My mother is 58 years old. She’s always been fun. In fact, I can’t remember a time when I hated (in the teenage angst, no-on-will-ever-GET-me-my-life-is-so-hard-WAH kind of way) (although I’m sure she could come up with some instances). I remember being on the bus during a band trip when someone ran on an announced, “Cori, your mom just started a water gun fight.” The same trip, she somehow convinced most of the chaperons and all of the band directors to jump in the pool, fully clothed. She claims that she didn’t convince anyone of anything, but she WAS the first one in the pool.
So it really should come as no surprise that the older she gets, the more she turns into a prepubescent boy. Every time I talk to her we end up talking about poop and/or farting. And every time we talk about it, she laughs so hard she nearly pees (or actually DOES pee, but that’s another story for another time).
To wit: the other night we were talking on the phone about the new book she was reading, Rage. She was reading a passage where Danny Evans was telling a coworker that he “cropdusted a 3 year old.” To anyone who’s worked in the food service industry, this is not a new phrase. It’s funny, sure, but we’ve all heard it before. But to my 58 year-old mother, this phrase was new and, apparently, HILARIOUS. She couldn’t get through three or four sentences without stopping to laugh. I listened patiently, because I’m a good daughter, and when she was done I chuckled a bit and said, “Yeah, that’s good.”
“Don’t you think that’s funny?!” She asked, surpised that I wasn’t rolling on the floor laughing like she was.
“I mean, yeah. It’s funny. Cropdusting a three year old is funny, and telling your Mormon coworker about it is even funnier.”
“Cropdusting!!! HAHAHAHAHA!!! I had never heard of that.”
And it’s not just cropdusting. She thinks it’s ridiculous that JR likes to *ahem* take his time in the bathroom. She prides herself on getting in and out quickly. In fact, just this weekend when she was visiting, she came out of the bathroom and announced that it takes her less than a minute to pee (yes, she timed herself).
“I always put it off because I think it takes too long.” She said.
The first thing she does when she gets to our house is poop. She stops at the same place every time she drives to Houston to “get a cup of coffee and poop.” We’ll be engaged in a lovely conversation, or in the middle of something and suddenly she’ll jump up, yell “It’s crowning” and run to the bathroom. She’ll come out less than a minute later and resume whatever it was that she was doing.
Is this what happens when you “grow up?” Because it looks to me like she’s regressing!