"Ugh," she snorted last night as she handed me a single, tarnished teaspoon so I could toss the salad in a cereal bowl. "You wouldn't believe how they operated in my kitchen." No, I probably wouldn't, given my mother's aversion to utensils, cookware, or food with any kind of flavor.
I listened intently as she retold the general story of "those slobs" who broke or soiled everything in the apawtment. I feigned sympathy, and when her attention turned to draining the hot pot of spaghetti by holding it with a rubber glove (her version of a pot holder) over a miniature strainer in the sink, I got down to the more important business of protecting myself from certain death.
I located the carpet stain remover I had purchased (thankfully) the other day, unrolled a thick wad of paper towels, and scurried into the living room where I had just knocked over my glass of bright pink Dr. Brown's black cherry soda on her white carpet. Knowing I would at least get a warning signal from the sound of her walker crashing against the cabinets as she squeezed her way out of the galley kitchen, I sprayed and blotted and sprayed and blotted with reckless abandon until the footprint sized stain had faded to a wet, pale pink. And I prayed.
Soon she would be returning to her chair, and naturally the spill was right there at its base, only inches away from the Louis Vuitton satchel she keeps right there on the floor so she can have immediate access to whatever the heck she keeps in there. "This pocketbook has been a lifesaver," she told me only a few hours earlier. I was still trying to figure out what she meant by that, but I was also thinking that damn purse could be my lifesaver if I just plunked it down on top of the spill. But this is a woman whose happiness depends on knowing everything is exactly where it should be -- meaning either where it always has been or where she has decided to put it. Not a centimeter off. I was screwed.
She must have assumed I was excited about seeing the fireworks from the balcony, so anxious was I for the sun to set and the light to dim in the living room. She eventually made her way back to the chair, so I considered sitting right there on the floor and waiting for her to settle in so I could rub her feet until it gets dark. Damn summer solstice.
I should have left well enough alone. Last night, she didn't notice a thing. This morning, it was all I could see, so I attacked the stain again with reckless abandon and, naturally, it looks even worse. If there's no post tomorrow, at least you'll know why.
No comments:
Post a Comment