Mom and The Prick Doctor
Be wary. Be very wary of my mother. She’s discovered my blog and rather than kindly sit back like a good mother should and take in the conversations, she’s decided to participate.
Not only is she participating, she likes to contradict my childhood memories, call me on the carpet in her various comments here, and then she dials the phone and laughs when I answer. I’ve had to start monitoring my caller ID. Seriously, people. This is getting dangerous. The blog stalking all started a few weeks ago when I mentioned how amazing her apple pie is, and Goodfather suggested we raffle it. Yea, I blame it all on him. Goodfather, DON’T encourage her.
Now that she’s become a regular reader and she’s having too much fun (at my expense), she’s also become a Shout advocate and is making other people read too. Like everybody else, there are posts she likes and posts she doesn’t. Sometimes what I write makes her cry, and other times I make her laugh. She got such a little chuckle out of a post last week about my son being a “city boy” and not knowing that meat doesn’t really come from the grocery store, she printed it out and passed it around.
After sharing with various people, she decided the post was not simply a funny little tid bit—oh no, not my mother. She decided to use it as a weapon to expose a poor, unsuspecting soul and embarrass him.
Her acupuncturist is apparently from New York, or is it New Jersey? I forget. The point is that he’s not from my hometown in rural Vermont (he’s what the locals refer to as a turkey). This guy, the man my father affectionately calls her prick doctor, had no idea that one of his patients was intent on exposing his city boy niativity.
Their most recent appointment together went something like this…
Mom hands him the print out of my blog post.
He reads it, laughs, and then asks with serious medical concern, “Do chickens really dance when you cut their heads off?”Bingo, Mom thinks, The turkey is exposed. Trying not to roll her eyes and laugh at him for his obvious lack of insight, “Well of course. Where do you think the saying comes from, ‘running around like a chicken with your head cut off’?”
The city boy prick doctor has now become the unsuspecting giblet of a new family joke. His name is Lou, and Mom said she gave him this blog address. If he happens to be reading, I’d like to take this opportunity to send out a great big welcome and a plea for help.
Thanks so much for stopping by. Since you’re here, it seems like an appropriate time to beg a tiny favor of you. I need your help and I don’t think what I’m about to ask is unethical or unscrupulous. If it is, don’t worry. I’m willing to pay you.
The next time Mom asks you to help her out with a little prick or two, instead of treating her knee can you please focus on strengthening her memory? I’m certain that with all those little needles, there must be a magic spot, or seven, where when placed strategically you can create miracles. With a little help from you, we can probably get my mom to remember I’m actually 36-years-old. You see, Lou, Mom and I only get a limited amount of time together annually, and I’d really like to let her out of the house when she’s visiting, but there’s a problem. She thinks I’m still five and whenever we go out in public she still uses her loud mommy voice to call across a theater…or a store…or a restaurant…”Tricia, do you have to go potty?”
Did I mention I’m willing to pay?