At this point, I’ve decided that I’m going to stop apologizing for my weird personality quirks and off-color comments.  If you haven’t learned by now, there’s no learnin’ ya.

I was in the kitchen this afternoon, getting something simmering on the stove top (I won’t say what as it’s not relevant and I don’t want people googling this post looking for the recipe) when the phone rang.  I know that each and every one of you out there will understand exactly what I mean when I say that it sounded like my mother’s ring.

I don’t tend to dash for the phone when it rings — despite the fact that we are on the Do Not Call registry or whatever it’s called, we get plenty of phone calls from businesses that we have some weak connection to, which makes them exempt from the rule.  The bank calls repeatedly wanting to offer us some weird insurance on the mortgage (we have home insurance–they’re literally trying to sell us insurance on the mortgage itself).  One credit card company or the other wants to sell us credit insurance–ever since I repaired my credit after a couple of really bad years, they just don’t stop calling me!  Some magazine that we subscribe to wants us to subscribe to some other magazine that’s owned by the same corporation.  (“We noticed that you subscribe to Wired.  Would you also be interested in a subscription to Playboy?”)

And yet, I knew that it was my mother on the phone anyway, picked it up–and I was right.  It’s Sunday afternoon, I’m kind of lazing about the house, so we start chatting.

And … I’ll try not to be graphic, but I have noticed that there’s just something about talking to my mother that facilitates my body’s yearning for … release.  You know what I mean.  I’m halfway through “Uh huh”ing my way through a story about my parents’ latest trip to wherever they’ve run off to (Atlanta this time), hearing about the chain restaurants where they ate, the malls they went to, the frustration they had driving the rental car (I bought them a GPS and, for some reason, they haven’t quite mastered the concept of “You can take it with you to use in the rental car”), etc., when I feel that pressure in the lower end of my bowels.

I don’t know why, but I seem to find myself in this situation every. single. time.

At first, it’s more of a mere suggestion, as if my body is saying, “Hi there!  This is just a courtesy announcement that we’re going to need to move to a bathroom soon.  Please put your chair in the upright and locked position, stow your tray tables, return your carry on luggage to the overhead bin or underneath the seat in front of you, and pass any remaining service items to the aisle for collection.  We’ll be landing shortly!”

And now we’re discussing the plans that my parents have hatched for moving flowers around in the back yard, the tomatoes that she didn’t buy at the supermarket because she apparently doesn’t know that they’ve identified ‘safe’ tomatoes after the salmonella outbreak.  (“How did they do that?” she asked.  “I don’t know,” I said, “that’s the FDA’s problem.”)

And then there’s a knock at my lower intestine.  “Hi.”  It says.  “Remember that earlier announcement?  We need you to take your seat for the short duration of the flight.  We’re landing.  Now.”

Mom: “And you father said that he wanted to go to Lowe’s to look for wahwahwahwahwah … ”
Me (starting to sweat): “Uh huh.”
Mom: “And I thought they came in colors but they only had them in black and white.”
Me (sweating profusely): “Uh huh.”
Mom: “And then we got home and the dog had done the cutest thing … ”
My lower intestines: “Sir, we have landed and are on an active taxiway. Please sit down.”
Me (mopping my brow with a towel): “Oh god.”
Mom: “What?  Did you burn something?”
Me: “No, finish your story.  Quickly please.”
My lower intestines: “Sir, if you do not sit down, we are going to call ahead and have security meet us at the gate.”

I know that the politically expedient thing to do would be to just tell her I’ll call her back, hang up and take care of things, but there’s just something about doing that with my mother.  Also, I only ever find myself in this situations toward the end of the conversation, and I always feel like we wouldn’t have much to talk about when I called back, so I tend to grin and bear it.

I realize this is all totally lame, but if it were a well-reasoned logical story, it wouldn’t make good blog fodder, would it?

Anyway, the story had a happy ending – it always does, but I can’t help wonder what Dr. Freud would think about the connection between my mother’s voice and release.  (Alternatively, we could discuss how she tends to call around the same time every Sunday afternoon and wonder whether that has anything to do with it, but that’s far less entertaining).

The other weird thing is that this has been the kind of Sunday where that’s pretty much the most profound thought I’ve had all day.  I’m up for a busy week, I’m allowed to be kind of frivolous …