Carpet Cleaning with Mom...
Well that was fun... The carpet in one room, and the hall are clean. The top of my stove was cleaned. And it only cost me $41.00 and 4 hours of nagging. There must have been some miscommunication somewhere... I could have sworn that Mom had said SHE would pay for all the shit this time. No such luck. I think next time I take Mischa's advice and higher someone to come in and clean. It'd be cheaper and it will save me from Mom trying to figure out from who's genes I got the willingness to live in such a "pig sty". Nothing's ever good enough for her. It's a good thing she's never seen the houses of some of my friends. My place is immaculate in comparison.
It's not like I don't appreciate the help... it's just that I can do without comments such as my mom commenting that my breath smells of smoke which leads her to think that I'm on drugs or something.... Okay so that's not entirely untrue... I was at a party this weekend and there was some bud there and I did partake. But I figure I owed it to myself seeing as before Friday night I had passed up two or three golden opportunities to get completely and blissfully wasted. But we don't need the parental unit knowing this little bit of information, so I just said that there were smokers at the party... which is also true (as much as I think cigarettes are gross, having a lot of friends who are smokers does come in handy... as does hanging out with stoners. I can always pass it off by just saying that I was in the room). Of course all this leads into lectures about how the kinds of people I hang out with reflect on how people perceive me. And since I hang out with stoners, mall rats, Bohemians, and various other "street people", as Mom calls them, well then I guess I'm just your typical degenerate, then. Yay me!
But this is one of the reasons I moved out: I hate having to explain myself. ESPECIALLY when my standards are so vastly different from those of my parents. Mom once referred to me as an unkempt Bohemian, to which I said "on behalf of Bohemians everywhere, thank you."
Of course, she's coming back tomorrow, after I "get off work" (she doesn't have to know that I'm not working all week) to help me move one of my cabinets. Hopefully, by then I'll have my other futon completely assembled. I know... it sounds really bad that I'm only using my parents for menial labor and as a source of furnature (I get book shelves and DVD racks for free thanks to Dad and his garage), but I figure that as soon as I have everything the way I want it, I can tell them to shove off and stop telling me how to live my life. Selfish and masochistic, I know, but I've dealt with worse, her name is Grandma.
It's not like I don't appreciate the help... it's just that I can do without comments such as my mom commenting that my breath smells of smoke which leads her to think that I'm on drugs or something.... Okay so that's not entirely untrue... I was at a party this weekend and there was some bud there and I did partake. But I figure I owed it to myself seeing as before Friday night I had passed up two or three golden opportunities to get completely and blissfully wasted. But we don't need the parental unit knowing this little bit of information, so I just said that there were smokers at the party... which is also true (as much as I think cigarettes are gross, having a lot of friends who are smokers does come in handy... as does hanging out with stoners. I can always pass it off by just saying that I was in the room). Of course all this leads into lectures about how the kinds of people I hang out with reflect on how people perceive me. And since I hang out with stoners, mall rats, Bohemians, and various other "street people", as Mom calls them, well then I guess I'm just your typical degenerate, then. Yay me!
But this is one of the reasons I moved out: I hate having to explain myself. ESPECIALLY when my standards are so vastly different from those of my parents. Mom once referred to me as an unkempt Bohemian, to which I said "on behalf of Bohemians everywhere, thank you."
Of course, she's coming back tomorrow, after I "get off work" (she doesn't have to know that I'm not working all week) to help me move one of my cabinets. Hopefully, by then I'll have my other futon completely assembled. I know... it sounds really bad that I'm only using my parents for menial labor and as a source of furnature (I get book shelves and DVD racks for free thanks to Dad and his garage), but I figure that as soon as I have everything the way I want it, I can tell them to shove off and stop telling me how to live my life. Selfish and masochistic, I know, but I've dealt with worse, her name is Grandma.