Obsessive freaking compulsive much?

Disclaimer: I love my mother. I do not, however, love the demoness who would quite literally white wash the apartment twice if she thought she could get it past me.

To state the obvious, I am officially back home. Yay ability to lock doors with other people on opposite side. And no sooner did I drop my suitcase in the hallway to be unpacked when I damn well get to it did she turn around and start looking for something to clean/put away/rerange/organize/irritate the hell out of me with. Now, keep in mind, she was just here on Friday. And did the exact same thing. No one’s been in here since then, as I’m the only one living here and I wasn’t. So there was exactly the same amount of crap left to do here when we came back as there was when we left. That being about 3 things I managed to twist her arm enough on Friday to leave alone because they’d take me 30 seconds and I *did* plan to come back leaving me ample time to deal with them. I guess she forgot we had that entire 20 minute discussion over it, because they were getting done whether I liked it or not. So all I could really do was just smile, nod, and say “Yes mother” every couple minutes in order to negate the possibility of further offending her not quite sensible ears. So she wanders around the living room, bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen, trying desperately to find something left that I surely couldn’t deal with without some kind of assistance. She fixates on the bed, or more specificly on the one side of it where the frame’s managed to get a little loose. We have a 5 minute 20 questions about how long it’s been like that, why I didn’t call someone to have it fixed, and whether or not she should do it right now since she’s here anyway. I point out, not for the tenth time, that it was why I came back this evening as opposed to tomorrow morning, so things like that could be looked after. I point out, also not for the tenth time, that it’s an easy enough thing to fix and I don’t need reinforcements (just tighten the headboard on that side, and adjust the frame if necessary). She does it anyway. At which point I wonder, again not for the tenth time today, what the point of her asking if I think she should give me a hand was considering even if I said “fuck off, mom” she’d probably still hear “sure, go ahead”. I finally convinced her after all that that I would, in fact, manage to survive were she to actually walk out the front door. And after another attempt at 20 questions that I was definitely not interested in, she did so. I am now going to:

  • stuff my face
  • flip channels to see what the hell I can watch to kill time while stuffing my face
  • and

  • whipe everything off my to do list up to making lunch for work tomorrow.

And I may just decide to do *that* in the morning. For now, though, I got nothin’.

PS: Sheyrena, prod me if/when you see this and are in a talking mood. Me being home means I have stuffs for you. And a means to get said stuffs to you without you having to leave your place. ‘Cuz I’m just that good.


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