The Mother Of All Crazy Mothers

, , , , , , | Related | September 17, 2018

(My mother has OCD and is a narcissist. Growing up in a house run by that joyous combination motivated me out the door and into my own apartment very quickly. However, I’m still very close with my dad, so I do invite him over when the mood strikes. And though I only invited him, I obviously meant to invite my mother, as well, so she happily waltzes in before him without bothering to check first. And given that I’m her son, obviously my apartment is hers to do with as she pleases. So, by the time she’s gone, everything has been moved around. I don’t notice this right away because my head doesn’t recover from the earfuls of, “How dare you try to keep this a secret from me!” that preceded all of this. Eventually, my girlfriend and I get serious enough to live together, and not too long after, my dad swings by to celebrate my birthday, complete with my mother to show him the way. Despite my numerous explanations meant to avert this, among my birthday gifts is a shouting match between that two women on the concept of “boundaries” and “respect” that I thought would have answered why my dad and I try to hide these meetings from her. But then my mother insists that I’m an idiot since my apartment is never organized. The morning after, I get the bonus of explaining how my mother’s mind works to my girlfriend as we try to figure out what my mother did. It starts in the kitchen.)

Girlfriend: *groans* “Your mom was in the fridge.”

Me: “Look for the ketchup and mustard. She might have thrown them out.”

Girlfriend: “Why?”

Me: “She doesn’t like them, so obviously they belong in the garbage.”

(Thankfully, she didn’t throw them out this time.)

Girlfriend: “Does she not like turkey breast, either?”

Me: “Right side of the deli bin.”

Girlfriend: “But that’s where she put the cheeses. Shouldn’t it be on the left with the meats?”

Me: “She doesn’t read the labels; she just looks at the contents through the bags. Turkey breast is white, so it’s a cheese.”

(She finds the turkey breast was right where I said it was.)

Girlfriend: “Why are the Golden Grahams mixed in with all the different Cheerios?”

Me: “The box is yellow; therefore, it’s regular Cheerios. The actual Cheerios go bad sooner, so they’re on the left.”

(And later on, while she’s in the bathroom doing her hair…)

Girlfriend: “Why is my birth control in the trash?”

Me: “Probably down the toilet.”

Girlfriend: “What?! Why?!”

Me: “She wants to be a grandmother.”

Girlfriend: “Did she throw away your condoms before?”

Me: “No, she just poked holes in them.”

(Thankfully, I caught that one before any damage was done.)

Girlfriend: “She’s never allowed over again!”

Me: “She wasn’t allowed over last night. If you can keep her out, I’m on board.”

(Years later, we’re still not having any luck getting rid of my mother non-violently. And despite that, for some reason, this has girl still decided to marry me.)

You Can’t Snow In Kind Gestures

, , , , , | Hopeless | September 15, 2018

(When I am in high school, my mom and I live in an apartment complex for probably two years. One year we have a decent snow storm; it isn’t bad, but it leaves about three feet of snow around the car. Our shovel has broken, and since winter is almost over and we have little money, we had decided to take our chances and not buy a shovel. So, at ten am after the storm, I wake up and go out with the balcony broom — a broom we keep outside to sweep leaves and such off our little balcony — and try to unbury the car. I work for a good hour, and get about half the front cleared away, when a plow comes in to get what is left over. I don’t know if he doesn’t notice the high schooler with a broom trying to move the snow, doesn’t care, or doesn’t have any room not to, but he literally plows an entire parking lot of snow in front of the car and partially onto the hood. I stand and stare at the pile, defeated, and watch the plow drive off. I sigh and start trying to move the snow again, this time pushing it and literally digging with my hands, when a guy a few cars down notices.)

Guy: “Did that plow just push all that snow in front of your car?”

Me: “Yeah… unfortunately for me.”

Guy: “And you’re sweeping it?”

Me: “I don’t have a shovel; this was the only thing I thought might work.”

Guy: “How long have you been out here?”

Me: “Probably an hour; I started around ten.”

(He watches me sweep a little, and then runs to his car. I don’t pay attention to what he is doing, but a moment later I notice a shovel moving some snow.)

Guy: “I only have one shovel, but I’ll do what I can real quick; I’m a little early for work.”

(It’s been probably six years since this happened, but I still remember it. If you ever read this, thank you. I really appreciated the help, and I don’t know if you ever knew how much the little act meant to me. I hope you weren’t late, since you stayed and helped dig out most the car. I know I probably looked ridiculous and pathetic sweeping snow, but at least we both got a good story.)

Always Room For Politeness

, , , | Legal | September 15, 2018

(I’m British but I have been living in Germany for the last three years. My German language skills are pretty basic, and occasionally this causes me problems. I drive a German car. I’m at home when there is a hammering on the door. It’s a pair of policemen who inform me that I don’t have valid insurance on my car. I’m genuinely surprised, having believed that my insurance was up to date. One of the policemen speaks very good English, and I explain that if there was a mistake it was probably due to a language misunderstanding. He’s fine with that and tells me that I just need to purchase new insurance and then go and re-register the car at the relevant office. During this whole exchange, he is polite but very firm. At the end of the conversation, as they turn to leave:)

Me: “Okay, goodbye. Thanks!”

(He turns back, looking surprised.)

Policeman: “What are you thanking me for?”

Me: “Well… I’m British. I’m polite!”

Someone Should “Lightly” Explain How This Works

, , , , , , , | Related | September 15, 2018

(We are at my aunt’s house and there has been a blackout. My aunt turns on a battery-powered light in the kitchen, and my sister and cousin start making shadow puppets with it.)

Sister: *holds up two fingers in front of the light* “Look, a bunny!”

Cousin: *holds up her whole hand in front of the light* “Look, a turkey!”

Aunt: *picks up her coffee pot and holds it in the light* “Look, a coffee pot!”

Some Things Should Never Be Played With

, , , | Related | September 14, 2018

(I’m sitting on the floor with my eight-month-old daughter. Her favourite game at the moment is for me to make a tower out of stackable cups, which she then pushes over. I notice that her airplane-shaped baby spoon is on the floor, and once I’ve assembled the tower, I proceed to “fly” the spoon around before letting out this brainfart.)

Me: “Oh, no! Can [Daughter] topple the tower before the plane hits it?!”

Me: *silence*

Me: “I did not think that through.”

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