Drinking and Flying

Mother called from the heliport tonight.

"One more chance for you to come with me."

[No response]

"Olive, hon?"

["Hon" is one of the many signs that she has been drinking tonight. The others include 1) her humming to herself waiting for me to pick up after I've already said, "Hello?; 2) her insisting that the chauffer call her Babs (not her name and, to my knowledge, has never been a nickname of hers); and 3) she asked me about those fucking leather pants again before she hung up.]

"Yeah, Mom, I said no already. Besides, Ass-ram said I can't fly yet, otherwise I'd be in my own home by now."

"Sweedie, this is your home."

[A private car parked on the tarmac of a heliport? Or the 8000 sq. ft. apartment that feels like a studio apartment when Mommy is home (it's worse when her gentleman-friend "Bernard" is visiting).]

"Have a good flight."

"You too."

[Yet another sign.]