This morning I was distracted by these dry spots on my legs, so I asked my son to go and get his Granny's bottle of oil, she swears by it. I poured a little in a zip lock bag, and applied some to relieve the itching. My son returned the oil, right along with a bottle of cough syrup. All was well, so I thought.
Although I had some minor hiccups through-out the day, just a few low waves of Anxiety, which was especially not so bad.... seeing that I have been out of medication for 2 days. Yet, I still was able to have a day with some very much needed, side splitting laughter with my sister. When my day was at an end, I started gathering my belongings and saying my goodbyes, then I got hit... I was slapped by my own Mother!
With lips pert super tight and eyes at a distance, roaming about my possessions, Mommy quizzes me... what did you do with it? I didn't see my oil on my dresser, where is it? I didn't see Dee bring it back!!
Just then, I thought what the hell, man? Does she really think I'm stealing from her? This can not be happening, she had all damn day to hold her Inquisition. But nooooo.... Mommy, you wait until it's time for me to begin my hour and half commute home to start grilling and grinding! Surely this JUICE isn't as important to you than your daughter's fragile feelings or mental discord! Within seconds... flashes came and went regarding this prized NECTAR of the Gods. Mommy was behaving as if, a couple of 103 year old women from some village on the outskirts of Jerusalem, took olives from... lets say, the Garden of Gethsemane and stamped them with their wrinkly, tired, weather beaten feet for hours on end, just to release that precious ointment that SHE coveted. I'll go one step further and say, perhaps she believes that one of the Popes, maybe Pope Innocent... laid his holy hands on this magical plant sap? Give me a break... Mother!
My son chimes in trying to reassure his Granny that the LIQUID was back, restored and resting in it's sacred niche. I guess his word of honor holds more weight than mine, because without visual proof I was finally free to leave her home.
As I was sitting in traffic and yes, still smarting about the unforeseen Holy-Oil-Gate, I noticed that I had been scratching the hell out of that same disgruntle area. Pulling up the legs on my sweats revealed bloody loose skin fragments. Then I gave a chuckle and said out loud (just me in the car). Ummmm, at least we know that Jesus nor his Disciples had ever used this particular bottle to anoint anyone's forehead or sandal clad feet. They couldn't of used it, 'cause it didn't even work on my dry scabs. Mother you may safeguard your "Ancient Oil" that is housed in a "Modern Bottle". I shall never again reach for that Royal Relic.
Love, Your Daughter