Like Mother, like Daughter

My mother is hysterical. She's also a bit obsessive, neurotic and irrational, but that is quite besides the point. Of this blog, anyway.

Anyway, with each passing day that I spend at home with her, I notice that I'm sadly becoming more and more like her. Sometimes it's a good thing; mostly it's not so much. Which brings me to the tale of today which I affectionately call, "If I don't see you, you don't exist."

My mom has this yard-man... a dude, and old dude, that cuts the lawn, trims hedges, whacks weeds, feeds birds (ok, wait- I actually do that one), and generally meanders around outside our house. I dislike him very much. Moms does too. However, she continues to pay him and solicit his help with yard-like things. And so, I continue to sneak out of my house to go about my unemployed business.

Yes, sneak. I'll escape through the basement, run up the outside stairs (amongst the spiders and crickets and bees...), hop the fence, and beeline it to my car-- all in the name of avoiding him. Or- I'll walk out the front door, shimmy up against the house, with head up and eyes down, and again: beeline it to my car. CRAZY, right? But he's that vile.

Today, for example, we had this exchange:
Whitey (oh yeah, that's his name): Hey! Hey! You got a job yet?
MJ: No. (I don't try and use many words with him, as to not confuse him.)
Whitey: Why not? No one want to hire you?
MJ: Apparently not.
Whitey: Well, ok. Hey, you look a lot prettier lately.
(awkward silence, and patented Molly-death look)
MJ: bbbssshhhk.
Whitey: What? You don't think you're pretty?
MJ: No, no. I think I'm hot (dripping with sarcasm). Thanks a bunch Whitey, good bye.
THE END

So, now that you're all with me, and you see the reasons why CJ (my Moms) and I go to these lengths to avoid him, you will not only sympathize but emphasize, with the fact that we hid (HID!) from Whitey this very afternoon.

He had been cutting our grass... all. day. long. And for those of you that have been here to Padonia Road- you know that there isn't that much grass to cut. So around 3pm, after the awkward exchange I have documented above, he came into the house (uninvited) to tell me he'd be BACK after dinner. Ugh.

When my mom returned from work, I told her, and she said, "Great! Now we can't eat dinner until he leaves... wanna go out for dinner?" I did not, however, want to dine out because I had stuff to do... so, because Mom refused to cook dinner with Whitey outside and able to look into our kitchen, I was forced to make a salad from the basement. Yep. The basement.

When Whitey finished the yard... he began knocking on the door. And knocking. And knocking. And my mom was hiding in the first floor bathroom- she was busted(!) and couldn't emerge until she knew the coast was clear. So I was forced to tip-toe up our creaky stairs, crawl to window space, take a peak, and report back. Ultimately, Whitey was forced to give up the fight and retire home. But not after leaving a note which read: I know you guys are at home. I can see your car. Why won't you answer the door?

D'oh.

Were CJ & I paranoid? Yep- you bet. Is it something my mother convinced me to do? Yep- you bet. Am I mortified? Yep- you bet.