I was in Mom's bathroom. The flimsy door wouldn't shut completely. As I peed, an animal kept ramming its face into the door, again and again. I stretched out my leg to keep the door shut.
"Someone's in here!"
"Mom!" I yelled, urinating like a kung fu master. "Get Bailey away from the door!"
"What?!" Mom yelled.
"I'm trying to go to the bathroom!"
"Oh! Bailey! Get away from there. Bad!"
It was no good. Bailey was the one who knocks--and she crashed in as my pee flailed around the toilet hole. A wild French bulldog attacked me with kisses.
"Mom...! Can you shut the door, get her out of here? And can you stop staring?"
"I've seen your penis before," Mom said drily.
"Arrgh," I said wetly.
(Years and years of therapy, more therapy, to follow.)
I tucked away my penis seen by my mommy, and together we stepped out for a grand time at the local Wind Crust eatery. Huzzah! Along the way we passed a woman with Garfield on her sweater--someone she voted for, but not for president since he was too whiggish.
"It's not so hot today, is it?" Mom chirped.
"No, I dasn't hope not too hot, betimes."
"Have a nice day."
"Ahoy hoy," the lady said. Then she tipped her Make the Continental Congress Great Again cap. "Fare thee e'en swithins, goodwoman."
After we were out of earshot (three feet), I asked Mom who her new friend was.
"Oh, that's Petula Capurnia Gogglemore. She's a 101. Can you believe that? She looks like she's in her mid-nineties! Bless her heart. I talked to her the other day about the weather and the carpet, and she's just a wonderful lady. A treasure. I told her how wonderful she is."
"Maybe you should have dinner with her sometime?"
"Oh, no, no, not with me. I'm not worthy. But she's a dear."
"In fact, maybe you should have dinner tonight with her. Or lunch. Very, very soon."
"Not today. Maybe sometime. I don't like to leave Bailey alone for too long."
"True. All work and no play makes Bailey a very dull doggie. And a creeper."
We sat down at our table. Mom ordered a steak, screwing up her face in cringing disgust.
"Medium rare. Please don't cook it too much. More rare. And my son will have a water."
I opened my mouth to order--
"He'll just have a bread sandwich, like he usually does. Oh, and I'll have a strawberry margarita, also. Yes. I want something fun. Will you have something fun, Greg? Like a coca-cola?"
I opened my mouth.
"No, I suppose you won't. But I'll have that steak and margarita, please. Not too overcooked."
The teenage girl gave Mom a quizzical look. She discussed our order with two other teenagers. Eventually they brought over a meatloaf and peanut butter on a playing card. It came late, and our orders were mixed up.
"Didn't you have the dice and sponge, Mom?"
"At least I got my margarita." Mom sipped at it experimentally. She rarely drank, and this was a real adventure for her. Voyage to the Bottom of the Drink. "It's very sweet. But I don't taste any alcohol."
"Let me try. I'm Force sensitive." I sipped the drink, and it indeed tasted more Mountain Dewy Code Reddish than Mad Dog Sour Mash Grain 120 Proofish. "You're right, Mom. I don't think there's any alcohol in this. Huh."
"It's no big deal. It's not the Agamemnon."
I looked around the dining room. Was it possible that Wind Crust had a policy of making their alcoholic beverages more... senior appropriate? I got up and went to the bar run by two pre-teens.
"Excuse me," I said. "I couldn't help wondering.... ehhhh.... the drink, you made my mom? Hm? Seems like... mmm.... no alcohol in her margarita?"
"A dog saw my penis."
"Excuse me?" said the pimply girl.
"I understand. You don't want the seniors around here to get pixilated, or embibilated... Fall risk. They could sue. So you make a... "air quotes"... a ""margarita."" Got it. Well, let me tell you something, missy, we're on to your little tricks! We're old, and we won't stand for it! I tasted that margarita, and even though I wouldn't know what alcohol is, I dasn't believe that you..."
Just then a Victorian dame came nigh. "Why don't you sit down, you barbermonger," rasped Petula Capurnia Gogglemore.
I gaped at her, feeling that I stared into the abyss of the crypt of the pit of the creature's ghost.
"Well?"
"Good morrow to you, dear lady." I bowed stiffly, and then took my leave.
"You've got piss on your pants, bubby," she said.
I circled back. "My mom likes you. Will you be her friend?"
She stared at me.
"Think about it. By the way, don't order the margaritas. Or do."
I rejoined Mom at our table. She pushed away her margarita. "I just can't drink this much. I think it's making me a bit loopy!"
"Sure, Mom. Maybe we can get a doggie bag for your drink. Bailey needs booze."
"Are you having a stroke?"
On our way back, we passed an apartment door that was festively decorated. Mom paused to admire it.
"It's wonderful here, isn't it? They have so many nice things in this hall."
"Indeed."
"I have a color printer."
Have a sad, crinkly holiday, everyone!
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