Little Umbrellas

Today was the day that I was going to spend in bed, making sweet comments to a crap ton of student papers. It started out with a pleasant surprise -- an invite to join Mel for breakfast. She's in town for her Zadie's funeral and to sit shiva, and while the circumstances are sad, the company is rare and exquisite. We went for a walk in the Autumn leaves, and then helped her mother clean up the kitchen before lunch (so! much! food!).

On my way home I checked my voice mail, and the day took a downturn. I had a garbled message from my mom that sounded like "hospital... mumble mumble scratch... dislocated shoulder... mumble mumble... you're not there..." Called home -- no mom. Called mom's best friend. Mom's on her way to the hospital. Drive two exits up the highway, run into mom and EMTs at the ER door, and promptly wait four hours in a crammed hospital. Full moon is out in force, I tell you. Screaming children, alzheimers patients, and what I overheard one doctor saying was "the most disgusting throat I've ever seen."

I've considered gargling with bleach, just to be on the safe side.

After we got home, I got E and M to take me out to freaking ARDEN HILLS to retrieve mom's car, then came home. Have been a freaking zombie all damn night. This was supposed to be my day to veg.

(Re: title. In one secons season episode of "The West Wing," John Larroquette guest stars as White House chief counsel, and has to clean up someone's stupid legal mess on the day he's supposed to be in Tahiti. He spends the ep ranting and raving about how he's supposed to be on the beach, drinking drinkd with little umbrellas in them. By the end of the day, he's reduced to impotently moaning "little umbrellas" in a pathetic sounding way.)