Yup. It hurts.
Last year I wrote about my sister’s amazing dance festival, remember? It is one of my most cherished yearly celebrations. But yesterday, a series of snafus almost kept me from attending. First there was the pounding thunderstorm that caused the cancelation of the outdoor events, then the blackouts that threatened the indoor ones, then when I was finally confident I could make the one hour trek to Guelph and enjoy the scheduled performances, I realized I had to drop my daughter and her friend off at a point halfway between my home and the festival. All this to say that I had exactly one minute to spare to pick up my ticket and find my seat when I finally arrived at the theatre, drenched in sweat and panting breathlessly. “The ticket is under Radecki,” I say to the box office clerk. Who answers, excited, clearly honoured to meet me, “Radecki?! Are you Catrina’s mother?!”
The world implodes. As does my ego. Did you hear it in Arkansas? It was loud.
“I’m her sister,” I say. I can honestly say I answered graciously. My eyes might have averted a bit. I may have busied myself with some fictitious purse searching. The clerk immediately scrambled. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that we were JUST talking about Catrina’s mom and her art. And I was going to ask, Did you have her when you were five? I hope you don’t…” Her cringing was as horrible as my own.
Please believe me when I say: I’m not telling you this to get your outraged support or your encouragement of my youthful good looks. Really. I am telling you because it happened. And it happens to all of us at some time. And talking about it makes it seem way funnier than the incessant reverberating in my brain: “her mother?” “her mother?” “her MOTHER?!!!”
I feel bad for the blurter. We’ve all done it at some time and must be let off the proverbial hook. But I can also say that I am going to have to work frickin’ hard to wash that blurt from my brain and let it go. At least the show was awesome!
Deb: Oh yes. Oh yes. I have been on the receiving end of this one, my dear. My Dad is 84 and I was taking him to one of his many doctor’s appointments and the nurse said “I’m sorry, Mr. McGrath, but I’m going to have to take some blood,” and Dad said, “As long as it comes with a kiss, nurse,” and she said (you know where this is going don’t you?), “Well, Mr. McGrath, I’ll leave the kissing up to your wife here.” Do I need to say anything else? HE IS 84!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And darling Barb, I know you were not looking for an ego boost but all I can tell you, dear readers, is that Barb’s gorgeous photos do not do her beauty justice. She is a stunner. At Stef’s fashion show last year, I thought, “Wow, they look like they could be sisters”. And believe me, that’s no insult to Stef!