Spit It Out!

Preface: I love my mother. She is an amazing woman, and probably my best friend in the world. That said, sometime she drives me freakin' nuts.

As you know, we're going to be hosting two of the Folk Choir while they're here, and I've been trying really hard to make it so that they can spend the night here rather than at Lumen Christi in the big FC sleepover. I mean, it could be really cool, but I thought they might want to sleep in a bed, and I have the chance to offer them that.

So, Mom comes home this afternoon. I have spent pretty much the last two days cleaning--all of downstairs, both bathrooms, the kitchen and the upstairs living room, with the exception of vacuuming. I'm a firm believer that if there are no tracks on the carpet when company comes in, they will think that you haven't vacuumed. It's all about appearance. Hell, I even weeded the backyard and trimmed the lilac bush in the front yard.

Mom doesn't, however, say nice job, or glad that's done. I mean, I'm not asking for gratitude at all, since it's only fair that I clean, as these are my friends that she's opening her house to. (Yeah, yeah, dangling prepositions all over creation. Deal--I'm in a mood.) But what she does instead of any of these things, she asks what, exactly, I cleaned downstairs. She whacks a couch cushion to show that there's dust in the cushion from when Dad redid the bathroom. And she drags her finger in the dust on the treadmill's base. I was, needless to say, hurt. Why ask me what's done, so that I can feel proud of what I've accomplished, only to display disbelief that I've actually done anything? I mean, it's been a while since I did large scale cleaning. I would have been fine if she had said, actually, you did a good job but missed a few things. Instead, this apparently became a teaching moment, in which I am allowed to figure out for myself what I've done wrong, as I am clearly not up to receiving honest criticism.

And then there are the plans for the morning. As I said, I was trying to make it so that the boys could stay here tonight, if they so choose. My plan: they come home with me, I get up and shower in the morning before getting them up, I get breakfast and lattes for everyone at Jitters and Dad drops us off at Lumen Christi on his way to work. Mom, however, goes through all the things that are wrong with this situation: by the time you get home and to sleep, it will be 2am and then you're up at 5:30, leave the house no later than 6:20--are you sure this is what you want to do? And what if the boys want to shower? And how is breakfast going to work?

For the love of God, Mom--if you don't think it's a good idea, SAY SO! If you think it would be easier for them to hang in the gym, SAY SO! I can take it. Katie, I just think it's not a good idea. I mean, shit--what am I going to say? Actually, Mom, you're wrong. Or I really don't care about your preferences. Yes, I may be a little disappointed, but I respect her opinion, when she gives it. Instead, she asks questions that she clearly already has the answers to, and makes me feel like an idiot for not having the same answers. And those of you who know me know that there are few things I hate more than being treated like an idiot. I mean, I do stupid things sometimes, but I am an exceptionally intelligent person. I'm not being arrogant--it's a fact, not bragging. As for criticism, I've just spent a year being criticised as my job by people I barely know; I think I can handle it coming from my mother.

Okay, yeah, so that's what I'm throwing on the goat today: some definite irritation with my mother.

Awesome thing about it all, though: she's around to irritate me, so nothing will ever be all that bad.

Song of the moment: Sugar Daddy, Hedwig and the Angry Inch.