went to the doctor, who took X-rays and proclaimed the foot badly bruised. He suggested she continue to ice it, which she did. Come Thursday, the doctor's office called her at work to inform her that they'd misread the X-rays and that she had multiple fractures in her foot. You know, the one she'd been standing on for five days.
Smack forehead.
At this point in the conversation, Coral returned from walking the newly-shaved husky.
"I'm on the phone with your sister!"
"How come she'll call you, but she won't call me?"
"TELL HER SHE DOESN'T DESERVE A PHONE CALL," I told my mother, "BECAUSE SHE CAN'T BOTHER TO TELL ME THAT OUR MOTHER'S HAD A BROKEN FOOT FOR A MONTH."
"I," mom said, with great dignity, "am not going to be in the middle of this."
Then she handed the phone to Coral and beat a retreat. On her crutches.
All that said, HAPPY BIRTHDAY CORAL! The big 20!