Flipping Bananas

So yesterday (Tuesday) morning I was woken up at 4 o'clock, I think, because My Father was tooling around the kitchen doing ... something.  Maybe his eyes were hurting again, or he was obsessively cleaning like Grandmother was doing when she was in the throes of pill-induced dementia.  (I'll add that I went to sleep at 10:30 Monday night; if I were really tired, it'd be possible I would have slept through the clamor he was kicking up just outside my bedroom door.)  I then was woken up just before my 7 o'clock wake-up because My Mother was dinking around the kitchen.  I did not appreciate having my sleep interrupted.  I felt like I had to go to work early so I could sleep there.  So, as I was leaving, Mother, out of the blue, asked "Don't you want to bring a banana with you?" I, immediately and with a tone of voice I admit could be construed as defiant and/or angry and/or bitter and/or bitchy, said, "No."

I have not eaten at home the past two days.  It was Halloween Monday and so I usually go to a strip club and then Hooters to avoid trick-or-treaters.  (Parents do that too; they don't give out candy, and they haven't in decades.)  Yesterday was the Minnesota United open house, so I had to go to TCF Bank Stadium and, possibly, pick up out my seat for next season, the franchise's first in Major League Soccer.  So I've basically been a shadow the past 48 hours, wispy and avoiding.  And therefore, my Mother's latest impression of me is shooting down her suggestion I take a banana, bananas she bought, en masse, because they were on sale, even though none of us asked for them.

I'm afraid I know where this will go once I come home tonight, for dinner.  Mother, a vindictive person who doesn't let go a grudge (I get that from her, even though, well, Father is that way too), will probably go in on me on something as payback for this perceived (well, kind of perceived) slight I gave her on my way out the door yesterday morning.  And then she'll drop the bombshell: She'll bring back up her thought that I should pay the property taxes for the house from now on.  She's probably thinking that anyway, but tonight, after she thinks I showed her up yesterday, is the perfect time and way to get back at me.

Oh, Father too.  Apparently his cleaning jag in the kitchen started in my bedroom Monday night.  So he'll give me shit about not cleaning up my room and/or not washing the clothes that are piling up in my hamper.  Great -- I get to look forward to both parental units questioning why I'm not "growing up the right way."

And all over fucking bananas.  Christ.