Writing is weird.  But then my life leans toward odd, too.  Luckily, this pretty inspirational. 

So, when I try to come up with a new chapter in Mina Kitchen’s life, I have a trove of funny memories to dust off.  These I introduce to characters and plots I make up from pixie dust.  I then mash the whole mess together until I come up with what I hope is a funny story.  Otherwise called a whopper.


It’s no wonder then I had to blog about this one.  It’s definitely going to be one of Mina’s new adventures.  This is a true story:

This weekend I drove to Maryland to visit an old co-worker in her new digs.  Since she used to live near Boston, and now is just a car ride away, we were happy for the opportunity catch up in person.  We hung out; gossiped; window shopped in antique stores and had a lovely late lunch outside at a local bistro. 

Happily, my friend now also lives just 45 minutes from my sister.  So, after visiting with her, I drove off to have dinner and spend the night with my sister and nephew and my mom.  Ma had been visiting my sister last week, to help babysit her grandson during that awkward week post-school closing and pre-camp starting.

I arrived just in time for dinner (of course) and we sat down and chatted about their visit.  The nephew filled me in about his outings with Grandma, which included meeting Mommy for lunch at work on Friday. 

That was when the bickering began.  Mostly, because Grandma was supremely late for the lunch appointment.  But that was because she was supremely lost in DC – easy to do.

“Ma calls me from her car and asks me, where am I?” said my sister.  “How was I supposed to know?”

“But I turned left like you said.”

“You were supposed to turn right at the cross street.”

“But I couldn’t do that.”

“Yes, you could, it’s a one way street going in your direction.”

“No, I could not, because that’s when the two men with machine guns stood in front of the car and stopped us.”

I look at my nephew, who is happily munching salmon.  He catches my eye, and says, “Well, actually Grandma, they weren’t machine guns.  They were rifles.”

This data I wash down with a large glass of wine.

“When were you going to tell me this?” asks my sister, holding her forehead. 

“I forgot,” Ma says. 

My sister looks toward her son.  He shrugs.  “It was no biggie.  Besides, the one guy gave Grandma directions while the other one stopped traffic so we could turn around.”

You see?  If my memory stays in tact; I’m golden.


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