It’s a Saturday. It’s a nice one.
And I’m not gonna be holed up in my place where the towels are still in the dryer, my shoes are kicked over by the door and my dry cleaning bag is still in the corner waiting to be dropped off.
And there’s two Jamba Juice Coconut Passion Smashin’ yogurt-on-a-stick sticks here by my keyboard.
I have no shame.
But again. I’m doing something today.
I called Mother to see if she wants to go. Here’s how it went:
Me: “Hey…I’m getting out. You wanna go?”
Her: “Yeah, probably…where are you going?”
Me: “I’m going somewhere where they have those junk stores on the side of the road. The ones that sell crap that you don’t really know what it is. And I’m leaving in an hour.”
Me: “And I’m not getting dressed. I’m slapping on lipgloss, putting on my glasses, I might knock the bed head out, and I’m leaving.”
Her: “Well, I told Stacie I’d cook tomorrow and I haven’t even cleaned the commodes.”
(What the hell is she talking about? And she whispered the part about the commodes. Nobody is there with her but Daddy. And he don’t listen to her as it is. And he knows they have commodes.)
Me: “Mother, get in the car and come on. I will be dead one day.”
Her: “Well, let me go brush my teeth. I don’t even know what I’m gonna wear now.”
Me: “I’m leaving in an hour. Hurry up. Bye.”
She’ll be calling back in about 17 minutes with some jacked-up reason why she’s not going. I know her. Like a book. A book I’ve read for 42 years now.
She hasn’t even cleaned the commodes. She always says crap like that. Totally catches me off guard. Most of the time.
Here she is out watering her plants. Just casually watering. Then she blurts out “I swear all I do is water plants and flush commodes.”
I. Kid. You. Not. Those were her words.
And again with the commodes.
For the love of all things made with cheese, tell me my mother isn’t the only mother that says such whimsical nonsense.
Lie to me if you have to.