Spooning (not the good kind)

We were huddled in Chris's igloo, breath smoking. 

"Chris," Mom quavered. "Can you turn the heat up, please?"

"You mean on, Mom," I said. "The word is on."

"What's the problem? I think it's fine." Legs crossed, Chris sat back in his cane chair, wearing shorts and a Bermuda shirt, his lips blue as he sucked on the straw of his pina colada. "Rasta, mon!"

"Can we get the show on the road?" Mom said, breaking the ice and the icicles from her nose. "Bailey is lonely waiting for me. I told her I'd be home in an hour."

"Bailey can't tell time, Mom."

"Oh, she can. She's a pickle, that one! Yesterday she was solving equations in matrix linear algebra. Did you hear me? Matrix linear algebra."

"Matrix?? Bailey must be the One!"

Mom nodded. "The other day Bailey was putting the treats I give her behind the toilet. Oh, she's a pickle! Later, she found the treats and ate them, one by one. What dog does that? Isn't that amazing?"

"Literally every dog on the planet does that."

"Oh, is this my Christmas gift, Greg? I don't like this. I don't want it."

"You haven't opened it yet."

"I know what it is. You did some horrible painting of me."

"You act like you're Dorian Gray. I promise I didn't paint you with your face melting off your skull."

"What did you say about my melting skull face? Oh! I don't want it!"

"Mom, just open it. You'll like it, I promise."

"I'm very scared."

"As well you should be."

"You better not put this on your blog."

"Oh, Greg. Why? WHY?"

"Happy Solomacas Day, Mom!"

"Thank you," Mom said, grimly.

"You look thrilled."

Chris burst out laughing. I joined him, both of us swept up in a hurricane of hilarity. Mom shushed us fiercely.

"They can hear you in the next igloo! Shhh!"

Mom demanded to go home. We got to her apartment just in time to see Bailey climb down from the table piled with books on quantum mechanics and Finnegans Wake, the Graphic Novel. Bailey removed her glasses, cleared her throat, and then pissed on the carpet.

"No, bad dog!"

"Aw. Look at all the urine. How will Bailey get that Nobel Prize in Mathematics now?"

Mom instructed me to put the painting in the bedroom. There I set it on the dresser, where it will remain until the sun explodes or we die, whichever comes first.

"I really wish you wouldn't paint me. But that's a dear painting of Bailey. She's so cute! Don't you think Bailey is beautiful?"

"That dog is a fox."

"Now in here is where I want my new bed to go."

"Well, you'll have to kick the dried turds out of the way first, but there's some cleared space..."

"It would be nice to get a good night's sleep. That darn beeping noise wakes me up every night. At two am! I'm thinking of writing the Denver Post about it."

"That doesn't seem like the best way to... Wait. Why do you have a spoon on your toilet?" I went to get the large metal spoon. "Have you been crying and eating cookie dough in here?"

"What? No, that's my poop spoon."

"Your..." I gasped. "Poo...?"

Mom shrugged. "Yes. I use it to break up the poop in my toilet. It won't go down, so I use that spoon to break it down so everything flushes."

"Oh, dear God, Mom," I said. I flung the spoon from me, some poop water spritzing Bailey in the face, who barked weakly. "Why? WHY?"

"I don't know! I mean, I'm a normal goer. It's not like I have such big poops. It must be the toilet."

"You're a... normal goer."

"Though lately I've been going a little, then I flush, then go a little more. Like that."

"Ohhh," I said, fainting and falling and grabbing to the walls. "Elizabeth! I'm coming to you now...!"

"What are you reading?" said someone to no one not reading this.

"Greg's blog. More about his mom's poop."

"Again?? Why? WHY??"

"Good question. Hey, what's on the CW?"

Merry Christmas, everyone! *checks calendar* Merry Christmas, everyone!