I recently passed (not ‘passed’ like a kidney stone; that’s slightly different and significantly more painful) a minor (some people would be tempted to say insignificant; I would include myself in that group) milestone. I received well-wishes from friends and Ms. Rose gave me clothing that proclaims me not to be Jon Pertwee (although he’s somewhat better preserved than I am).
Last night I spoke to Sir Rose on the phone.
A moment to explain: I have called my maternal parental unit ‘Sir’ for over thirty years. The reasons for this are somewhat obscure — even to me — but part of it is probably due to Sparky.
The conversation went fairly well, at least for us. We started by comparing pant sizes. Then she asked what I was having for dinner. I said leftover moo shu. She apologized for not sending a card. I didn’t even call her ‘insane’ for a while.
The lack of a card (Like many men, I don’t ‘get’ greeting cards. I’m not alone in this — even the association serving the “greeting card and social expression industry” claims that most cards are bought by women.) didn’t bother me. I said as much. Actually, she admitted, a card wasn’t her first choice: her first impulse was to buy a phalaenopsis, drive to my house, put it on the porch, ring the doorbell and run.
That’s when I called her insane.
Not because I don’t like orchids; I have several. No, I cast aspersions on her judgment because it’s a significant drive (175 kilometers each way, more or less), the gas would cost more than the plant would and she doesn’t run all that well anymore. (Well, neither do I, but she’s rather worse than I am.)
But I reflected on this a bit last night. Her first impulse was a prank. So I come by my contrary streak (‘bloody-mindedness’ says the gallery) honestly. It’s not entirely my fault.
I’ll keep telling myself that.