We just returned from a few days upstate at the little getaway condo I told you about in The Nature of the Beast. Before I go on, thank you to my friend and neighbor, who happens to look like Dr. Cuddy from House, for picking up our mail for us while we were gone. The neighbor who usually does this was away so thanks much to Dr. Cuddy and her husband for pitching in. There’s a homemade banana bread coming your way as soon as I find someone to bake it for me.
On our way to the condo, we stopped at a favorite antique shop and Husband bought a vintage electric clock for his office that worked perfectly but wouldn’t chime. There’s a clock shop in our little upstate village and the next day we brought the clock in to see about the chime. The shop owner took one look at my arm, currently in a cast to the elbow, and asked my new least favorite question, “Is it broken?”
MAD Magazine used to have a feature called MAD’s Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions and it’s on my mind every time someone asks me this. I keep remembering one cartoon where a guy is jumping up and down in pain holding his giant, red, swollen thumb in the air. Another person asks, “Did you hurt your thumb?” and the guy responds, “No, I’m hitchhiking to the bathroom.” Classic sophomoric humor but satisfying to recall.
Tired of responding to the same clueless question, I walked outside the shop to wait and was joined a moment later by a derelict-looking guy smoking a cigarette butt and nursing a hangover. Possibly not for the first time. He gave me a woozy smile. “Is it broken?” I looked at him confused. “Is what broken?” He exhaled enough smoke to kill a baby seal. “Your arm! It’s in a cast!” I held both arms out in front of me as if they were identical. “It is? Which one?”
He looked at me baffled. “The one in the cast!” he said, gesturing wildly. Husband walked out of the shop and gave me a look like “Stop messing with drunks” and ushered me further down the street until we came to a shop reminiscent of the kitschy Chinatown stores I love to explore. Once inside, I spied a ceramic mug with a matching lid identical to the one I just smashed while trying to wash it with my injured hand in a ziplock bag.
The mug would be a $3 item in Chinatown but here in this wannabe-trendy upstate town it was $6.50. Since we weren’t planning a trip to Mott Street anytime soon, we walked the mug up to the cash register manned by a much older Asian gentleman who was no doubt the owner. He nodded to us politely and there was a gentle glimmer of warmth in his eyes as he furrowed his brow and said, “Is it bloken?” Since he really looked concerned and I didn’t know if he meant our mug at home or the arm on my body, there didn’t seem to be a wrong answer. With an unexpected surge of relief, I surrendered with “Yes! And I’m miserable.” He nodded sagely and gave me my change. And for some strange reason I felt better.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos take place On Solid Ground
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