Last week, after Mom had been in the hospital for several days, my brother and I were visiting her. She was “sick and tired” of being poked and prodded and of nurses asking if she knew who she was and where she was (checking to see if she was oriented).
Carl – So, do you know where you are?
Mom (disgusted and pausing to give him ‘the eye’) – I’m in a dance hall.
Carl – Why aren’t you dancing?
Mom – The band went on a break.
Carl – Will you dance with me when they come back?
Mom – Can you twist?
And this from my mother’s younger sister –
My favorite story about my sister (and cooking) happened while she was living in assisted living. It’s the story about the baked potato and the microwave.
She told me, “The damn thing just burst out of the microwave and hit the closet door.”
When I asked her what she thought about the whole thing she said, “Good thing I wasn’t standing in front of the microwave. I could have gotten hurt, you know.”
Typical…and why I’ve always thought she was so funny.
This is the same potato from a previous blog entry. The potato she wrapped in clear wrap and nuked for 3 minutes or 30…and then the fire department arrived.
She said, “I got so damn mad. The firemen tracked dirt from their boots onto my rug!”