Somehow, I always end up on the phone with my cousin when she’s in the bathroom. It’s not that she’s in the bathroom more than the average woman in her 30s, it just works out that way.
She’s not particularly shy about having a conversation with you in person while she’s on the throne either, come to think of it.
Anyway, I ask her if I’ll be seeing her next week when we head to town.
“Sure,” she says. “My Porsche should be delivered by then.”
“Your what?” I ask, surprised. She’s got high school boys who play sports, and she’s always hauling half the team around. I’m curious as to why she’d try to cram them into a sports car. Maybe she bought it for the oldest, who turned 16?
Surely not. When she was 16, we were driving around in her busted gray hoopty, blasting Snoop Dogg on cassette and feeling pretty fancy, even if the previously flooded car did smell like a sheep’s ass.
“My pole. For my hallway,” she clarifies. Her pole? I mean, I know in our advancing age that exercise is important and all, but pole dancing? In the hallway? That’s a little out there, even for my family.
Maybe it’s a fireman’s pole? To get from the game room upstairs to the bathroom downstairs more quickly? I mean, we’ve already established that she’s in there a lot.
“I’m sorry, your huh?” I ask again.
“My floor,” she says, slightly annoyed. “In the hallway. We’re finally getting it put in.”
Well, that’s logical. They’ve been renovating their house for quite sometime now. Porsches and poles make little sense, but of course you need a floor. Everybody has floors. Whew.
“Ok,” I say, relieved. “Well, I’m going to let you finish your poop and I’m going to work on some stuff online.”
With that, we hang up. My husband, who has been eavesdropping, looks at me curiously.
“Poles and poop huh?” he asks.
“I was talking to Jenny,” I say.
“Ah,” he says. “Well that explains it.”