I wake up to the realization that my mother is finally leaving. Yay? No yay? I can't decide.
The Dynamic Duo requests scrambled eggs for breakfast, so off I go to make them. I beat up several eggs in a container, when it occurs to me that they might want cheese in their eggs. I ask them and they give me the look of death. "Cheese?" they say. "Well, I never! Cheese in eggs. How weird. That's a new one!" I skulk backward out of the room while they continue to rage about cheese and eggs.
I ask citrusboy if he can make them because he makes excellent scrambled eggs. And he does. I take one look at them and freak out! They're too dry. They'll never eat that. Before I could hide them somewhere to be consumed at a later time, the Polish Princess walks into the kitchen and takes one look at the eggs: What the HELL is THAT?!? You can't seriously expect me to eat that, can you? That's crappy. Didn't your mother teach you how to make eggs? That's not European. (And just for the record, not that it matters, but just to show how INSANE my mother is, citrusboy is European.) So now my mother has made my husband feel like shit too. How classy.
I take over the egg scrambling duties, and barely cook them so they're as runny as a stream. Minimal complaining with that effort. I then make Bat-Shit Aunty M's morning coffee, who chooses that moment to tell me she will not be having coffee this morning but rather some tea. Why, oh why I cry silently to myself.
We sit down to the eggs and my mother immediately starts mocking me. "Look what they're eating. Look at their eggs. All dry with no fat." Auny M looks, and then imparts her great pearl of wisdom: Yeah, that won't keep them from getting fatter. Not if they keep shoveling in the lasagne like they do. Lasagne? What lasagne? Oh you mean the lasagne I made because you wanted me to? That one? Right. I feel my head starting to detonate and spew forth ugly things, like so many bits of dynamite.
But they're not finished with their condemnation of my eggs. Oh no, don't even think that I've gotten away that easy. Aunty M gets up: Where's your salt? Whoever heard of eggs without salt. This is ridiculous. Blah blah blah fishcakes. She went on but I stopped listening. My poor eggs - thank god they were already fried up and didn't have to listen to this diatribe. Unlike me, who was teetering on the edge of El Screaming Fit.
After breakfast they left us alone for 3.5 milliseconds in order to finish up packing. Citrusboy tries to calm me down but my mother decides she needs to needle me some more. She comes in with the Cuba itinerary I printed for her - yes, the same Cuba trip that I spent whole days looking for, the same Cuba trip that I couldn't book online for some reason but had to call BC for several times, the same Cuba trip that cost me over $30 in faxes as they needed all sorts of documentation, the same Cuba trip that the Dynamic Duo gave me immeasurable grief about - and says: What the HELL airline is this? What shit plane did you book us on? How could you do this? There it is: the straw that broke the camel's back and the last straw, all rolled into one. I freak out, spewing such idiocy that even I can't remember it anymore. My mother just looks at me like I'm a moron and leaves the room. Gawd, at least she shut up for a moment.
And on that note, they're off. I bundle them into a taxi with hugs and kisses, and they promise to return next year. I hope they're joking.
I ask citrusboy if he can make them because he makes excellent scrambled eggs. And he does. I take one look at them and freak out! They're too dry. They'll never eat that. Before I could hide them somewhere to be consumed at a later time, the Polish Princess walks into the kitchen and takes one look at the eggs: What the HELL is THAT?!? You can't seriously expect me to eat that, can you? That's crappy. Didn't your mother teach you how to make eggs? That's not European. (And just for the record, not that it matters, but just to show how INSANE my mother is, citrusboy is European.) So now my mother has made my husband feel like shit too. How classy.
I take over the egg scrambling duties, and barely cook them so they're as runny as a stream. Minimal complaining with that effort. I then make Bat-Shit Aunty M's morning coffee, who chooses that moment to tell me she will not be having coffee this morning but rather some tea. Why, oh why I cry silently to myself.
We sit down to the eggs and my mother immediately starts mocking me. "Look what they're eating. Look at their eggs. All dry with no fat." Auny M looks, and then imparts her great pearl of wisdom: Yeah, that won't keep them from getting fatter. Not if they keep shoveling in the lasagne like they do. Lasagne? What lasagne? Oh you mean the lasagne I made because you wanted me to? That one? Right. I feel my head starting to detonate and spew forth ugly things, like so many bits of dynamite.
But they're not finished with their condemnation of my eggs. Oh no, don't even think that I've gotten away that easy. Aunty M gets up: Where's your salt? Whoever heard of eggs without salt. This is ridiculous. Blah blah blah fishcakes. She went on but I stopped listening. My poor eggs - thank god they were already fried up and didn't have to listen to this diatribe. Unlike me, who was teetering on the edge of El Screaming Fit.
After breakfast they left us alone for 3.5 milliseconds in order to finish up packing. Citrusboy tries to calm me down but my mother decides she needs to needle me some more. She comes in with the Cuba itinerary I printed for her - yes, the same Cuba trip that I spent whole days looking for, the same Cuba trip that I couldn't book online for some reason but had to call BC for several times, the same Cuba trip that cost me over $30 in faxes as they needed all sorts of documentation, the same Cuba trip that the Dynamic Duo gave me immeasurable grief about - and says: What the HELL airline is this? What shit plane did you book us on? How could you do this? There it is: the straw that broke the camel's back and the last straw, all rolled into one. I freak out, spewing such idiocy that even I can't remember it anymore. My mother just looks at me like I'm a moron and leaves the room. Gawd, at least she shut up for a moment.
And on that note, they're off. I bundle them into a taxi with hugs and kisses, and they promise to return next year. I hope they're joking.
1 comment:
That's true enough. Everything is a big deal - they are the queens of making mountains out of molehills. If they wanted anything else, I'd probably have to break every egg in the house!
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