Puncher

“Patty!” came the call from the living room. I slowly straightened up from my current task of shoving laundry into the front of the washing machine and glanced over my shoulder at Bill, who was calmly drying the car off after giving it a much-needed bath.

“Patty! Where are you?” came the second shout. I opened the garage door and stuck my head through. Mom was stretched out in the recliner, staring towards the foyer in anticipation of my appearance from the hallway.

“I’m in the garage washing sheets,” I yelled. “What do you want?”

Her head whipped around to the left as she zeroed in on my voice. “Where are you going?” she asked, somewhat alarmed.

“Nowhere,” I responded, walking into the Arizona Room. “I’m doing laundry and I was loading the washing machine. What do you need?”

“Can you get the puncher for me?” she asked, pointing in the general direction of the wall to her right and her bedroom beyond. “And my book too while you’re at it.”

“Do you mean your Kindle?” I asked, walking into the room.

“No, the TV book. And the puncher.”

“Puncher? Are you talking about the remote?”

“Yes,” she confirmed with a nod.  “The puncher.”

I picked up both and, as I handed them to her, I commented, “Well at least it’s not your snapper anymore.”

“What’s not?”

“The remote,” I said. “Now it’s the puncher. Maybe next week it can be the clicker,” I joked.

“No, that’s my clicker,” she said, pointing to her medical alert button plugged into the charger on the end table. “There can only be one clicker or I’ll just get confused.”

“Well we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” I replied as I made my way back to the garage. “Two out of three confused people living here is more than enough.”

bozo punching bag



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