The One About Angels and Spleens

Next week, I’m taking a friend of mine to the movies. That makes it sound like she’s my 85-year-old grandmother who’s going for a field trip now that she’s confined to the dementia section of Sunset Manor, but the truth is so much worse.

My friend very recently flew all the way to Colorado so that someone could remove a large section of her liver and give it to someone else so that someone else could, you know, live. Yes, she is brave and amazing and so going to get the coolest, most badass pair of angel wings you have ever seen. Big fluffy ones that will never get matted or dirty or wrinkle unlike mine, which will always sort of look like they’ve been soaked in toilet water. But you can’t tell her that because she is so goddamn tired of people telling her that, which I totally understand.

But let’s get back to the part where it affects me, shall we?

I am taking her to the movies because she isn’t allowed to drive yet. “Why?” you ask. BECAUSE IF THERE WAS AN ACCIDENT HER INCISION MIGHT BURST OPEN AND HER REMAINING INTERNAL ORGANS COULD FALL OUT.

I am so not kidding.

I can’t take that kind of pressure, people.

Do you know what traffic in L.A. is like? The odds of there being spleen all over my dashboard are 2 to 1, at least.

So I’m doing the only sensible thing. I’m buying bubble wrap. Enough bubble wrap to encircle the palace at Versailles twice. And when I’ve wrapped her in that, I’m laying her across the backseat and then filling the whole thing with foam packing peanuts. There is an excellent chance she’ll suffocate, but by God, when we get to the ticket counter, she will have every single one of her organs inside her body.

And I’ll need a Xanax.