I’m pretty sure my mom is cooler than me.
No, I’m positive.
I guess it was bound to happen. It had probably been coming a while now. I just hadn’t really noticed, or cared to notice all this time.
I never thought that I was all that cool, but cooler than my mom? Of course. I’m me. I was once nicknamed the Fonze. Sure, it was a self-appointed nickname, but still, the Fonze? The Fonze? Come on now, you don’t just go around calling yourself the Fonze if you aren’t bringing the cool to the table at least a little bit.
I realized this the other day, a day in which I spent most of my time hanging out with my mom.
That should’ve been the first sign right there. I’m pretty sure I’m in that age range where spending an entire day with your mom isn’t socially acceptable. I’m 20. For her, hanging out with a 20-year-old dude is cool (it’s like Desperate Housewives! except I’ve never watched that show but I’d imagine when those ladies hang out with 20-year-olds they do gross things that I’d rather not think about doing with my mom). For me to be hanging out with a lady over twice my age while I’m 20 and for it to be cool, she must be either Salma Hayek or
Unfortunately for me, my mom is neither Salma Hayek or
Anyway, I had just made a few purchases in the form of both seasons of How I Met Your Mother on DVD because I like sit-coms. I also saw them both on sale for over half off. I blacked out, awoke in a few hours and had an e-mail confirming my order sent to me. I'm still not too sure what happened in between, but I can take a guess at it. Sometimes my Judaism just takes over. It only happens around sales, bagels and foreskins though.
So my mom asked if she could watch some episodes with me. I agree. We’re sitting in the living room watching the funny when the phone rings. She asks me to pause the video, so I do. She proceeds to talk to her friend, Rachel, for a good 15 minutes.
My mom was talking to Rachel about their mutual friend, Susan, who is in the midst of a nasty divorce. I guess it’s nasty. I don’t know. That’s just the cliché adjective to throw in front of divorce, so I’m doing it.
Anyway, Susan wants the husband to move out but he hasn’t come back to their place to pack up all his stuff. Rachel called my mom to see if she wanted to go over and help pack up the stuff with her and Susan. My mom says sure.
Rachel also tells my mom she isn’t sure if she’s going to go over yet because Susan is all depressed and blah blah blah, men suck. My mom calls the divorcee to see what’s up, and if she wants her to come help pack stuff up. My mom has woken her up, so she tells my mom she’ll call her back later.
My mom then tells me to start up the tape again. I do. We watch the rest of this episode and part of another when the phone rings. FUCK! All I want is some Neil Patrick Harris hilarity, but no. I get divorce court, or something or other.
All I hear is my mom’s side of the conversation, but it goes:
“Hi babydoll, how are we?”
“What? Where’s your brother. I thought he was the one you called for these things.”
“I’ll call and see what I can do, but really I doubt she’ll be home.”
“Yeah, I’ll call, but I don’t know.”
Hangs up with a look of shock on her face. “Can you believe what she just asked me do?” Now realizing I’ve been tagged into the game, “Well no, I can’t hear what she asked, so I guess I can’t believe it.”
“She called me and asked if I can call my friend [Vivian] to see if she has any pot that I could pick up and then bring to her.”
“Well, no. I can’t believe that. Firstly, she lives in the condos. She could much more easily walk outside and score weed. Secondly, I had no idea you were a drug dealer. Now I know why you carry around that beeper.”
“Shut up. This is the first time she’s asked me to do something like this. She’s really depressed.”
“I bet. So, are you gonna make the call Mommy Chong?”
She calls, figuring Vivian wouldn’t be home. She is. She’s also a “known” pot-enthusiast, I guess. I don’t know. My mom had mentioned this lady smoked in the past. Her son was kicked out of college for drugs and drinking within his first semester. Her husband is a recovering alcoholic. She’s also a (pun alert!!!!) high-up in the county as far as drug counseling goes. In fact, the day my mom called her, she had just organized a big lecture about the horrors of drugs for over 150 people. She's also my mom's good friend.
She calls and they talk for 15 minutes more minutes. MOM! Doogie awaits! Well, turns out my mom had called this woman the previous week to wish her happy birthday, although I’m now starting to doubt that. Vivian didn’t get back to her because her husband was in the hospital and they weren’t sure what was wrong. They ran some tests for, get this, lung cancer! He-yo!!!!!
True story, actually. So I watch my mom intently to see if she’s going to ask this woman for the sticky-icky after a 15 minute talk about her husbands potential lung cancer. If you can believe this, it’s somehow better than How I Met Your Mother, but not by much.
She pussies out and doesn’t ask. “How can I ask her that after what she was telling me?” “I don’t know. You wanted to be a good friend to her, but in the process let down another friend in need. Tisk tisk, Frank Lucas.”
My mom must now call back her client and tell her the bad news. Then my mom tells me worse news, she wants to go out to eat, and I’m the only person home. I tell her to go smoke a fatty with her buddy and stop at a 7-11 for a microwaveable burrito, but she didn’t listen. So I went. It is, after all, food.
She tells me the woman smokes pot quite a bit. “Anytime there’s been any type of ‘event,’ she’s been high. Your brother’s Bar Mitzvah, [Mutual friend] Mike’s 50th birthday, etc.” Well that’s nice.
“Her kids must know she smokes. She used to do it in the bathroom while they were home. They had to smell it.” No, I’m sure she hid it really well by placing a towel in the crack of the door.
My mom then told me a story about how Susan and another friend of my mother’s went to a beach house years ago and smoked quite a bit of pot. They brought their kids with them. One of them was about a year old and the other was a few months old.
My mom told me she yelled at them for being horrible parents. My mom is quite the buzz kill. “You’d be surprised at how many people my age smoke pot.” No, I doubt it. They have to release the stress of life in this town somehow. Personally, I like to dig through mailboxes on the street, open people's letters and then send them back to the return address with either love letters, or if i have a magazine handy, letters telling them I've kidnapped their child(ren).
Anyway, what really sucks about this whole thing is this woman always laughed at my jokes. She thought I was hilarious. I now know she must've thought I was highlarious (sorry), which puts a damper on my ego. No offense, but I don't want to be the Dazed and Confused of funny children of older people's friends. Sucks for me and my perceived hilarity.
My mom doesn’t smoke, or so she says. But now that I know the type of hooligan’s she runs around with, I might have to give her a curfew. But even if I don’t know which of my mom’s friends are just like, totally doing their own thing man, I do know one thing; my mom is apparently around more drugs than I am.
If not only for that, I’m pretty sure she gets laid more than I do. I mean, I’m here, and my brother is here too, and I’m sure her and my dad went on a honeymoon and you factor in 26 years of marriage. Yeah, I’m doing the math on this. Yeah, I hate me too.
Anyway, no matter how you add it up, my mom is cooler than me.
One positive, though, is that I’ve only referred to my mom as Mommy Chong or Frank Lucas these past few days.
In case you're wondering what that might look like, my mom:
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