(Picture from here)
The mysterious, ever illustrious they always say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. And, readers, I think I’m starting to buy into their propaganda.
Today after my English final (harder than I thought, though I love my essay topic – how people cope when faced with their mortality. In short in the essay there’s necrophilia and vigilante superheroes, you can’t get much more intense than that) I went home, did a bunch of boring things then went to my grandparents.
My grandma broke her elbow two weeks ago and had to have surgery, so she needs help with things like filing her nails and washing her hair. Anyways, so I was just going to file her nails and help her wash her hair but my Uncle B came over to make my grandparents supper. We end up staying.
Now my Uncle B has a talent for saying uncomfortable things at the perfect moment and his humour is fairly dry. So is mine. I also have traits from my grandmother (brutal honesty). And even a bit of the Absentminded Professor from my grandfather.
But the real reason for this post comes after dinner, when my mother and I went to the supermarket after supper.
We go through the store, grabbing trail mix and Eggo’s and other random bits for our trip to Whistler this weekend. My mom laughs because whenever I grab the boxes I grab the one hidden behind the first. It’s something she does and never thinks about. Neither do I.
After a rather mundane shopping trip, we take the gaudy yellow cart to the car and I hold said cart while my mother unloads the bags. A giant cooler sits in the middle of the trunk; loading is a little slower than usual. There’s also a pile of leftovers, for Sister, sitting in the one corner.
A lady honks her horn, startling me. I drop the grocery bag I’m holding into the trunk. I glare, grumbling about rude people, as I move the gaudy cart out of the way. It’s blocking a section of the parking space beside me. I would feel bad, if, you know, the parking lot had more than three cars in it. There’s ample parking and she just has to pick the one beside our car, that’s blocked because I’m trying to help my mom get everything settled, so we can leave (we both really had to pee!).
I mean, why can’t she pick somewhere else?
My mom comments on the multitude of spots available and I pick up the dropped grocery bag. Oh shit. When I dropped the bag, it knocked over the pile of leftovers, dislodged the lid on the mashed potatoes and corn and now there’s mashed potatoes and corn all over that corner of the trunk. The potatoes are mashed into the carpet since the bag was lying on them.
I apologize, feeling bad, because my mom is upset. Meanwhile, Lady in the silver truck parks.
My mom grabs a handful of the potatoes and corn, looks at it for a moment, and then chucks it at Lady’s truck. The potatoes make a wonderful splashing sound upon impact and coat the back wheel with gunk (that was, quite honestly, delicious).
I stare. My mind not really comprehending the childish behaviour, as if to assure me it had happened, my mom does it again. And again. And again. She’s laughing and I find that I am too.
“That’s not the kind of reaction you should have when someone annoys you.” Mom says, all serious, until she starts laughing again.
So that’s where I get it. My mom. All those random fits of immaturity, that are oh so satisfying. Pretty much, my mom with her projectile potatoes is saying: don’t mess with my kids.
Lady in truck leaves said truck. She glares at me as she walks by. She hasn’t noticed the potatoes and corn splashed on her truck. I smile back, because she’ll find the mess later.
My mom says after, regarding her outburst, “I know I shouldn’t have done that. But if you think about, the potatoes would never have been spilt in my car if she hadn’t have honked. So really, it’s her fault anyway.”
And there’s how I rationalize my actions too. Oh mother, the life lessons you teach me...