So the doorbell rings – and my two dogs immediately go berserk. Which means its my mother – she does it on purpose because she thinks its hilarious, she calls it the dog bell. One of these days I’m going to open the door and slap her.

But I digress. This time, I opened the door and stood there, dumbfounded and gawking.

Standing in front of me is a mountain of red Norwegian wool. And some fur on the top. All I could see was her nose.

HB: Mother of God, its Mrs. Clause. What the hell are you wearing?

She lumbers into the house. Two mittened hands reach up towards the fur and try to pull the hood back, but without fingers she just manages to flail the fur collar around while I watch in total horror at the state of my gene pool.

After a full five minutes of flailing, I hear a distant shriek – Help me!

I wrestle the hood off her head, and the static charge reaches epic proportions – her grey hair stands straight up off her head.

I contemplated the most recent dog bell incident – and the insanity that has ensued the last twelve times she’s rung my doorbell and I couldn’t help myself. I shuffled my slippers across the carpeted floor towards her, and reached out to touch the end of her little red nose.

*SNAP*

QB: You little shit, what did you do that for?

HB: You deserve it for that outfit, have I taught you nothing? What size is it??

QB: Its size Shut Up and Get Me Some Static Guard. This fur collar is generating some sort of electrical charge every time I put it on.

HB: Its God’s way of telling you its hideous and shouldn’t be worn.

QB: Do you like my muff?

HB: Mom, you need to never ever say that – and don’t Google it either.

Let me explain to you about the weather here in the Godforsaken Arctic Tundra. We have three temperatures – Almost Freezing, Freezing, and Freezing Your Ass Off. I find the older I get, the more it pisses me off that we live here – but never the less I do try to construct a tasteful look from Gore-Tex and polar fleece.

My mother however has taken a less fashionable route. I don’t care where the parka is made and by who, she looks like she’s wearing a sleeping bag, fur-trimmed.

QB: My new criteria for clothes. Its gotta be big. Its gotta be thick. Its gotta be long.

HB: Dear God, please tell me you’re still talking about polar fleece?

And so, the story ends – with the be-flanned red beast shuffling out the door, yelling over her shoulder…”The matching pack boots are on order!”

This is going to be a long winter folks.

So – we went to Bath and Body Works. Or Bed Bath and Body Beyond as Queen B. calls it. Sometimes Bath and Potty Works. But I digress.

We went on a mission – a candle that will mask dog farts for my office, and a mini-hand lotion for Queen B’s purse. Heavy duty hand lotion because we live in the Godforsaken Arctic Tundra – no concern about greasy after-effect here, she would like something with the consistency of lard, and a better smell so that the dog quits licking her hands.

(She said she ran out of lotion two weeks ago, and I am sorry to report that I believe she’s using butter-flavored Crisco).

(I know this because she’s gone the Crisco route before. She read somewhere that it was good for cracked heels so she put it on her feet and then put wool socks on before bed. As the story goes, Dad put his back out by vaulting over the footboard into bed after seeing the can of Crisco on her nightstand.)

But I digress. Back to Bed Bath and Beyonce. After about five minutes of candle sniffing, we were high as kites and headed towards the back to look for lotion.

Standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a shelf of Brown Sugar and Vanilla scented lotions, Queen B. gives the tester a hearty pump and ends up with an overly generous pile of runny lotion in her hand.

QB: Oh gross, its watery – stick your hand out, I don’t want this much.

HB: <hands behind back> Hell no, I hate that scent. And it looks like semen.

QB: What are you, two? Give me your hands, I’ve got too much lotion! It smells great, nothing like semen.

HB: Omg Mom, have you smelled semen?? Wait – don’t answer that.

During this exchange, my mother is standing with a handful of lotion in one hand, the tester in another, and her purse hanging on her elbow. (And her new red parka which is another post that will be forthcoming, dedicated to Godforsaken Arctic Tundra Fashion Don’ts.)

QB: This is a different smell, its one you like.

HB: You don’t know what scents I like!

Queen B. then lifts her hand to her face to smell the lotion, no doubt in a mothering-reflex where you pretend to enjoy something so that your child will like it. Unfortunately she stuck her nose IN the lotion.

QB: Get over here. Get it off me! I have semen on my nose, get it off me! Get help, get a Kleenex!

So I run over to the sink and grab a paper towel, and being the helpful daughter that I am, I do a quick downward maneuver to get the semen lotion off my mother’s nose. However, I temporarily forgot that the anatomy below your nose is your mouth and rubbed the lotion across her mouth. And because the lotion did kind of smell like vanilla, she reflexively stuck her tongue out and licked her lips.

QB: Ahhh – ged it eff! Ah gad themen on my wips!

Being the helpful daughter I am, I immediately bent over laughing. (Side note – beans are cheap, and organic.) The unfortunate reaction to bending over was a change in intra-abdominal pressure and an accidental discharge of 100% organic gas.

Queen B. hears the discharge and starts to laugh, because the accidental discharge was unfortunately aimed directly at the unsuspecting teeny bopper in the Bath and Booby Works apron who had come to assist.

Queen B’s snort also resulted in more lotion up her nose, and she starts to gag.

Teeny Boobs: Can I help you find anything?

HB: <eyes averted> No thanks, we’re good!

I grabbed my mother’s arm and dragged her out of the store – we recovered with two coffees and scone. We’ve never liked that stupid store – who names a store Beyond Bath Works anyway?