Don’t make me answer the phone anymore, please.

Conversation earlier today (around 6 p.m. while I was cooking supper) with my mother (the fourth time she’d called):

Mom: El? It’s me, your mother.

Me: Hi Mummy. What’s up?

Mom: I’m very confused and I don’t know what’s going on.

Me: Do you know where you are?

Mom: I think so. I’m in an apartment.

Me: Does it look familiar? Do you recognize the furniture and decorations?

Mom: Yes. They’re mine.

Me: So, what can I help you with?

Mom: Well, I’ve only been here a few weeks and I’m not used to the place.

Me: Mummy, you’ve been there since last August.

Mom: Really? How come I can’t remember?

Me: -sigh- You have memory issues.

Mom: Well, in that case, can you tell me why I haven’t heard from my parents for a while?

Me: Because they passed away in 1967, Mummy. They’ve been gone for 42 years.

Mom: You mean I’m an orphan?

Me: Yep. So am I.

Mom: Oh? Who did you lose?

Me: My father.

Mom: Oh, was your father Maurice?

Me: No. Maurice was your uncle. My father was Israel.

Mom: No, Israel was my father.

Me: No, Mummy, Israel was your husband. Edward was your father.

Mom: Oh.

And so on, and so forth. After I hung up I started to hyperventilate and Hubby made me a drink, which seemed to do the trick, and he promised that next time the phone rang, he would answer it.

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