Mom to the Rescue

The other day I was perched precariously on an exercise ball, wondering "What would happen if I just let myself fall?" It was an impulse best left unfollowed, as I careened headfirst into my bike, causing great rivers of blood to soak the nethermost quadrant of my perm. Carla had Jon take care of the situation, which involved spraying Bactine not so much on me but at me. Fearing a concussion/lacking evening plans, I called Mom to suggest we wile away the horas at The Emergency Room. Who do we run into immediately but The Woman Who Insulted Me at Trader Joes Last Month. I had been plotting all the cutting remarks I would make during our next interface, but was unfortunately all agog with pain. My mom artfully dodged having a conversation with The Enemy, anticipating what would have surely included my guileless admission to falling off a giant ball on which I had been absent-mindedly bouncing, by repeating the phrase "head trauma." "Head trauma" had the effect of a long-forgotten and powerful incantation handed down to my mother by ancient practitioners of magic. The woman seemed to be propelled backward by a fetid mist coming off of a freshly opened crypt, and someone else would have to hear about her chinless husband's monthly blood pressure ordeal. Meanwhile, my stupid reason for visiting the E.R. remained shrouded in mystery, thank God. Bullet dodged and head throbbing, I sat down an a grimy chair and thought about that swine flu craze that's sweeping the nation for the first time in earnest. Maybe half an hour went by as my mom and I shifted uneasily in our seats, exchanging glances in acknowledgment of a noxious odor reminiscent of foot fungus. An especially pungent whiff caused us to bolt from our seats, quickly gathering our now contaminated belongings and fleeing to the car.

"I'm probably fine," I said.
"It's like those people never washed their butts. Everybody in there stank," was her reply.