by Nicole Crews
Me: Mother, so what do you want for Mother’s Day?
Mother: Nothing.
Me: I know! We can get mother-daughter tattoos. I’ll get “All She Wrote” as a tramp stamp. What would yours say?
Mother: “Do Not Resuscitate.”
On Education:
Scene: Early September dinner time at the Crews household and my hair is in pre-Bo Derek cornrows because it meant I didn’t have to wash it if Miss Ruby, my nanny, braided it that way:
Mother: So what did you and Ruby do today Nicole?
Me: Ruby took me to my first day of school!
Father: She did what?!
Me, proudly: Yes, we walked to Kern Street School and I signed up for the free lunch!
Mother, dropping her cigarette: Hand me the phone, Joe.
On Fashion:
Scene: Driving from the lake on Mother’s Day in a bikini with a bucket of chicken, and emerging from the car to greet mother.
Mother: Yeesh, Nicole, do you even own any pants?
Me: Says the woman who greeted my high school date at the door in panties and one of dad’s undershirts.
Mother: Well, we didn’t have air conditioning.
On Sports:
Mother: So what do you want to watch tonight?
Me: I thought we could watch the Super Bowl.
Mother: I’m sorry, my hearing must be going. I thought you said you wanted to watch the Super Bowl.
Me: Very funny. C’mon, it’ll be fun with the commercials and the halftime show.
Mother: This reminds me of when you were a cheerleader and I asked if you understood football.
Me: What did I say?
Mother: You said, “It doesn’t matter whether you win or lose, you still get to cheer.”
Mother: Did you watch the Final Four? Duke won?
Me: I know mother. The whole world knows mother — with the exception of certain drag queens and various Trappist monks.
Mother: Well if they’re from North Carolina they should know it too.
On Holidays:
Scene: Epic Halloween blowout at my late-’90s apartment and my mother shows up in a full-length mink with a sweeping sable collar and a More menthol dangling from her mouth.
Me: So who are you supposed to be?
Mother: You in 40 years.
On Parenting:
Mother: So what event are you attending tonight?
Me: Corks for Kids.
Mother: Good. Children today don’t know how to use cutlery.
Me: I said “Corks,” not “Forks” mother.
Mother: What’s the difference?
On my Love Life:
Mother: So why did you come home so early from your date last night?
Me: That’s none of your business.
Mother: Nicole, your love life is a conundrum, not a business.
On Hair:
Mother: So, are you single handedly bringing back the “Rachel?”
Me: Rachel who worked at the coffee shop or Rachel the buyer at Bloomingdales?
Mother: Does it matter? It’s still Greek Girl Blond.
Me: Says the woman who went from Cruella DeVille to Tina Louise in one swift dye job.
Mother: Answer the question.
Me: Well if it’s Bloomingdale’s buyer then yes, why not? It’s worked for Greek girl Jen Aniston for all these years.
Mother: Angelina Jolie might beg to differ.
Me: Your hair may be lighter, but your roots are still dark.
On Greensboro:
Mother: So has anyone come up with a slogan for Greensboro yet?
Me: I drove by the Convention & Visitor’s Bureau the other day and noticed a club next door called “Sexy Party Bar & Club” maybe that should be it: Greensboro: It’s one Sexy Party.
Mother: They should have embraced the Green trend when it was still green.
Me: That’s what my friend Angie said when we were walking the Greenway the other day.
Mother: Greensboro: The Green Way
Me: I just wish they would stop building doo-dads along the Greenway and finish the actual greenway.
Mother: The Greenway wasn’t built in a day.
Me: You may be on to something.
On Vikings:
Mother: You never know a man until you see him on a boat, on a mountain or in the cut.
Me: How about in his cups?
Mother: Well, that’s a given.
Me: I think it’s funny how the Viking takes his pants off like a fireman — in a perfectly stepped-out-of stovepipe pile.
Mother: Nicole, firemen don’t step out of their pants like that. They step into their pants like that.
Me: Either way, that’s hot.
Mother: Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.
Me: The Viking sets his pants on fire almost every day, welding.
Mother: Pants on Fire is an excellent Indian name for him.
On Food:
Mother: What did you have for dinner last night?
Me: I clubbed some baby kale.
Mother: Why?
Me: I needed strength for the Golden Globes.
On the Oscars:
Mother: Did you watch the Oscars?
Me: You mean the Oprahs?
Mother: The camera did seem to spot on her a lot.
Me: Yeah. You’d think she was Kanye at the Grammys.
Mother: Who is Kanye? Oh. I know. That rude rapper. I’m glad he’s not in the movies. So many rappers are.
Me: Street cred pays off on screen. I have to say that I love Common though.
Mother: Who is Common?
Me: He’s kind of like the Harry Belafonte of this era.
Mother: Then why is he called Common?
Me: I think he was originally named Common Sense but some ska band with the same name sued him.
Mother: I’m not even going to ask what ska is. It sounds like something my neighboring Swedes would eat in Minnesota.
On Death:
Mother: Where are you going all dressed up?
Me: I’ve got another funeral.
Mother: Don’t be like me and outlive all of your friends.
Me: You’ve still got me mother.
Mother: Nicole, you’re my child. Not my friend.
