“My sister thinks I should get botox. I’m getting wrinkles around my eyes,” I say to my mother-in-law who is about half my size in every dimension and sharper than a razor. She is holding her “arm dog” that at one point was a lap dog and has upgraded over the years.
We’re picking apples. For an apple crisp.
“You should wait till you get a big wrinkle and then zap it,” she says, managing to hold the dog and the apple bag on one arm the size of a spatula. “That’s what my sister’s new husband did…”
Her sister is something like 89… Should I just shoot myself now?
An hour later, I’m peeling the apples that we’ve collected, still for the same apple crisp. An earwig is staring at me from a hole its fruit house. I scream and jump.
“If it crawled it your ear,” says a person sitting across the table from me who is at this point in the phrase lucky to be alive, “it probably would crawl out on the other side but maybe would leave the eggs inside…”
Where’s my big black gun?
Now three people are sitting across the table from me as I’m in the final stages of assembly. One of them, a new dad, is watching me do the flour and butter part. He says,
“You know, you really should get a pastry knife for that… My wife has one.”