Mom went to the doctor the other day — she hasn’t been to one in a hundred years, so she’s rusty, to say the least.
She’s also blonde.
She was telling me about the difficulties she was having, trying to crawl up on the examining table — she was totally confused. I still don’t understand why, but OK, she’s Mom. I know not to question these things. 
And maybe I do have a bit of her psychic ability, because when she told me she was given a gown to wear, I said, “Mom, please say you put the opening in the BACK.”
*silence*
*hysterical laughter*
“Why didn’t you TELL me that BEFORE the appointment?!?!”
Apparently the doctor walked in and wondered what exactly she was SMOKING before she came in to the appointment. 
Her friend had also advised her not to wear scandalous underwear, which she did anyway, and the Good Doctor got a nice view of that, too. Which he appreciated.
One other story: Mom never goes to the doctor (it’s a lack-of-coverage thing, as sainthood — i.e., caring for elderly parents — doesn’t earn you any care of your own). The only time she ever crosses a physician’s path is when she’s dating one. Which the Good Doctor was NOT trying to discern when he asked:
“Are you seeing any other doctors professionally?” (i.e., for other problems.)
To which, she said:
“Nope, but I’m seeing one rather unprofessionally!”
Scared the hell outta him.
She makes me so proud.
Filed under: Sometimes I can’t figure out how we’re related. Other times, how could there ever be any doubt?