On Monday morning Mistah's sister Kelly called us at 8. “Hello?” “Did I wake you up?” “Yes”. What’s the use of lying, really? “Mumsie’s not feeling well at all and I’m hoping Billy can come over her house and stay with her.” “Of course he can.”
So Mistah was headed to Mumsie's, and I was heading out for my usual Monday morning routine of swimming and grocery shopping; we both needed a car.
We’ve had Mumsie’s car to drive around all these many months, which is great: it's nice to give ol' Westy a break during the winter. Plus I hardly ever drive: I walk downtown everyday, and put myself in other people’s hands if I have to do anything like go to a Film Festival movie . . .
Westy's a superstar, a rockstar, an awesome rig, but she’s an old girl, and it had been at least 10 days or so, with some frigid weather, since either of us had driven her -- and on Monday morning, well, she wouldn't start.
No worries, though: we jumped the Westy with Mumsie’s car -- she turned over on the first start, natch -- and I drove out to East Lyme to swim at the high school pool. I slogged through town instead of getting on the interstate, and I *did* wonder if I was doing the wrong thing, if Westy was getting enough of a workout just driving on backroads.
I got to the pool, I talked to the lovely high schooler who was at the desk -- it’s school vacation week! We’re open until 1 instead of 11:15! she exclaimed -- then I went into the locker room where I promptly stripped -- as one does in a women’s locker room -- went to put on my suit . . . and it wasn’t there. My dob kit was, with its shampoo and conditioner and soap and razor and assorted shower accoutrement, and my towel was, but my suit and cap and goggles? Not so much. And the thing about swimming? You really do need a suit, cap and goggles; you really can't wing it. At least I can't.
I commiserated with all the women in the locker room, they all asked where I had driven from, and I decided right there and then I was going to drive back to New London, get my suit cap and goggles, and drive right back to East Lyme. Why not? The pool's open until 1!
I told the lovely girl at the desk I’d be back, and I went out to the Westy. . . and it wouldn’t start.
I called Bill, told him my tales of woe, but was matched with woe by his tale of being in the ER with Mumsie, who was just not feeling well at all. Poor Mumsie.
I said to Schleck, “Oh wait! I see someone in a car! I’m going to go knock on her window.”
I walked over. I got closer. And said, “Deidre??” “Ellie?” Yep, I was saved from sure death by an old friend of Kelly’s. “How are you doing?!” “Great! Well, except I forgot my suit and my rig won’t start and my mother-in-law's in the ER. But great!”
After a(nother) successful jump start I got right on the interstate to give Westy the long drive she deserved, then drove back home to New London to get that feisty suit cap and goggles. I figured if the Westy didn’t start then, well, grocery shopping -- and swimming -- would have to wait yet another day.
But she started up. Right up. And back to East Lyme I went. And after my inglorious swim I got to the grocery store. And the package store. And CVS. And, it turns out, the hospital. Because while *I* was having a ridiculous day, Mumsie was having an even more ridiculous one. She lolled about in the ER all the live long day until she finally got
Doctor to Mumsie: “Well, your CT scan show you have the healthy brain of an elderly lady.”
Kelly: “You mean like a bird brain?”
Doc: “Well, I wasn’t going to say it . . . .”
Mumsie got hooked up to an IV to juice up her dehydrated self, and I hooked myself up with a bowl of tomato soup and a glass of chardonnay to juice up my dehydrated self, and, well, we both felt happier. And more contented. And less absurd about that ridiculous day.
And Tuesday? She told me I look tired. And I told her she looked short.
We're back, baby.