Happiness is a Pinto Wagon

Dad called.

It's amazing. Before Mommy got sick I could count the times he'd called me on one hand. About ten years ago, the roof of the supermarket where I used to shop caved in. Dad saw it on the news, freaked out, and called me to see if I was all right. I nearly fainted.

But now he's not only calling me all the time, he's using a cell phone. Technology catches up with Andy! Here's a guy who refused to buy a car until 1973, and then it was a Pinto Wagon. The neighbors used to stand on their porches shaking their heads as the six of us rolled by. The guy next door used to shout, "That is not a family car!"

We never had a color TV, either, because Dad said color made the actors look old. When my sister graduated from college in 1985, she went out and bought the family a color TV because she was sick of her friends coming over and making snide comments.

Anyway, Mom was discharged to the rehab facility this afternoon. I hope the staff treats her well. The nurses at Sloan were courteous, the food was decent, and Mom was happy there. I hope she'll like this new place, and that it isn't too depressing. I understand that some rehab facilities plant people in wheelchairs along the corridor walls.

She's still talking about going out for dinner on Christmas and suggested the place I went to with Peter and friends on Saturday. That, or The Parkside in Corona, she said. Optomistic as ever, she says she'll make reservations after she gets out of rehab.

Which reminds me: I really should check out both places and make sure they're open for Christmas.