Saturday

Mom: These are just not good.
A.: You're under no obligation to eat them.
Mom: It's just a lot of work for little return.
A.: Thank you.
Mom: I just speak the truth.
A.: I heard your truth the first three times.
Mom: We just fry zucchini.
A.: Well, I thought it might be nice to try something different with the 5 tons of zucchini I got.

I'm not particularly sensitive about the food I prepare; anyone is entitled to not like it. Furthermore, sometimes I try something new, which means I risk making something that's not tried and true. If you don't like it, don't eat it. But don't keep bitching about how (1) it's not good and (2) why did I even bother. Just like last night, she kept telling me to quit weeding because it didn't even matter, my soil was doomed; nothing good would grow here, but I should see how amazing her yard is.

But even the zucchini pile-on was a welcome break from the nasty political rants that were emanating from her before that.


But before that, things were okay for a couple of days. Things got better after my last mom-post. A family friend stopped by--just as mom was bitching about how she didn't want to wait around all day for her, as if she had somewhere to be. This friend has finally lost a ton of weight after a number of obesity-related complications, and she's doing much better. Dad suggested that we don't offer her pie with her tea, because she's trying (if she didn't care, it would be one thing, but since she's trying to avoid that kind of thing, there's no point in sticking it in front of her). In fact, when I first offered her food, she said she felt guilty because she'd gotten a candy bar at the laundrymat because she was starving. But that couldn't be enough food to tide her over, so I offered her some real food. Mom took the opportunity to turn to dad and say, "the food you make is better." Then, she demanded chocolate. The friend didn't hear her the first time, and dad and I both told her to hold off.

Mom [in English]: No, I want chocolate.
A. [in Russian]: Could you maybe hold off until she leaves?
Mom: No.
A.: I know. I know that you are entirely encapable of withholding a single thought, especially for someone else's sake. 

She stopped with that.  The friend left once it stopped raining, and at that point it was pleasant enough to go outside, so we had a pleasant walk to the shoe store she discovered last time (it's not exclusively shoes, but that's what she's there for). And shopped there for over an hour and said she'd even come back, just for this store. Then, we had a lovely long walk back.

At the store, I started getting annoyed at dad, even though I shouldn't. I shouldn't because he's a saint, but he's an inefficient saint. That's usually a manageable thing, but not when it's getting in the way of my managing mom. And this was one of those incredibly petty things--but I was already in a mood because of mom--that wasn't worth snapping over. But dad got in line with the five pairs of shoes that mom picked out, and handed him my bags and walked mom to the bathroom. Only to emerge to see him holding a massive store bag.

A.: I gave you a bag.
Dad: I didn't know they were shopping bags. I can't read your mind.
A.: What did you think they were? Why did you think I was carrying them? And why did you think I handed them to you?
Dad: [Shrug.]
A.: Never mind.

With dad, it's one thing like that after another after another, "like that" being doing things in a gratuitously complicated way. Like when he tore open the box of pie instead of carefully opening it along the seam. I should really take these things as a welcome ripple in my carefully ordered life, and I could, but when mom's involved you want to get her out of whatever situation as soon as possible, and dad's fumbling makes things more complicated. And yet--I really should just get over it.