WD-40

Mom and I decided last year that this year's Halloween road trip would be to Salem, Mass.  This means driving cross-country with one of the scariest drivers on the face of the planet.  But that's a story for a different day.  This story is about our adventure just trying to get on the road.

There is a rig on the back of Mom's van for Dad's motorized scooter.  Mom keeps a can of WD-40 in the van because the rig sticks and makes it difficult to get it and out of the back hatch. 

As we were turning on to Main St, there was an odd smell hissing coming from the front seat.  Mom says, "What's that hissing sound?  It smells like WD-40!  Is that my radiator?!  The thingy is in the middle.". What Mom meant by "the thingy" is her temperature gauge.

It really did smell like WD-40, and in my rational brain I thought, "If it were the radiator, it wouldn't smell like WD-49.  There would be steam and the temperature gauge would be going wonky."  So I say to Mom, "Could it be the can of WD-40 you were looking for earlier?"

Mom immediately rejects that idea, adamant that the hissing wasn't coming from under her seat.  It was coming from from the dash!  I was skeptical, but she was insistent that she should take it by the place that had changed her oil the previous day. 

The very nice technician looked under the van and under the hood and proclaimed everything to be safe.  Mom drives away still trying to figure out what could have made the hissing sound and produced the WD-40 smell.  At this point, I'm more certain than ever that it was the missing can of WD-40.

As we were leaving the mechanic's shop, I realized I didn't have my wallet.  While I went in the house to get my wallet, mom was looking for her can of WD-40. Which she found. Under her seat. Empty of WD-40. We're still laughing about it. my

We're being followed...

Mom:  I'm glad we lost that truck!
Me:  You're insane.
Mom:  I'm not insane.  I watch CSI.  I'm informed.  And Criminal Minds!
Me:  Mom, it's a winding one lane road with no turn offs.
Mom:  You don't know!  Maybe he was following us back to the cabin so he could hurt us!

My mother should not be allowed to watch crime shows--especially before we are scheduled to go live in a cabin in the Ozarks for the weekend.  She gets crazier than a bedbug.

First, there was the truck behind us.  Never mind that it was Diversity Weekend and it was the busiest Eureka Springs ever gets.  She was determined that any vehicle following us was on a mission to rape, rob and murder us in our sleep.

Then, came the paranoia of feeling that we were being watched from the woods.  I thought she was going to have a heart attack when I told her the cabin would be unlocked with the keys on the counter.  She fretted about the possibilities of someone lying in wait in the cabin for us to walk in, resulting in our subsequent rape and murder.  The first thing she did was check every room in the cabin.  Secondly, she turned on every. single. light.  Then, she closed all the curtains so no one could see into the rooms.  She even went so far as to lock the door each time we went to get a bag from the van.  .____.  She also insisted on locking both locks when we left the cabin, fretting the one time I only locked the bottom lock.

Her wretched driving and paranoia aside, we had a great time.  We both had a much needed vacation.  We need to do something like that more often, since Dad has proven himself capable of being left on his onesies for more than a day.

Road Trip

Mom:  You should take Gizmo out to potty.
Me:  Okay.
Mom:  Are you staying in the car?
Me:  I thought I was taking Gizmo to potty.
Mom:  Oh, yeah.

So...Mom and I are taking our first road trip since my cousin Jerry's funeral.  Road trips with Mom are always exciting.  She insists on programming Hilary (the GPS), but she will insist she knows a better route take.  Because of this, I am forced to listen to Hilary calculate our route every time Mom takes a turn Hilary doesn't like. 

Mom is also under the impression that things like stop signs don't apply to her.  And let's not forget roundabouts!  She is the person who gets confused and stops in the middle, not sure  which exit to take.

Needless to say, this road trip should be interesting.  It will probably provide me with material for months.

Must be Chlamydia

I recently spent several hours in the emergency room, and my mom came up to sit with me while I went through a barrage of tests.  I was a bit concerned because the problem seemed to be in my reproductive system.  I only say that to preface the following anecdote:

I was still laying in the hospital bed, waiting for the tests from my ultrasound in hopes that nothing was terribly wrong, and I would be able to go home.  Before the ultrasound, the doctor decided to do some STD screenings to eliminate that as the cause of my symptoms.  I guess Mom had been pondering this, because she was quiet for a while.  Then, out of nowhere:

Mom:  I bet it's Chlamydia.

Me:  Mom!  I do NOT have Chlamydia!!!  I can't believe you would say that!  

Mom:  No!  No!!!  I mean the tests they did!  One of them was probably Chlamydia.  I wasn't saying I thought you HAD Chlamydia.

Me:  Good lord, mom.

Mom:  I'm sorry.  That's not what I meant.

   

Homecoming

Mom and I were returning from lunch one afternoon while I was home for a visit.  As we passed a gentleman meandering down the middle of the road, I sighed and rolled my eyes.

Me:  See?  This is why I hate coming home.
Mom:  Elizabeth Ann, you shouldn't shouldn't say things like that!  This is where you are from.
Me:  I know, and apparently, it is full of toothless losers who get drunk at noon and walk down the middle of the street.
Mom:  (indignant and quite serious)  Maybe he can't afford dental care!  You don't know!
Me:  (laughing so hard I cried)
Mom:  What are you laughing at?!
Me:  You have to know.
Mom:  What?!
Me:  (shaking my head)  I love you, Mom.

Pompeii'd

Mom: What's that stuff you put in your mustache? Pompeii'd 
Me: Pomade, mom. 
Mom: Oh, pomade. 
Me: But I think you mean mustache wax...


I love my mom.

Pigs from 'Nam

Mom:  Gizmo looks like one of those, oh, what do you call them?
Me:  Mogwai?
Mom:  No.  Those Vietnam pigs.  What are they called?
Me:  Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs?
Mom:  Yes!  She looks like one of those.
Me: (Facepalm)