First time was in the morning as I was bolting out the door to work. Father packed in a bun for Monday's lunch that I didn't get around to eating. I thought about eating it just before going to bed, but I wasn't hungry, so even though it wasn't my plan, I put that bun in the fridge with the intention of taking with me for the next day, which was yesterday.
Well, I opened up the refrigerator and didn't see any bun. And I was just casting my eyes back and forth in the vain hopes of spotting the Speedway bag in which I put the bun. Mother, who woke up early and was eating breakfast and watching TV at the dinner table, suddenly pipes up: "What are you looking for?"
That's usually my cue to end my search. I closed the fridge door and lunged for the lunch bag that had that day's banana and bun -- "I was looking for something."
"What?"
"Uh ... something. A bun. The bun that Father gave me. I didn't eat it yesterday."
"The what??"
"THE BUN! FATHER GAVE ME A BUN TO EAT AT WORK AND I DIDN'T EAT IT!"
"Oh."
No, I'm not going to regret being annoyed at her. It was a useless conversation, and ultimately, the question of where this bun was would not have affected her life either way. But she thought it was her business. Jfc.
She did it again last night. I bought a liquid soap dispenser, but I couldn't twist the pump up so it would dispense; it would just spin and spin and spin. (Aside: I have had trouble with bad pumps this year, both with liquid soap and with hand sanitizer. Don't know why.) I finally remembered my plan to go down to the basement where Father usually keeps his tools, even though he doesn't organize them (they're usually strewn about the pool table), grab a couple pliers, and wrench the damn thing open.
So I do that. And it's not going well, because the only pliers I can find either aren't big enough or they're to rusty top open the jaw all the way. In the meantime, Mother was in her office, finishing up on her computer; I was in there helping just before then (and after I got done with my shift with the test scoring place) with filing an online complaint over yet another thing she ordered that didn't get delivered. She steps out while I'm in the laundry room looking for other pliers (don't ask) when she goes, "What's going on?"
I think my subconscious remembered what we talked about in the morning: "Nothing, Mom."
"What? Are you looking for something?"
"Don't worry about it, please!"
"What is it? I can help you."
"Fine. I'm looking for pliers, OK? I need pliers."
This time, there was a twist. Mother says, "Oh! They're upstairs!" And we go upstairs to the big chest of drawers, one of which she opens and has this pile of tools, some of which were pliers. And one of them was the perfect one for me to use to twist and pop open the pump dispenser.
This chest of drawers is right next to the dining room. Why in the hell would you store pliers next to the dining room? But, to her credit, Mother knew. And so she reminded me, in a certain way, she's there to help: "That's why I ask what's going on. I knew where the thing you wanted was."
I, however, cannot help but anticipate and gird for the payback. She's a notorious tattletale. Mother already scurried downstairs to tell My Father how I treated her and what she helped me with, and today for dinner Father will give me a fucking shitty lecture about how I should treat Mother better and how can you find a wife with that attitude. And then I'll snap back and My Father and yell at My Mother for ratting me out, and for bothering me with shitty fucking questions that have nothing to do with her.
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