Even though I was determined to stay as late as possible in
my college apartment, I knew my rations were running low. I was out of money,
food, and most importantly--booze.
Going home meant I would have access to luxuries I am
usually never able to offer myself, things like scones and bread with seeds in
it and alcohol that doesn't taste like acquired it from a Purell factory.
BUT.
Going home also meant leaving behind the beautiful sanctuary
I had created away from my bat-shit crazy family and their twenty-four-seven
drama.
Going home meant I would spend the first four hours after my
arrival removing malware and viruses on all of the household computers.
But I had to. I would do it for the booze. (And my dog. My
dog is an asshole but I still like her for some reason.)
So I made drive home, soaking up the sweet, sweet time I had
alone and filling it with Taylor Swift’s 1989 on repeat.
I purposely did not tell my parents when exactly I would be
coming home, because when I do they make it a point to call every thirty
minutes to ensure that I am still, in fact, on the way home. Not only that, but
they interrupt my precious music/podcast listening time and while trying to
drive down the highway at eighty miles an hour I have to jumble around the car,
one handed, as I try and unplug my phone from the auxiliary cord to answer it. Then,
after I tell them information that they already know, I have to find my place
again whilst trying not to kill myself in a horrific car accident.
After a four hour drive I pulled into my driveway. Rather
than the usual escapade where both my parents come running out to tell me about
all the problems they've been having with their electronic equipment, I was
surprised to find nobody was home.
It was great.
I unloaded my stuff, made myself a nice, delicious cup of
coffee, and smiled lovingly at my dog as she did what she does best, which is
completely ignore my presence.
Hungry, I opened then fridge. And what I saw inside was
this:
“What the fuck…?” I uttered to
myself.
I inspected one of the glasses and furrowed my brow upon realizing that it was full of jello.
In the eighteen years I lived
with my parents I never once saw anybody eat jello.
“WHY IS THERE SO MUCH JELLO
IN THE FRIDGE” I ask my dog sternly. She did not look up. Confused, I turned around and
realize what had been left on the counter:
 |
| (sorry for the potato quality) |
Oh my god.
It slowly dawned on me that strewn around the kitchen were a
fairly large amount of empty 32 oz. Gatorade bottles and multiple kinds of
laxatives.
What the fuck went down here before I got home?
Just as I was about to throw my hands up and scream “TOO MUCH. NOPE.” and drive back to my booze-less apartment, my mom joyously burst through the garage door with an armful of wrapping paper.
“YOU’RE HOME!” She screamed, as she dove in for a hug. “So
glad you’re here, I need you to fix the printer.”
“What’s with all the jello?” I asked.
“OH!” She said, delighted. “Guess what I’m doing tomorrow??
I’m getting a COLONSOSCOPY!!!” (Even though she said it with her sing-songy voice I know
she used caps lock and three exclamation points). “It says here I have to drink
all this stuff at this time and not a minute later! Better hop to it!”
Apparently when you get a colonoscopy you are only allowed to
eat jello and you have to drink a shitload (no pun intented) of laxative
medicine mixed with Gatorade the night before. The medicine works quickly, and
soon after drinking it shit comes flooding out of your body as wild and uncontrollable
as the Mississippi during rainy season.
So. That solves that mystery.
She went on ranting and raving, mixing her laxative concoction
together as pumped as if she were preparing a pregame cocktail before a frat party.
It never ceases to amaze me how fast she can go from (relatively)
normal to neurotic. This time it happened when she realized she couldn’t find
her phone. I was not surprised, as she is better at losing stuff than anyone I
have ever met in my entire life.
“AHHHHH I CAN’T FIND MY PHONNNNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!” She
repeated hastily, even though I was aware of the situation. Calmly, with a
here-we-go-again sigh, I began to search the house.
See, a normal person might be mildly annoyed about this
situation. They would stop for a second and think, perhaps mentally retrace
their steps, make absolute sure they couldn’t find it, maybe take some time,
call some places, or perhaps even use this thing called the INTERNET MACHINE
which, if you ask it nicely, will FIND YOUR IPHONE because it can do that.
But.
My mother just throws her hands up in the air
and races around “looking” for it (and by “looking” I mean frantically flailing
her body until she embodies the very essence of a clusterfuck).
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her chug a glass of her Gatorade/laxative
mixture with wild eyes.
“MOM. Why did you just do that. That was NOT a smart thing to do.”
“BECAUSE THE DOCTOR SAID I HAVE TO I HAVE TO DRINK IT OH MY
GOD I HAVE TO GO GET MY PHONE I LEFT IT AT THE FEDEX MAYBE OR AT WALGREENS I DON’T
KNOW OH MY GOD I LOST MY PHONE I DID IT AGAIN I HAVE TO DRINK IT RIGHT NOW I’M RUNNING OUT OF TIME.”
Great. So now my mom is an irrational, nervous, screaming
shit-bomb waiting to happen. And just as I turn to go search her bedroom she
flies out the garage door and into her car to go to FedEx to go get her phone. I
scream after her to wait, but it’s too late.
In stunned silence, I watch her drive off, the following
scene playing in my mind: At an inhuman pace fueled by an energy only my
neurotic mother can harness, she dramatically busts through the doors of a
Fedex-Kinkos, the double doors smacking people against walls as they swing open.
She cries out to the holiday crowd
something so frenzied no one can understand it, and seconds later liters of liquefied shit explode out of her body comparable to a military-grade explosive device, while a crowed of
wide-eyed, open-mouthed customers and employees drop their Christmas packages
in shock.
I walk back inside and within minutes find her phone on the
counter.
Too bad I couldn't call her and tell her.
**epilogue: She came home and shit her pants.(I think she
made it to the bathroom, I didn't stick around to watch)
~For more fun stories about my mother see Shit My Mom Says,
Mothers, and I Welcome You to a Show~
