Home Alone

Gramma

I'm not good at lounging, but I was doing my best.  The snow was almost gone and I wanted to be outside, even if it was picking up dog bombs and sticks.  Housework was banned for two weeks.  Bending over, all the blood rushed to my face.  I couldn't mine the cat litter box. 

I stayed on the couch, burning up all my crappy Dish internet allocation watching Netflix while eating cookies.  There was little else I could do.  Talking hurt, so I stayed off the phone.  Mistakenly, I thought I would feel better than this.

Not including Dave, I'd told three people about my surgery.  Three can keep a secret if two are dead.  I didn't want to be judged.  I told two friends and my sister.  During a visit to see my daughter, she made the comment that she hoped I wasn't going to do any more stupid plastic surgery. 

She should talk.  She said her boob job was the best thing she ever did.  After two kids, I'd had mine done in the 70's.  In the 90's, I'd opted to have them swapped out for a new set.  It was cheaper in Mexico.  An Australian surgeon there could do my eyes and implants for the price of the implant settlement I had received. 

This third child breaks my heart every day.  She doesn't call, text, or come home.  So I just couldn't resist texting a picture of my head wrapped in bandages captioned, "I'm wonderfully fine for the shape that I'm in."

"What happened?" she responded.

"I fell off the donkey."

It was not a well thought out response, yet it was plausible.  I had a donkey.  I drink.  I do stupid things when I drink. 

"I'm at the car dealership," she texted.  I'll call you when I'm done." 

She didn't call back.