“Mother, I know you are kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“WE ARE GETTING OUR FLU SHOTS AT COSTCO?”
“Yup.”
“Have you thought this through? Mother, Costco is a place where you purchase things in bulk. I do not want bulk jammed into my arm.”
I pull out my phone and pretend to make a note, “No bulk needles.”
“Look at my arm, Mother. Look how tiny it is! My arm demands a svelte entrance.”
I make another note, “Svelte . . . entrance. Got it.”
“I am not feeling at all confident in your medical care of me. Have you discussed this with Daddy?”
“Yes. He’s getting his flu shot at his job, and I’ll take Kallan to get hers when she gets back from camp. Today, it’s you and me and Costco.”
“Why are we getting our flu shots at Costco?”
“Ummm . . . cheapness.”
“MY HEALTH IS NOT WHERE WE PINCH THE PENNIES, MOTHER!”
“Whatever. Get in the car.”
We drive over to Costco and we stand in the short line and we fill out the paperwork and then we are ushered into a small empty office behind the pharmacist’s counter. Maj stands in the small room with me, her arms crossed, shaking her head, “Oh, I do not like the looks of this at all.”
“What?”
“If I end up ground into chub, I will rain my shredded meaty death upon your buns, Mother.”
“Chub? You will rain your chub upon my buns? You crack me up.”
“That’s what Daddy calls those big weird tubes of hamburger meat they sometimes sell here . . . chub.”
“We will be tubes of meat! Flu-free tubes of meat!”
Maj grabs my arm, “Mother, listen. What if there are no flu shots? What if we have just stepped compliantly into a small windowless room in which we are about to be reduced to chub?”
“For god’s sake, Maj. Mellow out. It’s a flu shot. We get flu shots every year.”
Maj stares darkly at the door as we wait, “First sign of a meat grinder, I will be screaming and ripping my way through these cheapy Costco walls.”
“If they are planning to grind us into chub, I bet they have thought ahead to reinforce the walls and make this room soundproof. So you’re pretty much screwed.”
“EEEEEK! Mother, you are making me tense!”
“Yeah, I’m the one adding tension to this situation.”
“Mother, I am RIGID WITH CHUB-GRINDING ANTICIPATORY DOOM! Rigid, I tell you.”
And then the nice man arrives and gives us both our shots, Maj first and then me. We thank the nice man and leave the office, unchubbed and undoomed.
Pretty much.
“Mother, I apparently can’t rely on you for even the smallest bits of motherly care.”
“What are you talking about?”
She turns to show me her upper arm, “This, Mother. What do you see?”
“Umm . . . a tiny Band-Aid?”
“Yes, Mother. What are the Maj’s feeling on Band-Aids?”
“You don’t like Band-Aids.”
“Exactly, Mother. I have a low threshold for adhesion, Mother. We have discussed this many times.”
“So peel it off.”
“ADHESION THRESHOLD, MOTHER! ADHESION THRESHOLD!”
“Other children are not like you, Maj.”
She snorts, “I like how you say that like I am supposed to be offended. Why didn’t you tell the crazy stabber-man that I did not want a Band-Aid?”
“Let’s see . . . because you are 13 years old and you have the power of speech?”
“Whatever, Mother.”
We climb into the car, “Look, Maj.” I peel off my own tiny Band-Aid, “There. See? No big deal.”
“OK, first? I demand that you sanitize your hands this instant, before your inner goo gets on the entire vehicle and I am forced to step out of this car and hitchhike home with hygienic strangers.”
“Fine.”
“And second? Do not speak to the Maj of the deals that are big and the deals that are little. ALL OF THE DEALS ARE BIG, MOTHER. THE MAJ MAKES BIG DEALS.”
“Whatever.”
“And third? The only thing standing between us and a pulsed flood of Maj-goo is this Band-Aid, so I say we err on the side of adhesion.”
“You are a crazy person.”
“I like how you say that like I am supposed to be offended.”
And then we are home.
“Mother, I am in agony. I can feel where the man gouged me with his knitting needle of Costco bulk healthcare.”
“Maj, I got the same shot as you. My arm is a little achy, but it’s no big deal.”
“ALL THE DEALS ARE BIG, MOTHER. WE HAVE DISCUSSED THIS.”
“Whatever.”
“I can’t move my arm.”
“Whatever.”
“I am paralyzed.”
“Whatever.”
“I am in pain, woman! Tend to me.”
“Want me to take off the BandAid?”
“DO NOT CROSS MY ADHESION THRESHOLD!”
“Whatever.”
“Mother, I do not think you understand how much this is hurting me. I AM DYING OF INNOCULATIVE PAIN.”
“Whatever.”
“These are my death throes.”
“Be sure to throw with your uninjured arm.”
“DEATH THROES, MOTHER. DO NOT MOCK ME WITH HOMONYMS IN MY FINAL HOUR.”
“Whatever.”
“My arm is killing me slowly with its song of pain, Mother.”
“Maj, I love you.”
“I am dying, and that’s what you have to offer? You love me? That’s as good an impotent sendoff as any, I suppose.”
“Whatever.”
She swings a seemingly deadened arm, “My arm is hanging limp and useless. I am going to be off-balance from here on in.”
“That goes without saying, Maj.”
“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”
Ahem.
