I think that I�m beginning to really understand Vylette�s aversion to telling her parents anything, once again. I once wanted my parents to be involved in my life, but I definitely no longer want my mom even talking to me�..at least right now. I fuckin hate that I have absolutely no space. I�m sick of someone always being here. I�m sick of my mother pestering me. Here�s a new example of how utterly superior she acts�.
Since my mother will not let me in on anything that goes on with regard to the house, I have to often decide, at the last minute about certain things. I asked, very specifically, today if she would be making any food so that I could plan if she didn�t. She said, �I don�t know.�
How the fuck do you not know? This isn�t rocket science that I�m asking. I�m asking, quite simply, if I need to forage for myself, as I usually do, or if she�s going to interrupt my planning with another one of her food experiments. She makes all of these new recipes that she finds in these cooking magazines and experiments on us.
Nothing wrong with that really, that�s how people get exposed to new foods.
However, if we don�t like this new food, she�ll throw a fit and start screaming about how unappreciative of her efforts we are. Now back the fuck up, I didn�t ask for her to cook, so why should I get on my knees when she does chance the occasion, cook something that tastes bland, and force me to miss my other appointments to eat it?
You may be asking if a person can literally scream as much as she does. Yes, she does. If a leaf drops the wrong way, she�ll start screaming. No one can ever guess what kind of mood that she�s in and if you don�t do things exactly her way, she will scream at you. I am not the only one who experiences this. My stepfather is the brunt of her godawful mood swings as well.
Anyway, I decided to make my own dinner of baked chicken and vegetables. My mother, as usual, is missing so I can�t ask what is �okay� to eat (if you eat something that she intended to use as an ingredient, she will�.you guessed it�scream at you). I decided to go on ahead and make what I was planning. She came home, while it was cooking and asked which chicken I used. I pointed to the chicken in the freezer and she alerts me that it is �bad�.
Why the fuck would you put something that is rotten in the freezer? You throw it away. She tells me that she didn�t throw it away because it would smell in the garbage. Then you take it�.OUTSIDE! What a novel concept!
Even if we throw away my first logical theory�.why wouldn�t you put a note on it that says that it is bad? That would, also, be a logical thing to do. Her answer is that she wasn�t expecting me to use it.
Now, let me get this straight. She won�t tell me if she�s cooking anything. She won�t tell me what I can and cannot cook for myself. She won�t tell me what is bad (because she leaves it in the fridge). Somehow, through all of this lack of information, I am supposed to psychically guess what is good and what isn�t?
There have been other examples of this. A few times, on Saturdays, I have made lunch because [dum dum dum] she is missing and doesn�t tell anyone where she is going. She will come back and tell me that we were supposed to all go out to lunch.
Well that�s fuckin news to me. How am I supposed to know these things? I guess, again, I�m supposed to be psychic. Actually, what she�s looking for is that I�m supposed to wait until she gets home and ask what�s going to happen for the day.
I have news for her. I�m 22 years old and I probably have my own life and plans that are probably more important than whether or not she�s going to tell me that it�s okay for me to eat.
This lack of information does not work both ways, though. Whenever I go anywhere, do anything, decide on any job, have a phone conversation with anyone, get any kind of bill, go to any doctor, or anything that remotely resembles a private section of my life, I�m supposed to tell her. For example, last night, I was supposed to sit around her house waiting for her friend to call about my car, even though I had plans to go to the gym and go see Charlie�s Angels. Upon finding out this information, I was asked (much like a Spanish Inquisition), �Where are you going? What movie are you seeing? What time are you going? Who is going? Who is driving? What time will you be home?�
If I don�t answer these questions�.everyone now�.she will scream at me.
I don�t think my mother understands the concept that I am just as educated as her. I work. I am not a child. I have a life. I have plans. They do not revolve around her.
As our argument ended, she was alternating bouts of mimicking me like a little child and screaming at me. I�m supposed to respect someone who acts like she is in grade school?
