Monday morning

Mom: Why can't one eat eggs?
A.: Did I say that "one can't"?
Mom: Why don't you?
A.: Because they're rarely truly free range...
Mom: Irina raises chickens. Did you know that her daughter is expecting again? She dated her share of dirtbags--she was like a magnet for them.

Sigh. I don't want to discuss my personal life with my mother. Some people do, and that's great, but you, my readers, understand why I don't. I don't want to reinforce or deny her assessment. I never used the word "dirtbag" or anything like in reference to my last relationship. Mind you, I've said as little as I could get away with, and tried to keep it neutral, but even if I were to go normative, I wouldn't go as far as "dirtbag." Mom kept talking about the friend's daughter and her various exes, then turned the topic back to me and my apparent lack of warmth, etc.

Mom: You're very severe. There's just nothing girly or light about you, nothing remotely flirtatious. A.: [Shrug.]
Mom: And you're very correct: you always try to do things the way they're supposed to be done. I was like that once.
Dad: No, you weren't. You were never like that; you were the opposite. You always insisted on doing everything your own way, with no regard for norms. I'm not saying that's a bad thing.

Mom started talking about other people--other friends, other friends' kids--and about how it's not about being smart.