Time to meet the Dynamic Duo:
On the left is my mother, The Polish Princess, and on the right is my aunt, Bat-Shit Aunty M. And let me tell you, she is one bat short of a belfry.
On Tuesday, their plane lands on time at 2:37. I checked. I figure I have an hour to get myself ready before they get here, as they still have to wait for their luggage. But no, they show up at 3:00 since all they took with them was a carry-on. Thus my hair is still a little messy. Wonderful. Great first impression, Winnipeg Damsel.
They buzz the apartment from the lobby and I open the door and let them in. First thing out of my mother's mouth: Why aren't you jumping up and down, screaming with excitement just to see us?!? Now, as anybody who is even remotely acquainted with me knows, that's just not me. I hug, I kiss, I squeeze, but I do not scream and run around in circles, crazed with excitement like a cat drunk on catnip.
This sets the tone for the rest of the week. Five days of constant complaining. About everything. EVERYTHING. I am thrilled. Ecstatic. Looking forward to my death, actually.
Second thing out of my mother's mouth (and I'm not lying or exaggerating): Your apartment is a mess! I thought I told you to clean it! What the hell is this? As I had just finished cleaning it for two days straight. I grit my teeth and smile. I refuse to freak out in the first five minutes. I am better than that.
My mother starts opening all my closets, looking for a place to put her clothes. She takes out the clothes from my bedroom closet and starts hanging up her own. More gritting. More smiling. What is all this stuff on the bedside table? Couldn't you clean that? It's a couple of vitamin bottles and some jewelry that I have no where else to put as the only pieces of furniture in the bedroom are that table and the bed. I shrug. And grit. And smile. What is this thing up against the wall? Can't you move it? It's an amp, mom. Is it bothering you? Is it in your way? No? Okay then. What is this? Why is it almost in the middle of the room? It's a cat toy, mom. It it bothering you? Is it in your way? No? Okay then.
After torturing me for about forty-five minutes, they both go out to the living room for a sit. Why is this guitar up against the wall? Move it. Why, mom? Is it in your way? No? This room is gigantic and there's nothing in it. Leave the guitar. No, guitars don't belong in the living room. Move it to the office! I trudge off with the guitar. One nerve snaps like a guitar string. I wonder how many are left.
Are you hungry, mom? Aunty-M? Should I start dinner? No, no, we're fine. We didn't come here to eat. Some small talk passes. I start to enjoy myself. Bat-Shit Aunty M swears like a sailor and is absolutely the funniest person I have ever known. Then my mother says: Well, when are you going to feed us something? We haven't eaten since the morning, you know? We're hungry. *Twang* Another guitar string snaps.
I start to prepare my yummy lasagne. From scratch. Aunty M comes into the kitchen and starts freaking out that I'm going to feed them something "from a can". I can only roll my eyes because I have run out of words.
Finally, finally we sit down to the lasagne. They pronounce it very good and shovel it in. Then somehow we get on the topic of how fat citrusboy and I are. They lecture me on how if I continue to serve lasagne we are both going to die of a heart attack. At the age of thirty. Now, I almost never make lasagne. I made it for them because my mother requested it and because if I served them what we usually eat (tofu and beans) they would have had a fit and started screaming about how I was trying to kill them. There goes another guitar string.
It's finally nightfall, thank god, and time for some sleep. I put them to bed (in our bed I might add) and my mother asks me not once, not twice, but three times if I had washed the sheets. I say yes. Then she has to add: today? YES TODAY. I WASHED THEM TODAY JUST FOR YOUR CRAZY-ASSES 'CAUSE I KNOW YOU WOULD COMPLAIN OTHERWISE. Last string snaps. I trundle off to the squishy futon for some peace.
For all of that, not one complaint from the peanut gallery about the shower curtain. At least I managed to do one thing right.
They buzz the apartment from the lobby and I open the door and let them in. First thing out of my mother's mouth: Why aren't you jumping up and down, screaming with excitement just to see us?!? Now, as anybody who is even remotely acquainted with me knows, that's just not me. I hug, I kiss, I squeeze, but I do not scream and run around in circles, crazed with excitement like a cat drunk on catnip.
This sets the tone for the rest of the week. Five days of constant complaining. About everything. EVERYTHING. I am thrilled. Ecstatic. Looking forward to my death, actually.
Second thing out of my mother's mouth (and I'm not lying or exaggerating): Your apartment is a mess! I thought I told you to clean it! What the hell is this? As I had just finished cleaning it for two days straight. I grit my teeth and smile. I refuse to freak out in the first five minutes. I am better than that.
My mother starts opening all my closets, looking for a place to put her clothes. She takes out the clothes from my bedroom closet and starts hanging up her own. More gritting. More smiling. What is all this stuff on the bedside table? Couldn't you clean that? It's a couple of vitamin bottles and some jewelry that I have no where else to put as the only pieces of furniture in the bedroom are that table and the bed. I shrug. And grit. And smile. What is this thing up against the wall? Can't you move it? It's an amp, mom. Is it bothering you? Is it in your way? No? Okay then. What is this? Why is it almost in the middle of the room? It's a cat toy, mom. It it bothering you? Is it in your way? No? Okay then.
After torturing me for about forty-five minutes, they both go out to the living room for a sit. Why is this guitar up against the wall? Move it. Why, mom? Is it in your way? No? This room is gigantic and there's nothing in it. Leave the guitar. No, guitars don't belong in the living room. Move it to the office! I trudge off with the guitar. One nerve snaps like a guitar string. I wonder how many are left.
Are you hungry, mom? Aunty-M? Should I start dinner? No, no, we're fine. We didn't come here to eat. Some small talk passes. I start to enjoy myself. Bat-Shit Aunty M swears like a sailor and is absolutely the funniest person I have ever known. Then my mother says: Well, when are you going to feed us something? We haven't eaten since the morning, you know? We're hungry. *Twang* Another guitar string snaps.
I start to prepare my yummy lasagne. From scratch. Aunty M comes into the kitchen and starts freaking out that I'm going to feed them something "from a can". I can only roll my eyes because I have run out of words.
Finally, finally we sit down to the lasagne. They pronounce it very good and shovel it in. Then somehow we get on the topic of how fat citrusboy and I are. They lecture me on how if I continue to serve lasagne we are both going to die of a heart attack. At the age of thirty. Now, I almost never make lasagne. I made it for them because my mother requested it and because if I served them what we usually eat (tofu and beans) they would have had a fit and started screaming about how I was trying to kill them. There goes another guitar string.
It's finally nightfall, thank god, and time for some sleep. I put them to bed (in our bed I might add) and my mother asks me not once, not twice, but three times if I had washed the sheets. I say yes. Then she has to add: today? YES TODAY. I WASHED THEM TODAY JUST FOR YOUR CRAZY-ASSES 'CAUSE I KNOW YOU WOULD COMPLAIN OTHERWISE. Last string snaps. I trundle off to the squishy futon for some peace.
For all of that, not one complaint from the peanut gallery about the shower curtain. At least I managed to do one thing right.
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