This is my sister, Ginny.
She’s 14-months younger than me, so we’ve always been close. Well, except when she shows up looking like this two days before I give birth.
When she shows up all tanned and thin and shiny like this, I put toe lint in her hair when she’s not looking. But most of the time, she’s alright.
Ginny recently moved from Atlanta to a teeny, tiny town in Virginia to live with her fiance, John Michael, who is building a hospital in this teeny, tiny town in Virginia. I think she’s incredibly brave. And, until recently, I thought she was incredibly smart, too. But then she called me a few days ago and now I question her mental capacity. Allow me to explain…
Ginny and John Michael just got a golden retriever puppy named Sugar.
And, apparently, poor little Sugar has worms. Lot of ’em. This stinks for Ginny because worms have to come out – if you know what I mean. And when your wormified puppy isn’t quite housetrained yet…well…you get the idea.
So, the other day I get a voicemail message from Ginny and its marked “Urgent.” The fact that its marked “Urgent” doesn’t really mean anything. Ginny marks all of her messages as “Urgent.” One time I got a message marked “Urgent” and it was Ginny singing Cheeseburger in Paradise while evidently enjoying a few margaritas. I don’t know if Ginny understands what the word “Urgent” means.
But when I listened to her message this time, she did sound frantic and I thought that maybe this really was urgent. She said for me to call her back as soon as possible because she was really worried about Beanie. So, I immediately call her back. And she’s frantic. She’s so frantic she’s panting. And her voice is about 4 octives higher than normal.
“What’s wrong, Gin?” I ask.
“Well, Sugar has worms,” she explains. And then she goes into this incredibly graphic explanation of the worms which I will not burden you by writing here. But just know it was graphic. Really, really graphic. Horrifically graphic.
“Well, Sugar’s a dog and sometimes they get worms. Just hang in there,” I tell her, still uncertain what this has to do with the Bean.
“That’s why I called you. You need to make sure to get Beanie on de-wormer as soon as possible!” she screeched.
“Uh, Gin,” I say. “Babies don’t get worms.”
“They don’t?” she asks.
“No. They don’t.”
“Oh, well, I wasn’t sure. I don’t know that much about babies and I just wanted to make sure Beanie was okay,” she says, sounding incredibly relieved.
“Beanie’s fine,” I assure her, trying not to laugh. “No worms here.”
Oh, Ginny. Your thought process never ceases to amaze me.