Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Teenager Went Down to Georgia

So my mom left on Monday morning to go see Loverboy. This is good, because it means that I have a week to myself. No mom, no kids... I want to paint my face, lift up my kilt and yell "FREEEEEEEDOM!!!" And I paid for that freedom. Oh yes, yes I did.

So mom needs a ride to the viewing center for pedophiles and voyeurs airport on Monday morning. What actually happened is funnier than any stream of consciousness I can come up with, so I am just going to give it to you as it went down:

6:30 am. I am sleeping. I like love to sleep. I milk every precious second out of morning via The Snooze. I even set my alarm for an hour and a half before I actually need to get up, always, of course, with the intention of getting up that early, but it seldom plays out that way (except when Sam Rohrer calls and I treat him like a telemarketer). Anyway... I am in the midst of some awesome morning snoozing (which always produces the most fascinating dreams, which is probably why I never want to get up) when I hear, "Amanda... Amanda! AMANDA!"

Me: mmmuuuuuhhhhhggjugga.... whaaaaaaaaat??

Mom: It's 6:30

Me: soo??

Mom: We need to get to the airport!!!!

Me: mmmmmppphhhhh bbbbaahhhhhnnnn.... noooo.... your flight is at 11:00.

Mom: Well I want to make sure we don't get stuck in traffic(/raped by polar bears/abducted by aliens and turned into intergalactic sex slaves)

Me: We're leaving at 8:00, let me sleep.

Needless to say, there wasn't much sleep beyond that point. I took a shower and went downstairs. This is a good time to mention that I am not a morning person. I hate birds and sunshine and traffic. Mom is waiting at the door, suitcase in hand, ready to rock and roll. She asked me some random questions about what was allowed on the plane, said she measured her purse and it was too big and pointed out that (she was so fucking badass) she was wearing jeans on the plane.

Mom: It's almost 8:00, we're not going to get there on time.

Me: We'll be fine.

I get in the left lane when we get into town to turn into a fast food complex.

Mom: What are you DOING?!?!?!

Me: Turning left.

Mom: WHY?!?!?!

Me: To get coffee.


Me: Mom, the airport is a half an hour away. It's 8:00. Your flight is at 11.

Mom: But there might be traffic! And you don't know how traffic is. Traffic varies from day to day!

(this is a good time to point out that this woman has never driven on a highway, won't drive into the city and goes the speed limit as religiously as Irishman drinking on St. Patty's Day)

Me: Yes, that's why I gave us an extra half hour.

Mom: I think we should have left earlier.

At this point, she shuts up for a minute. Until we get to Starbucks anyway.


Me: It's fine, it will go fast.

Mom: I am going to miss my plane!!!

Me: No, mom, it's fine, we'll be fine.

Mom: (Some flurry of panicked non-sense. At this point, I had stopped listening).

I order my coffee.

Mom: How long does it take to make coffee!!! This line isn't MOVING!!!

Me: Chill out.

Mom: I am going to miss my plane.

Me: You're not going to miss your plane, we have plenty of time.

(8:05 - We're next in line. A Disturbed song comes on in my car)
Mom: What is this crap?

Me: Disturbed.

Mom: This guy is just screaming! This isn't music! I could do that! Does this guy make money doing this???

Me: Yeah, mom, they've sold quite a few albums, they make more money than you or I will ever see.

Mom: (Does something that appears to be an impression of a primate, which shakes my whole car) See?!?! I can do that! I should be rich.

If I had the interest or the Internets, I would have said: "Mom, you don't look like this..."

(excuse me while I *drooool*)

"...which is why, among a vast host of other reasons, you're not rich and famous".

But I didn't.

Me: My car, my radio.

(8:08 - I get my coffee and we're off.)

(8:09 - I turn left to get onto the highway)

Me: (thinking something happened, maybe she forgot her meds) WHAT???

Mom: You're going to kill us!!!

Me: What the fuck are you talking about??

Mom: You turned right in front of that car! (And I saw my life flash before my eyes in a horrible fireball of twisted metal!)

Me: (getting a little irritated) Mom, I have made this drive for the past 7 years... Successfully... Almost every goddamn day. I am still here. You're fine, calm down.

Mom: Well, not with your mother in the car! (That's right, thank god, because I seem to remember the one time she came along when my dad was teaching me how to drive and she had me so nervous I damn near crashed into a fence).

I don't drive on the highway. Your dad was the only one I ever trusted on the highway (because millions of people don't drive on highways every second of every day without incident).

How fast are you going!?!?! Your speedometer says 110!!

Me: Mom, my speedometer hasn't worked for years, you know that.

Mom: Well, how do you know how fast you are going? I think you're driving too fast! How do you know how fast you're going!?!?!

Me: We're going about 85.

Mom: You can't drive that fast! You're going to wreck!

Me: I drive this fast every single freaking day! I get to work in one-piece, ticket free and if you don't SHUT UP I am going to turn this car around and take you home! Do you understand me! You can drive yourself to the airport! I swear to god, I will stop this car right now if you don't chill the fuck out!!

Once again, I caught myself yelling cliche parent phrases at my own mother. There is something just not fucking right about this situation.

We got to the airport at 8:45. Mom got her boarding pass, got in the security line and all was well. She's in Georgia having the time of her life and I am home without anyone bitching at me! It was a price I was willing to pay.