Here’s just a few snippets of stupid crap that’s happened around the house over the last few days.
(And if you think that hormonal teenager was involved in this stupid crap, you’d be right.)
(What gave it away? The ‘stupid crap’ part?)
ME: “You want me to bake you a potato?”
HER: “Yes, and don’t forget to poke holes in it with a fork. Wait…I’ll just do it.”
ME: “Uh, trust me. I know to fork the potato then wrap it in foil.”
HER: “No, I’ll do it. I can do it better.”
ME: “Good. Maybe you can do the dishes and sweep the floor better, too.”
(WHAT THE WHAT? She can fork the potato BETTER?)
(Who, with anything more than tree sap for brains, says that?)
(Coming from the one who wrecked her daddy’s truck after driving it less than 2 miles down the road.)
(Coming from the one who has a room that smells like feet.)
ME: “Sweetie, can you please wipe off the table and put the place mats and flowers back on it?”
(Why is this stupid crap? Because she did exactly as she was told. And not one iota more.)
(Iota – [ahy-oh-tuh] – not one ounce more.)
(I failed to also ask her to also remove the two water glasses prior to wiping the table.)
(So, she simply wiped around the two water glasses, put the place mats down, put the flowers back in place, and went to her room.)
(To rest. Because she worked four hours that day.)
(Leaving the water glasses untouched on the table.)
(How do I spell out the huge eye-roll I promptly did at that time?)
ME: “Oh, I’m supposed to find out for your dad, about this dude you went out with last night, but we’ll just tell him I nosed around because I already know all I need to know.”
HER: “What? How do you know I…wait, I never told you I went out with a guy. And I didn’t go out with a guy. What are you talking about?
ME: “Yes, you did.”
HER: “How do you know then?”
ME: “Because you ran out of here to pick up your dry cleaning and paid for it yourself. Then before you left for work, you put on makeup and actually ran a comb through your hair rather than just a lop-sided pony-tail. You wore cute clothes, sandals and perfume. Not your typical gym shorts, tennis shoes and ratty pony-tailed hair with mascara smudged under an eye. I asked you what you were doing after work and you said, ‘Going to the movies’ however, you never volunteered up WHO you were going with and any other time you tell me what you’re doing, you follow it up with who.”
HER: “You are so creepy!”
ME: (I just stare. No reaction. Just a deadpan stare.)
HER: “His name is Daniel. We’re just friends.”
(I knew a dude was involved. Without words.)
(“Creepy” for $400, Alex.)
During the middle of all this stupid crap going on, this surprises us on the kitchen bar:
(I told you about it on Facebook…remember?)
Again. WHO DOES THIS?
We are so “awkward” and “odd” and “creepy” and “just really weird” so we get flowers and chocolates and a card telling us how she loves us so much and appreciates everything we do for her even though she may not always tell us but she knows how lucky she is to have us?
Is this what frazzle-haired mom’s who look like they’re living in a fog mean when they say:
“Raising teenagers is like being pecked to death by a chicken.”
“Teenagers are the sole reason God created wine.”
“Reasoning with a teenager is like trying to nail Jello to the wall.”
Because that frazzle-haired mom living in a fog is slowly becoming me.
We go from hot-to-cold-to-colder-to-lukewarm-to-scorching-to-cold-again-to-no-water-running-at-all within seconds around this house.
(It’s that damn whoever-he-is-Daniel. I just know it is.)