Yo' Momma

Your mother is so passive-aggressive…

that she regularly leaves Post-It notes all around the house, which drives you god damn crazy. This morning, for instance, there was one above the kitchen sink (in which you’d left a single mug the night before) that read, “Do we do our dishes after we use them, or don’t we?” This one, coming hot on the heels of a note yesterday afternoon you found on the bathroom mirror that read, “Dear Melissa, I don’t like it when you squeeze your pimples on me! Clean me off! Ew!” You were livid, although weren’t sure if it was because your mother was making reference to your pimple popping or because she’d actually written the note from the point of view of a bathroom mirror.

It all began about a year ago when you inexplicably gained 25 pounds (inexplicable to her at least, but you know positively that you gained the weight out of concern for your older brother who was then still serving in the Army in Afghanistan) and your mother began to leave small notes in the refrigerator taped to the more fattening foods. These notes ran the gamut from “Ice cream is a no-no!” to “Being thin feels better than THIS tastes!” The only result these notes had was to add to your already high level of concern, which in turn caused you to eat more and gain more weight (the problem resolved itself nicely, however, once Adam finished his tour of duty and came back home safe in one piece).

Occasionally you’ll confront your mother about the passive-aggressive notes, which does little good. On those occasions, her voice turns a bit sing-songy and she becomes incredibly adept at ignoring you. She’ll usually attempt an abrupt change of topic, asking you instead if you thought a B+ average was doing your best or if it was just good enough.

You’re able to make it through the days (counting down the remaining months until you’re able to leave for college) by smoking a ridiculous amount of pot. Like, seriously, a LOT. Now you hang out with a different crowd than you used to—those kids who hang out by the river, you know, Tommy and Billy and Adele, and who you used to think all had about them a hollow, sunken-in look. Your old friends don’t hang around so much anymore, not out of concern but rather out of disdain. Lisa is going to Arizona State in the fall, and Amanda has been wait-listed at Yale. With the continued decline in your grades, you’ll have to do a semester or two at community college first before you’ll be able to transfer to a decent school. Now, is that really the best you can do? Isn’t a sense of accomplishment a better high than that dirt weed you smoke every day? Isn’t it?