• never pick up a stray kitten
• don’t strain yourself
• We should get married more often
• a cuddlesome wench on each side
• He pointed at my foot
• I wiggled like a puppy

After my ankle surgery, my mother just wouldn’t shut up with the “helpful” advice. “Don’t strain yourself,” she insisted. “You don’t want to open the stitches back up.”

“Sure, Ma,” I repeated into the phone, but she wasn’t happy until I promised to never pick up a stray kitten again. I couldn’t really blame her for worrying. The last kitten had hidden beneath the sofa and swiped her talons right through my achilles tendon, thus necessitating the surgery.

My new husband came into the room, followed by the doctor with a cuddlesome wench on each side. Nurses, I assumed.

The doctor sat on the edge of my bed. He pointed at my foot. “Feeling better now?” he asked, and then tickled the sole. I wiggled like a puppy shaking itself dry.

“Good,” said the doctor, and he left, taking the cuddlesome wenches with him.

“I’m sorry we have to spend our honeymoon in the hospital,” I said to my husband.

“We should get married more often,” he laughed.

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