Not feeling the 2010 mojo
My mother arrived in the middle of December.
It is now January.
While extremely clean and fastidious, my mother generates clutter and chaos much like the dirt cloud followed Pigpen in the Peanuts comic strip.
As soon as she arrived, stacks of useless crap began to cover each and every horizontal surface while the amount of trash generated quadrupled. It boggles the mind how much disoriented confusion one small human can create.
Most all of the crap is imported.
Prior to making the trip to my house, it took her three full days to pack her small SUV.
Why?
Because one never knows when a 108 piece socket wrench set will come in handy or because there are no grocery stores within ten miles of my house (this is simply a fallacy) and I fail to feed my family for months at a time or it necessary to pack every single article of clothing of one owns for a six week visit, including towels of her own.
For the record, mother has no clue what to do with a socket wrench, but, by God, she has a set that any mechanic would envy, including a telescopic handle-thingy.
Need a hole punch or a little duct tape?
Wait just a moment and give her a chance to dig through her ride. There is no doubt she will come up with something of questionable use.
Then, she has the audacity to complain about the poor fuel mileage when she drives half-way across the state of Texas to see me.
Slowly, by inches, every damn thing in that vehicle of hers manages to make its way into my house.
Why am I complaining?
She is now trying to kill me.
There is a rectangular island in my kitchen. Navigating around it yesterday, I kicked a G*d-F*@&ing-D@$n stool arbitrarily placed along one side of the island and managed to torque and wrench my back, as well as throw my knee out trying to keep from hitting the tile with the force historically reserved for baby mammoths.
No, I did not hit the floor, but it probably would have been less injurious if I had. In fact, I would be a helluva lot better off if I had simply been hit by a Mack dump truck.
What the hell?
To add insult to injury, the husband scolded me for complaining about the damn stool to which I responded: “If that had been you, we would still be hearing about it.”
Husband: “If that had been me, I would still be on the floor.”
Much later, my mother attempted to apologize. “Why you no see stool?”
Me: “What the hell was it doing in the kitchen?”
Mom: “I short, you know.”
Me: “Why are you trying to kill me?”
She shrugged before adding: “Guilty unconscious, I guess.”
This morning I awoke to find my back rear tire sitting on its rim in the driveway.
Fortunately, Sweet One has a brand new car I was able to borrow to get to the office.
The tire on my car will require attention when I get home. I wonder if my car will explode when I try to start it.
It is now January.
While extremely clean and fastidious, my mother generates clutter and chaos much like the dirt cloud followed Pigpen in the Peanuts comic strip.
As soon as she arrived, stacks of useless crap began to cover each and every horizontal surface while the amount of trash generated quadrupled. It boggles the mind how much disoriented confusion one small human can create.
Most all of the crap is imported.
Prior to making the trip to my house, it took her three full days to pack her small SUV.
Why?
Because one never knows when a 108 piece socket wrench set will come in handy or because there are no grocery stores within ten miles of my house (this is simply a fallacy) and I fail to feed my family for months at a time or it necessary to pack every single article of clothing of one owns for a six week visit, including towels of her own.
For the record, mother has no clue what to do with a socket wrench, but, by God, she has a set that any mechanic would envy, including a telescopic handle-thingy.
Need a hole punch or a little duct tape?
Wait just a moment and give her a chance to dig through her ride. There is no doubt she will come up with something of questionable use.
Then, she has the audacity to complain about the poor fuel mileage when she drives half-way across the state of Texas to see me.
Slowly, by inches, every damn thing in that vehicle of hers manages to make its way into my house.
Why am I complaining?
She is now trying to kill me.
There is a rectangular island in my kitchen. Navigating around it yesterday, I kicked a G*d-F*@&ing-D@$n stool arbitrarily placed along one side of the island and managed to torque and wrench my back, as well as throw my knee out trying to keep from hitting the tile with the force historically reserved for baby mammoths.
No, I did not hit the floor, but it probably would have been less injurious if I had. In fact, I would be a helluva lot better off if I had simply been hit by a Mack dump truck.
What the hell?
To add insult to injury, the husband scolded me for complaining about the damn stool to which I responded: “If that had been you, we would still be hearing about it.”
Husband: “If that had been me, I would still be on the floor.”
Much later, my mother attempted to apologize. “Why you no see stool?”
Me: “What the hell was it doing in the kitchen?”
Mom: “I short, you know.”
Me: “Why are you trying to kill me?”
She shrugged before adding: “Guilty unconscious, I guess.”
This morning I awoke to find my back rear tire sitting on its rim in the driveway.
Fortunately, Sweet One has a brand new car I was able to borrow to get to the office.
The tire on my car will require attention when I get home. I wonder if my car will explode when I try to start it.
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