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."

I Meant What I Said, I Can't Help That Your Interpretation is Wrong

So I actually got home before my parents today, and proceeded to finish putting a cherry red wood varnish on a set of shelving units I bought last week, and did the dishes (sink was empty) before they came home.

My mom came home, and starts cooking herself some fish.

As she's cooking, I hear her call my name in the tone of voice that says, "You have work to do."

I set aside the project I was working on, and trudge into the kitchen.

"Yes, Mom?"

"You know that doing the dishes doesn't just mean doing the dishes, right?"

"...Um?"

"You're also supposed to wipe down the counter, and clear all the stuff on it off, and put away whatever else is laying out around here. That's part of the dishes."

I resist the urge to say that next she'll tell me sweeping the floor is part of doing the dishes.

"...I...had assumed the clearing the counter...was clearing the counter..." I say, carefully.

She laughs.
"Oh,see? That's why you'd make such a good lawyer!"

It's My Day Off, But It's Not Laundry Day

So. Here's just another situation that has only been further complicated by my mother:

Today is my one day off of work this week. But I am not allowed to do laundry today. Why? Because it was decided, long ago, that weekends are meant for my parents to do laundry, since they work all week and otherwise don't have time. Because my work schedule is ridiculous, I haven't had a chance to squeeze my laundry in during the week in a while, so I have three HEAPING laundry baskets in my room and one half-done downstairs.

My mom brings up that I have laundry downstairs, when it is clearly my parents' day for laundry.

"I know, I'll move it," I say.

"No," my mom says, and with a spurt of something that sounds almost logical says, "You work all week - maybe today should be your day to do laundry."

To which my Dad nearly rises out of his seat, "But It's a WEEKEND. It's OUR day to do laundry."

"It's okay," I say, "I'll move my laundry, it's no big deal, I know it's your day to do laundry."

My Dad settles a little in his chair.

My mom turns to him, "So, you're doing your laundry today?"

"No," says my Dad, "I did it earlier this week."

"Oh," says my mom, "I don't have any laundry either." And before I can ask if I can still use the machines, she turns to me, "You better have your laundry out of there within the next HOUR, or I will be VERy upset."

These Are Things My Mother Really Says

Really.

Things you should know before you start reading these posts:

1) I am 22 years old, living at home. I graduated college Magna Cum Laude with an art and teaching degree, and got interviews all summer, but was never hired for a teaching position. I now work part time for a gallery and full time at a cafe to make ends meet.

2) My loving parents charge me rent for living at home. They know they can't charge me too much as I only make about $800/month and I already pay other expenses like car insurance, health insurance, cell phone bills, etc...but they charge me rent. And they demand that I keep on top of the dishes. Which wouldn't be a hard things, except...

3) I am rarely ever home. I am one of those people who likes to overwork, mostly because I don't want to come home and have the excuse of always wanting to earn an extra buck. So I cover shifts for co-workers, do extra un-paid projects for the gallery, and even volunteer to help out at local events. Often, I have left the house by 6:20am, and come home anywhere between 7pm and midnight. By which time, my parents have already come home and there are dishes in the sink.

4) My Dad is fairly reasonable. My mom is not. I don't know what to blame for this. The most prominent explanation she puts forth has to do with her background as a substance abuse counselor, or highschool counselor.

Now that you have a decent background....time to let loose today's tidbit:

Today my mom came into my room, half-dressed. This is typical of her. If anyone in my family were to start a nudist colony, she would be the head of it.

She remarks at how warm my room is. Stating the obvious, as she has been letting me use a space heater she used to store in the basement. I have been using it for months, but she is always giving her "cautious mother" talks about how I'll burn the house down if I leave it on when I go to work, etc...

She sits down on my bed, "I like it in here." Then she lays down for a minute. I am busy, at this point, answering an email, mostly ignoring her.

"You should be a lawyer," she says.

I stop typing. Turn and slowly look at her.

"What?" I say.

"You should be a lawyer. You know, one of those artist lawyers. You can help artists with legal stuff," she says, trying to be helpful.

"Do you know how much law school costs?" I ask her. Not because I have ever secretly dreamed of being a lawyer. I hadn't even thought about it really. Lawyers are just not my type. They're always reading or researching or trying to find that loophole that will save the day.

"Well," she says, "You could just study on your own and take the bar. You'd probably pass."

I'm debating whether to point out that that is a highly unlikely situation, but instead I say, "That's an expensive test, too." I have learned that while logic does not make much impact on my mother, finances generally do.

"I bet it isn't," she says, "I just took one to be a principal and it was only like $400."

I don't bother pointing out that being a school principal and being a lawyer are two completely different careers.

"I just don't think I'm lawyer material, mom," I say, and try to get back to typing my email.

"Sure you are. You argue with me all the time. And your arguments are so....rational. Like every time I tell you to do the dishes, you always come up with reasons why you couldn't."

I shrug. I'm not even going to argue this one, because the sad part is that I know she's not trying to be sarcastic. She's serious.

"I don't think so mom."

"Okay, hun. Just trying to give you ideas."