For Mother’s Day today, I’d like to recount a recent conversation I had with my mom.
“I freaked out this week. I thought I’d lost the fuckin’ check for Tom’s nursing home.
You know how I usually mail it certified mail? Well, I went to the post office, but I forgot it was the 3rd of the month, and everybody was in there. It was full of people. I can’t be around that many people with the Corona. So I thought just this once I’ll send it in the regular mail.
But you know how you don’t put a stamp on certified mail? I mailed the fucker, and then I couldn’t remember putting a stamp on it. What happens if you don’t put a stamp on, anyway?”
“I think they just send it back to your return address with postage due.”
“Well, I had no idea, but I freaked out. You know, the OCD. I thought about it at three in the morning that night. I couldn’t go back to sleep. I laid there thinking my payment will be late, and I’ll have to put a stop payment on the check or god help me if somebody gets a-hold of it and cashes it. Or what if they even kick the bastard out? So I made a deal with God.”
“You know I don’t talk to God unless shit’s really bad.”
“I told God I was going to give up beer if that check got there.”
“So the next day was Thursday, and Bill came by to bring me a mini-fridge they had because mine went out—they can’t get the part until almost June—and he brought me an 18-pack to put in it too, because he knows I have trouble getting to the store.”
“Well, I had four, because the check hadn’t even had time to get to the nursing home yet. I figured He wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m sure. He probably knows you’re stressed. Besides, I figure all the deities are too busy these days to have much time to pay attention to the fine print.”
“Right. So Friday, first thing in the morning I called about the check. I thought for sure it wouldn’t be there. But she answered all cheery-voiced and said it was on her desk, first thing! So it looks like my deal worked!”
“Are you really giving up beer?”
“I am! I’m switching to wine. I told God I was only going to buy three bottles a week.
Don’t laugh. I’m sticking to it.”
“Did you tell God what size these three bottles were going to be?”
“See, I’m glad we talked.”