In December, my wacky mother will be taking a two-week trip to a Central American plastic surgery mecca for a facial overhaul -- alone. Not only that, but after 50 years of smoking cigarettes (and rationalizing that if she were to get cancer, she would have gotten it already), she's quit. Not for health reasons, per se, but to prepare for her surgeries and avoid "necrosis." Gotta love my ever-practical mom.
I have to admit, the first words that formed in my mind (after I could again form words after this news) were "help me Jesus Christ" and "international incident." Mom has never been out of the country before. The edgiest place she's ever been to is Los Angeles, where I live. MaMere was only mildly acknowledging when I quizzed, "You DO know they speak Spanish there, right?" and spewed, "How the hell should I know?" when I asked her if this country were above or below the equator.
I'm not the only worried family member. To properly conjure up an image of Mom, think Nathan Lane's character in "The Birdcage" -- trapped inside the body of Annette Funicello. I worry I'll have to smuggle in a supply of Agador's "Pirin" tablets to keep her properly calmed. I worry that Mom's creative take on foreign language will have the locals searching for her in her recovery hut, carrying sticks of fire. I worry I may have to fly out there to mediate for Mom and the world with my rudimentary Spanish and similar distaste for primitive travel conditions (meaning, what if they don't have hair dryers and shower curtain liners as well as shower curtains?). I'd better check my Pre-Paid Legal coverage to see if it includes international legal situations. And stock up on Imodium.
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