Dinner conversations

Over dinner, from out of nowhere:

Mom: Your hairstyle is... neither here nor there.

I'm done saying, "it's not a hairstyle; it's my hair, pulled back." I figured that if mom was going to be bothered enough about my "hairstyle" to comment on it at 3am in the emergency room (see July mom blog), there was no reasoning with her over it. The "hairstyle"is her main thing now.

Dad pointed out, or I guess, commented, since we both already know, that mom just has to be harping about something at any given time. It's just what she does. It's what she runs on (with toxic byproducts), and it's lifelong, ingrained habit. It hit me as we were parking at that grocery store I so hate--narrow aisles and lots of yuppies, and mom insists on rolling a cart through it--when mom kept... if there's an English equivalent for what I want to say, it's not coming to me--it's визжать--which Google Translate renders as "shrill" and "shriek" about very minor things. Like parking--like parking in one spot over another. And she's always been this way, I guess--always created a lot of drama over very trivial things--but in the past I was always focused on how it made me feel. At this point, I'm able to let it glide right past me, and all I can think is, "it must be exhausting to go through life like that."

***
Also over dinner, in reference to a family friend who just had Lyme Disease, and then shingles:

Dad: There's a possibility that she has herbs.
A.: Huh?
Dad: She may have herbs.
A.: Erbs.
Dad: No, I'm not trying to say herbs. Herbs. H-E-R-P...
A.: Herpes!
Dad: Yes, herpes.
A.: Oh, no. I hope she doesn't have it.

But I guess it's a variation on shingles, so she may.