Turning into my Mother, it’s like turning into The Fly.

Turning into my Mother, it’s like turning into The Fly.

Last night we were sitting around the dining room table, stuffing our faces full of spinach lasagna, when I made a confession to my husband.

“That’s it. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Can’t take what?”
“What?! Can’t take what? How can you stand it?”
“Was I just sleeping or something? What did I miss?”
“The napkin. In your lap. WHY do you put a napkin in your lap when you eat?”
“This?” [holds up napkin, my skin shrivels me into a raisin]
“Yes, that! You always eat with the napkin in your lap. Like you’re dressed in a tux or something. Why?”
“Well, I dunno… My mom made us do it when we were kids. I’ve done it ever since….”

Then he laughed and pointed out to me that I have more pet peeves than anyone he has ever met, and he even had a friend in high school whose nickname was PEEVES. Guess why.

So, we opened up the couch, started the timer and began extensive RockStar psycho therapy. We tried figuring out exactly why I want to bite my fingers off when I see my husband put a napkin in his lap.

“Why does it bother you so much?”

It took a while, but finally I really did realize why. “Because my MOTHER does the same. exact. fucking. thing. She eats with the napkin in her lap, even if she’s only eating a cracker. It makes me want to choke the life out of her.”

Then the flood gates opened. No, I didn’t start crying. It’s only a fucking napkin, people! But, I started realizing that every pet peeve that I have? Originates solely from my Mother. Every. Last. One.

Refrigerated peanut butter.
The expression “TMI”.
Saying “Itch it” instead of “Scratch it”. That’s just so not right.
Pronouncing “pillow” like “pilla”.
Buns – not the food, the hair style.
Fingernails painted the same color as your skin
Hand towels that are solely for decoration, not for anyone to use {WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT?}
Living rooms that you can’t live in.
Cloth napkins. No way am I sopping up that big glob of ketchup on your pretty white cloth napkin. Just give me paper, thanks.
Correcting the way I pronounce something, especially if you’re trying to pronounce it like we live in Great Britain.
Driving under the speed limit. Especially in the left lane.
People that are afraid to get dirty, laugh loud, or have fun. I want to dip you in chocolate and make you jump on the moon bounce while stuffing your face full of candy. You’re going to have fun, damn it. And you’re going to LOVE it.

Okay, I could go on. And on. And on. And on some more. Until you really hate me and think I’m the snobbiest, most high maintenance person you have ever seen. But it’s not like that. Or maybe it is. Either way, I don’t care. All I know is that these things bug the living hell out of me and now I know why! And it’s not because these things are exactly annoying. It’s because I made a promise to myself a very long time ago that I would NEVER become my Mother. And I have been fighting off the genetic plague of Martha Stewart meets Mommie Dearest ever since.

I’m using all of my energy making sure that I never turn out to be like my Mother. Meanwhile, I’m such a controlling freak about it, that I’m exactly like her! Gah! Growing up sucks.

And if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go put my head in the oven…

Where I mention wine coolers more than GOD

Where I mention wine coolers more than GOD

Thanks to those of you who have expressed concern for my absence. I haven’t gone anywhere; I’m still right here. But you know how it feels when you’re being crushed by this invisible force and you can barely get together enough strength to breathe, let alone take care of a child, let alone update? You know how you just want to keep your head on the pillow, under the blankets, where it’s safe and warm and a lot less emotionally crippling? Yeah. Me too.

Problem is, I have no real reason for it. I guess Depression just got sick of being pushed out of my life and pushed it’s way back in. Hopefully? This is just temporary. Because all I want to do is eat brownies and drink wine coolers all morning – which only makes you more depressed. Don’t ask how I know.

My GOD! Did she say WINE COOLERS? Yes, I did say wine coolers. Thank GOD for wine coolers because now I have something to post about!

Friday night, Ty had an old high school friend over to hang out in the garage, poke and prod at the motorcycles, drink beer, and snort lines of testosterone – or whatever men do when their together. You know how when you go to someone’s house that you don’t usually go to it’s just a nice gesture to bring something? Well, this guy brought me over a case of wine coolers.

I really wanted to be nice about it. I really did. But I couldn’t help but laugh right in this guy’s face. And I know that makes me a horrible, disgusting person. But people, he brought me WINE COOLERS. I wouldn’t have cared if he had come empty handed; I’m not like that. Anyone is welcome in my home (well, not anyone – there are plenty who aren’t welcome here) without any pay-offs. But he came with warm tidings of wine coolers.

What am I going to do with WINE COOLERS?? Am I 15? Are we gonna go hang out behind the high school drinking, preparing to run from the cops at any given moment? What’s next, Grape Mad Dog?

And a CASE? My GOD!! That’s a lot of damn wine coolers. And it’s really hard to sing 99 Bottles of Wine Coolers on the Wall.

I tried to explain why I found the wine coolers so funny. But he grew up with my husband in South Jersey in the 80’s when every girl didn’t just love but looked just like Bon Jovi and wore atrociously acid washed jeans tucked into their 5 layers of scrunched neon socks and had a 5 ft high wall of hair. Actually, if you go to many parts of South Jersey, these girls are still there, in the same jeans, in the same socks, spraying their Aqua Netted little hearts away. Apparently, he hasn’t left yet either.

But it was kinda cute in a way. In the thank you thank you thank you thank you GOD my husband moved on and welcomed new decades into his heart and threw away the acid washed jeans kind of way.

And thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you GOD that there are brownies and wine coolers in my house during this depression.

I don’t ask for much.

I don’t ask for much.

Okay, so this whole searching for a new home thing is really taking a toll on me and my mental health. I think that finding a house that is suitable for the needs of my family  would be much easier if Ty and I could both first agree on what our needs are exactly.

  • He wants to be reasonable and buy a 2 story, 4 bedroom house with a finished basement, eat in kitchen, and 2 bathrooms.
  • I want to be equally as reasonable and buy a huge farm house with 10 bedrooms, a kitchen with the square footage of Times Square, and as many bathrooms as we have family members.
  • He wants 1 – 3 acres of land with a 2 car garage. A shed would be nice, but not necessary.
  • I want a gazillion acres of land on which there will be multiple barns that I can turn into haunted houses during the Halloween season. I also want a pond. And ducks. There must be ducks. (But only out by the pond – they poop on everything.)
  • He wants to be reasonably located to a major city so that he can still continue to work without a major commute.
  • I work from home, so to hell with living near a major city. All I ask is that there be a Target in a 20 mile radius from our house.
  • He wants to live in a good school district so that our kid(s) can be well educated.
  • Education? Pssssh. I say why worry about such trivial things?  It’s just our kids after all. We’re going to screw them up no matter what we do. So why keep ourselves up at night over things like education? Next he’ll be saying that the kids need their own beds. INDOORS.
  • He wants a big backyard so that our kid(s) and dog have a nice area to play & run around in.
  • I want a gigantic backyard so that we can put in a track for go-karts, dirt bikes, and quads.

Obviously he has his priorites way out of whack here. And he thinks I’m the one being ridiclous.  Psssssh!  Men.