But I feel irritated today. Maybe the thorns from the rose bush gave off some toxic chemical in my bloodstream or maybe it's just my mother and her latest Cupid-attempt. I have a strong suspicion it might be the latter.
While I was busy
Upon seeing the cuts on my legs and arms everyone insisted on knowing what had happened. I tried to keep my explanation as simple as possible because my mom would use anything as an excuse to get me back home again. Or lecture me about the other big "problem" in my life. Both a bit embarrassing in front of the friends who are firm believers in blackmailing.
"This would never have happened if there was a man around to take care of you," Mom starts her free therapy session.
Like a man would cure me from my clumsiness. Maybe that's the cure for Aids?
"And you're not getting any younger, LT."
She never fails to disappoint with her predictability.
"Wine gets better with age," I try to save some of my reputation and dignity.
"So does mould on bread," a loyal friend comes to my rescue. What have I done to deserve these kind, considerate, caring people?I could see this was boring the daylight out of my dad who got up to check on the damage done to the rose bush. I longed to follow him, but Mom's next words forced me back to my chair.
"The cork goes rotten after a while, love, and then the wine is pretty darn useless, but I spoke to Chris's mom about the situation and she says you don't have enough options. You should meet new people and not just hang around so much with your regular friends. They're not marriage material anyway," and she gets up to pour us some juice under loud protest.
It doesn't help arguing with my mother. I will only end up with a throbbing headache to match the pain in my legs. It wasn't a pleasant prospect on a Sunday night.
"So what did Starsky and Hutch decide?" Dad asks when he returned from his inspection.
"If you're referring to my friend and I," Mom was not amused, "we thought of introducing LT to ten men in ten weeks."
She stood back with folded arms looking like she had just found the answer to saggy boobs without the pain of plastic surgery.
"That's a brilliant idea, Mrs. Truth !" my other trusty friend exclaimed. "That will really spice up her sex-"
At this point I got up at a speed Usain Bolt could only dream of achieving to slap the big mouth on his back before he could complete that potentially fatal sentence. Surely we all have some things we don't want our parents to find out until we're about ... eh ... seventy?
I'm really irritated. I'm as irritated as a cat being bathed. Or a porcupine being poked. Or the three minutes on a Friday before you leave for your long and well deserved weekend only to be stopped by the boss carrying piles of files which only has one destination: your desk, with a note written neatly on top reading complete before Monday. Now you know how irritated I am.
Apart from itching and burning legs, I now have to meet ten random men in an attempt to keep me from falling into flowers. And there's no use arguing with Mother. Once she's set her mind on something it's over, almost like an alcoholic taking a drink after being sober for a year. Brandy has no brakes. Especially when that "brandy" is being supported by a bunch of twenty somethings who find it highly amusing watching me in this uncomfortable and painful situation.
Anybody want to swap places with me right now? I'll even clean toilets for a living.