Me *drying dishes*: Where does this dish go?
Mom: It goes in that cupboard over there.
Now, that's enough direction for a 20 year old who previously lived in the house, right? No, think again.
Mom: It goes in that empty spot on the bottom shelf, to the left, behind that jar.
Mom: You'll have to move the jar. You should put down the dish you're holding, pick up the jar, move the jar, then pick up the dish, put it in its spot, put the jar back in front of it, then close the cupboard door.
I'm surprised she didn't tell me to breathe. No matter what I do, it seems that I'm perpetually 3 again when I go home.
Me: *sets table, puts out salad dressing, puts out butter dish, asks everyone what they want to drink, pours drinks*
Me, interrupting: I did.
Mom: Well, don't forget to put out th...
Me: I did.
Mom: And make sure to get the butter an...
Me: *cough* Look at the table!
Mom: Well, good. Go ask your brother what he wants to drink.
One of these days, I'd like to come home and be 20. I'd like to be able to decide when I shower, which friends I can call, who I can go visit, and what I'm wearing. Sometimes I think I'm exaggerating when I tell my friends about my holidays, but then I remember how I got grounded last Christmas. Seriously. How do you ground an adult with a laptop, a copy of all your house and car keys, and enough bitterness to make cyanide jealous?
Apparently I have overly optimistic notions of what holidays should be like.