"Want to get pedicures?" My sister asked on a recent rainy, summer afternoon. "There's a new nail salon where the old IHOP used to be."
"Perfect," I said. "Let's bring (our 90-year-old, up-for-anything) Mom." (PAUSE.) "Will they serve us pancakes, too?"
My sister smirked.
When we stepped into the joint, I thought I smelled pancakes underlaying the scent of nail polish remover. I was only dreaming ... dreaming that they'd serve a honkin' plate of blueberry pancakes as I sat there with my calves wrapped in goop and Saran-Wrap.
After the final coat of polish, we helped Mom and walked to the drying zone. We slipped our feet under the fans and felt the cool air. Next up, neck and upper-back massages.
As my mother got hers, she leaned over to me and asked (rather loudly), "Do you think he (the masseur) goes to college?"
I was sure the young man heard her but continued his gentle chop-chop on our mother's neck. You never know what a nonagenarian will say that might be embarrassing.
Upon leaving the salon, it was we noticed that the three of us had, coincidentally, chosen a different hue of pink polish. The sandals we were wearing proudly showed off our renewed sense of kinship.
If you see my sister, mother, and I walking down the street, feel free to remark on our perfect IHOP pedicures. (I never did receive the pancakes.)