When I was fifteen years old, my mother looked at me seriously and said, “When I die, I want to be cremated and put in a Southern Comfort bottle.”
It was a comment that has set in motion a hell of a lot of wheels in the crazy train that is my life.
For every time that I hang up the phone on AM, there are countless times when I stay on the line just so that I can keep the hilarity going. In many ways, talking to my mother is the most effortless conversation I have: I rarely have to add in the punch line.
I have been out of her nest for two weeks now. For the first time in twenty-three years, my mother has no children to keep her sane (Aside: AM frequently claims that I have sent her crazy. I will take full credit for RG’s grey hair, but I fear that her disorder is actually genetic. Yes, it skips generations, so I can be amused). PG is currently in Canada, meaning that The Parentals have been allowed to run free in their own house and do whatever they what. My imagination only extends so far as to picture them vacuuming and dusting profusely while listening to Petula Clark.
However, because AM has been left to her own devices (read: herself), there has been no one to settle her down when she becomes unnecessarily excited and no one to remind her to think before she speaks.
When I was twenty-one years old, AM said to me, “Never screen my phone calls like I do with my mother.”
I just looked at her, I believe we were drinking Southern Comfort at the time and said, “Do you really think I am away from my phone that often?”
Once-upon-a-2004, I was sitting in a hair salon when AM called to scream at me about turning off the air-conditioner. Which I did because no one was home. I think Green, she sees red. Thus I frequently screen.
On Monday, AM called at eleven o’clock. Despite the fact that I am working, had talked to her not seventy-two hours earlier (I am a dedicated daughter) and had definitely not turned off an air-conditioner, she decided it was an appropriate time for her to grace my Blackberry. I felt like laughing, so I answered.
We started with our usual formalities:
AM: “I love living in a clean house when you are away.”
ME: “As opposed to having a house filled with laughing and happy children. I like your priorities.”
AM: “You’re bed is always made!”
ME: “Would you prefer me to sleep on the floor when I return?”
And then she cut to the crux of her chat.
AM: “I brought a new washing machine today!”
That is why she called me. She never asked how I am (she doesn’t ask because she knows the answer will be “Smoking”), what I am doing (smoking), or am I enjoying myself (puuuuf)? She called me to announce that she bought a washing machine. I didn’t even know she owned a washing machine. All of my clothes stay dirty or I buy new ones.
“Well…,” I said, momentarily unable to think of a reply. “That’s a load off.”
Naturally, she didn’t understand the sheer genius of my remark initially, but within eight minutes one side caught up with the other side of her brain and she laughed until the conversation was over. My job as Her Daughter was complete for another day.
On Wednesday, AM sent me a Google Talk message informing me that she had taken my dog, Toby, to the vet.
“He isn’t dead yet,” was how she introduced the conversation.
“It is amazing that you raised humans.”
“But I just hate giving him the medicines.”
“The medicines?” I questioned. “Are you from The South?”
“?”
“Are you going to go and cook The Dinners? Tell The RG I said The Hello.”
Her grammatical error failed to resonate and I spent the remainder of the day asking people if they wanted to go watch The Stories on The TV.
Tonight, I am going to watch a drag queen show in a nearby small town called Maryborough. Farmers, sequins and “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go”: Something tells me I was born to come to this place.
“I am going to watch a drag show tonight,” I messaged to AM.
“Why? You don’t even like cars.”
It was a comment that will set in motion a hell of a lot of wheels in the crazy train that will be my night.
(Aside: Everyone in the world needs to meet my amazing mother for at exactly six minutes. It is the amount of time to realize her unique brilliance and enough time to exit before she yells at you to unpack the dishwasher.)
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