Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Yes, I live with my mother. Shut up.

As mentioned above, I do indeed live in my mother's house. No, I don't live in the basement, have pasty skin and litter the floor with Cheeto bags while I play Wii. My skin is naturally dead, fishbelly creme, I can't eat Cheeto's due to my gluten issues and the Wii resides upstairs, thank-you-very-much. I actually live in one of her lofts, that makes me a high class live-in if you ask me.

I've been at my mother's house for a smidge over five years now. Sometimes it's been good. Sometimes comforting. Sometimes it's so difficult I think my head might burst. I know this is a distinct possibility because of the one sided conversations I have in my head with her about the importance of boundaries. Sure, we could have these chats be two-ways but it wouldn't work. My role is, and always has been, to be agreeable, take it as it comes and not, and I mean ever, rock the boat. Right now though? Because my head axploded all over the wall this morning? I want to tip the whole damn boat over. Know why? Although she can swim, my mother hates to get her face wet. Yup. I wouldn't tip it in deep water but it might take her a few panicked moments to realize the water was just five feet deep before she found her footing. And being the mean, awful daughter I am, those bits of panic would bring me satisfaction. I'm not proud of my intentions, but the mental image has stopped the head noise and I already feel better.

(Sometimes being evil is the best way out of madness. Plus, don't judge until you're co-habitating with your family of origin.)

1 comment:

  1. OMG, let's just so not talk about it. I completely understand where you are coming from, though it was a stint with my husband's parents that drove me to the brink of serious evil-doing. You get a special fist pound for longevity, my friend.