My other sister, Louise, called last night. Without beating around the bush, she opened the conversation with: “Richard, I’m thinking of having some work done.”
“On your house?” A natural conclusion, in my opinion.
“Don’t be an idiot Richard. I’m talking about plastic surgery – as in, I want a boob job.”
The statement threw me into somewhat of a tizzy. When it comes to female blood relatives, I consider certain topics strictly off limits or at least worthy of extreme censorship. Discussions of private parts always fall somewhere in the restricted zone. Thus even though “why?” seemed the obvious response, I hesitated to ask.
Louise didn’t need any prompting though: “The two of them don’t match anymore, and with Lisa’s wedding around the corner I want them to look their best … for Sam.”
You’re worried about looking good for Sam – one of the ugliest human beings on the face of the planet? Blessedly, I didn’t voice that thought. I did, however, find my tongue at last, cautioning: “Whoa there! Remember who you’re speaking to Louise. If you love me, then for God’s sake keep the details to a minimum! Now what the hell are you talking about?”
Apparently Louise’s definition of “minimal details” differs substantially from mine, as her response demonstrated: “Richard, my nipples point in toward each other like they’re staring. You’d want a boob job too if you had cross-eyed nipples!”
I supposed I might, but that was neither here nor there. All I could focus on was the image instantly seared into my brain – of my sister’s nipples wearing corrective lenses. Suddenly, I felt an intense desire to terminate our call posthaste. I tried a tactful withdrawal, telling Louise: “Well, it’s been nice talking to you; if there’s nothing else you really need to say, I’m sure you’ve got important things to do, like me.”
I guess I shouldn’t have left an opening. As my sister informed me, she happened to have one other item to discuss. “That’s not all, Richard. I’m also having cosmetic surgery on my vagina. I’m finally going to do something about that camel toe!”
I hung up then, lamely advising I’d just heard the baby crying. The fact that I don’t have a baby escaped neither of us, but Louise let me go anyway. Alas, the damage already had been done. I haven’t since been able to shake a disturbing image that makes the earlier nipple scene look like a soothing pastoral view in comparison. While I won’t share the gruesome minutia, I will admit the image involves something named Louise slurping up water at a desert oasis; only Louise is no dromedary.
A camel’s feet