Craziness is contagious...

So last night, I'm working on a project and my mom barges in.

"There's dishes in the sink," she says.

I glance up at her. "Yes?"

"You're supposed to do the dishes," she says.

"I know," I say. "They were done last night. I did them while you and Dad were out. You cooked dinner. Now there's dishes again."

She looks at me like I'm being rude. "You need to do them," she says.

I look at the boxes of super sculpey laying around me. I look at the project I'm in the middle of. "I can't really do them NOW," I say.

"Make sure you do them before you go to bed," she says.

I wait for her to leave, but she continues to stand in my doorway, staring.

I'm about to ask if I can help her with something, when she suddenly leaves.

For about two minutes I have uninterrupted work time. Then, my Dad barges in. His face is red like he's been supressing the urge to yell. He lets loose:
"Why are there two paintbrushes in the sink downstairs?"

I hate it when people phrase things as questions when they clearly know the answers.

"Because I was refinishing my shelves," I say. I've been working to refinish them for about a week now.

"Why didn't you wash them out properly?" He storms into my room.

"I...tried? I couldn't find the turpentine. I used soap and water. I got as much out as I could."

"If you don't know where something is, you can ASK," he says.

I try to stay calm. "Okay....do you know where the turpentine is?" I ask.

He stammers, "Well....no. But SOMEBODY in this house should know where the turpentine is."

I sigh. "I'll ask mom," I offer.

"Well I'm sure SHE doesn't know where it is. SHE never uses it," he says.

I look at him, confused. "Well who else am I supposed to ask? Lauren and I only paint in acrylics."

Now he looks confused. "You don't use oils?" he says, "but oils are a classic medium."

"Umm...you can get the same colors and similar textures from acrylics now," I say, "and they're not as messy. So. I use acrylics."

He stares at me some more. "Did they teach you oils at school?"

"No. We're poor college kids, Dad. We're lucky we weren't confined to crayola watercolors."

He gives me instructions for washing the brushes in turpentine. For when I find out where the turpentine is. I'm about to relax as he turns for the door, but he stops suddenly, swigning around with renewed anger.

"Where did you get those brushes, anyway?" he asks.

"Um?" I stammer, not sure where this is going. "The garage?"

"They're not YOUR brushes, ARE they?" he glowers.

"Nope," I say. But I'm not scared. I haven't done anything wrong. "Mom told me I could use them. She said she didn't know what we had laying around the house, and I could use whatever I found. I found them in the garage."

He stops. Deflates. "Oh."

Turns to leave again. "Well put them back when you're done."