Cursed
Last week, I got something I hadn’t had for a very long time. Something, I didn’t think I would ever get again…No, not an erection…Shut-Up!
I trimmed my mother’s hedges…No, that’s not a euphemism…What’s wrong with you people today? I’ve been doing the hedges at her house for years, because I’m a good son. Also, because she has a way of making you feel guilty for not doing things.
Anyway, there’s usually some vines in there which appear to be poison ivy. I got a rash from it once when I was about eight or nine and never had it since. I’m immune…or at least I thought I was.
When I was finished, my mother said to me,
“I hope you don’t get poison ivy.”
“I never get it.”
That should be the end of the conversation, shouldn’t it? For normal people maybe, but not that crazy lady. She was relentless. I brought her back to my house for dinner. Every three minutes in the car,
“I hope you don’t get poison ivy.”
Between bites at dinner,
“I hope you don’t get poison ivy…”
“You’re wishing it on me!”
