Today is a good day for a shot of whiskey. First, the sun has been eaten by the moon. I haven’t seen it for days; I’m convinced that’s what has happened.
Second, my poor mother was almost eaten by the escalator at the Westfarms Mall.
We decided to take the stroller up the escalator instead of walking all the way back to Macy’s to use the elevator (it was at least 15 feet, you know). My mother assured me she could handle the stroller so I held my son while she went ahead of me. About halfway up the contents of my very large purse, which was resting in the tipped stroller, started to spill out. Sticks of gum showered the steps. Lipsticks. OB tampons. Credit cards and wallet. Compacts. Pens.
My mother screamed, “Oh shit!” and, just as we got to the landing, fell on her ass and yelled, “Help!” I tried to grab her shirt but it slipped from my hands. Junior started bawling. Thankfully, two nice gentlemen ahead of her grabbed her elbows before her head hit the ground.
My mother then proceeded to sit there, like a crab, and use her legs and feet to drag the contents of my purse toward her crotch while people bottlenecked and tried not to fall on top of her. Someone was kind enough to chase my lipstick across the floor and recap it. No one, however, touched the little OB tampons that were swirling and eddying on one of the grates.
Two security guards appeared. They told us nicely—if not somewhat condescendingly—that there is a handy “stop” button on the escalator should this happen again, to which my mother replied, “You mean anyone can stop the escalator? Just anyone? I don’t know if I like that.”
She shot me a look of disbelief—like terrorists were crouching behind the potted plants, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strand mall goers mid-flight. I shook my head in mock agreement; I was trying to block the image of her fanning her legs as she tried to dry hump the contents of my purse into her lap.
But I have to give her credit: Not one of the compact mirrors broke.