Me: "But it's warm."
Mom: "You are not cutting down weeds in the rain."
Me: "I'm already wet."
Mom: "You will slide down the hill in the mud and break your leg. And catch a cold. And give it to me. Then I will probably have to kill you."
Me: "You wouldn't kill me."
Mom: "I think I would have to."
Me: "Who would bury the body for you? You can't do it with your arthritis."
Me: "You can't kill me until you decide who will help you bury the body."
Mom: "Dennis will do it."
Me: "Dennis? Dennis, my former department chair?!"
Mom: "Yes. Dennis will do it. He likes to dig in the dirt. And he could probably use the fertilizer. Yes, Dennis will bury your body, and I will just tell people that you never came back from your trip to Ireland."
Me: "It disturbs me that you have this planned out so clearly."
Mom: "Then you'd better not act like an idiot and garden in the rain and give me a cold! Mom has spoken!"