I have had the following conversations innumerable times with my youngest brother, Shoestring:
Him: Hello?
Me: It’s Megan. Is Mom around?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Can I talk to her?
Him: Sure.
Me: WILL YOU GIVE THE PHONE TO OUR MOTHER, PLEASE?!
Or, alternately:
Him: Hello?
Me: It’s Megan. Is Mom around?
Him: No.
Me: Where is she?
Him: I don’t know.
Me: Do you know when she’ll be back?
Him: No.
Me: Will you tell her to call me?
Him: Okay.
HE NEVER FLIPPIN’ TELLS HER. After waiting several days for my mother to return my phone call, I usually begin to assume that someone has died, or that my mother has disowned me. Given my well-documented propensity for blowing things out of proportion, this is not a very kind thing for him to do to me. I have a theory that Shoestring is trying to cause my head to explode so that he can inherit my vast model horse collection. I suppose I shouldn’t tell him I now have a life insurance policy.
How can one boy be so smart and so silly all at once?
I’m STILL waiting for my mother to call me back…
[EDIT: Immediately after posting this blog I got a call from my mother. Remarkably, my brother DID remember to tell her to call me, probably just so he could prove me wrong.]
