Stop and Smell the Astigmatism

Since Da Boyz, meaning all of the males in my family from age 17 to 61, went to the ND v. Purdue game yesterday, I found myself with a bit of free time. I use the term "free" loosely, as I had 29 errands to run. However, as things slowed down in the evening, I propped my feet up at my mom's house, alternating between cuddling with the dog and screaming at Jimmy Clausen to please throw another touch down pass.

At half-time, my chit-chat with Mom became serious. She let me know how worried she is about me, that I'm not sleeping or eating well (you know how mom's are; they want to make sure you're nourished). She always expresses this consternation at my exhaustion...it's in her job description as "Mom." Almost every day, she'll either voicemail, text, or email me, telling me to "Stop and smell the roses." At first, I kept telling her I didn't have access to roses. Then she bought me a stunningly beautiful tropical plant for a housewarming gift. When I confessed that I totally killed the gorgeous plant, she feigned hurt when I had "committed herbicide." Most recently, she bought me a silk plant and included one of those little stakes that tells you how to care for the plant. On the stake, she had written "Dust quarterly."

Hopefully, I won't kill this one!

So to put Mom at ease and to reassure her that I'm in good hands, I told her about how my friend, Therese, borrowed me a statue of Padre Pio. Padre Pio is supposedly the patron saint of stress relief. My mom, trying to recall the legacy and sainthood story of Padre Pio, looked questioningly over at me and said, "He was the one with astigmatism, right?"

No, momma, he had the stigmata. But he might have required corrective optical action, too!