Saturday morning

I asked dad if he wanted the Times article on Putin; dad went off on how the Times is biased and full of misinformation, and only Fox News gets it right [though, on a brighter note, even my Fox-News watching parents have reached the point of, "why do so  many police have to go killing black people?"].

Then, breakfast, which has long been a source of strife in this household. Should I even bother to link to earlier versions of mom's Saturday morning temper tantrum? Mind you, mom's reliving that tantrum on a daily basis now; whereas she used to come into the kitchen and espy, for example, the parsley I was about to cook and whatever kitchen tools I was using, and proceed to throw a fit because that didn't belong there and all she ever did was clean up after everybody because all we ever did was leave stuff all over the house and never clean up after ourselves; now, she just does that with everything, all the time. She spent a good part of yesterday discovering things, yelling about them, and then moving them to some nonsensical place. It keeps coming back to this: now, she has a medical reason, but she's been pulling this shit her whole life.

There was no fit this morning, but there was the usual.

Dad: Mom's about ready for breakfast.
A.: That means she'll be ready for breakfast in an hour.
Dad: She seemed ready.
A.: If I make the oatmeal now, she's just going to complain that the oatmeal's cold.
Dad: She'll eat cold oatmeal.
A.: You know she's going to complain that the oatmeal's cold.
Dad: [Shrug.]

Mom comes downstairs, I ask her if she's ready for breakfast, I start making the oatmeal.

A.: Mom, food's ready.
Mom: Just a minute. [No indication of coming into the kitchen]
A.; It's going to get cold.

Several minutes later.

A.: Mom!

Five minutes later, mom finally comes into the kitchen and sits down.

Mom: This is cold!
A.: Of course it is.
Mom: Why?
A.: Because I told you it was ready, almost ten minutes ago.

Dad heats up some cream and pours it into the oatmeal. Mom finishes it, and reaches for some smoked fish.

Dad: There's a fork in there!
Mom: I like to eat with my fingers.
A.: You're never going to get that smell off your hands, and then you're going to go touching everything, and everything is going to smell like fish.
Mom: You know, somehow I've managed in my life, and I somehow managed to raise you.
A.: I grew up with every object in the house smelling like fish.