Nitpicking...

...or as the guy who wrote "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" would call it, "weatherproofing."

My mother analyzes my personality, actions and words and comes to sweeping conclusions that she then communicates to me to help me become a better person. The most famous of these was the birthday lecture, in which I was told I was socially overbearing and unpleasant to be around (my friends tolerated me out of politeness). Today I've been told that I'm impatient, egotistical and a few other things.

After dinner, I hopped onto the computer to check my e-mail. Mom said, "you're like an addict."

Classic: tying my checking my e-mail to a deeper pathology, in this case addiction. Recall my mom's concern that I succomb to a drug addiction as a child because of my perceived susceptibility to peer pressure (as measured by the fact that I liked to do things with my friends).

The 'impatient' came when I complained to my mother as I stood outside her car, waiting for her to make her way to it. Every trip to the car is an obstacle course, with plants to water, things to notice. So after about a minute, I said, "Mom!" She said I was rude and impatient. It's true, waiting is not my favorite thing to do in this world, and it would behoove me to learn to do one thing at a time and slow down. At the same time, I lead a frantic life and I don't see that changing, and every minute counts. So when we've set out to go for a walk, let's go for a walk. Let's not take our sweet time getting to the car.

Later, mom was on the computer and I was watching Animal Planet, which is on in my parents' house whenever some obnoxious infotainer isn't. They had a special on fat pets, so I was intrigued. My mom came into the living room and said, "why are you in my seat? Whenever you come here you just take everything over. You're more obnoxious as you get older, and egotistical." Mind you, she didn't ask me to move or anything.

This was all after the whole e-mail thing. My parents were reading their e-mail and mom asked if she could forward me something and I said no. I should have just said yes so I could have read/deleted it on my own time, but no. She made me get up from Colbert (and by "made," I mean she wouldn't shut up until I did) and read it. My dad got all sanctimonious and talked about how these things should matter to me more than to my mom.

Later that night:

Mom: What is this magazine?
A.: The American Airlines magazine? Were you reading it?
Mom: I picked it up thinking it was one of mine, but it's unreadable! I can't believe you read that...
A.: I was doing the crossword.
Mom: You read that, but you resist whenever I give you something actually interesting to read.

Mom and dad think I live under a rock and would have no idea about what's going on in the world without my parents to feed me forwarded e-mails and magazine articles. It's all for my own good.