Genetic idiocy

Sydney comes by it naturally. I watched as the woman at the university help desk requested my daughter's identification and Sydney responded by enthusiastically digging through her bag to hand her a quarter-filled container of strawberries. "Seriously," I said, frowning as the woman continued to patiently wait for Syd's license, "I was going to make strawberry shortcake with those." Successfully locating her identification, Sydney exchanged her license for the strawberries and raised an eyebrow at me. "Let me spell it out for you, Mother," she said slowly, popping a berry in her mouth. "M...R...I...." Incredulous, I stared at her. "How dare you," I sputtered, "you know I was high when that happened." The woman at the help desk was now fully invested in our conversation.

As I am slightly claustrophobic, my doctor had thought it prudent to prescribe Vicodin prior to the procedure. "Well," my husband asked as we waited in the hospital parking lot, waiting for the drug to take effect. "Well," I answered, "I'm seeing three of you so I think we're good to go." He led me into the hospital and stood silently behind me during in-processing, only stepping in once to wrestle the Harry Potter movie gift card from my hand as I insistently tried to hand it to the receptionist in place of the requested insurance card. I then sobbed inconsolably through the MRI..."Do you want us to stop," the technician asked with growing concern through the intercom system. "No," I cried, "keep going." Another kind technician, gripping my thick wool-socked foot as it protruded from the machine, said accusingly, "The doctor really should have given you something."

I sighed as Sydney stuffed her license and the remaining strawberries back in her bag. I shrugged at the woman who looked vaguely disappointed as we left, hoping, perhaps for a container of whipped cream to accompany the appearance of the berries. "Do you have a pen," Sydney asked, pausing at a tall table to fill out her form. "Yeah, hold...on...a...sec," I said, pawing through my bag. Hotel soap from Paris? Nope. Slightly melted Dove chocolate? Nope (but remember that for later). Safety pin...paper clips...clothes pin...broken protractor...wait! There! A pen! With a long look, Syd took the pen from me. "Want a strawberry," she asked, bending over her form. "Sure," I said and began digging through her bag.