Eye Of The Tiger

My mother's in town. She's newly retired and practicing it like a new game to play on her tablet. She's spending half the summer here with us, supposedly to see how she likes being a Minnesota summer visitor, but I really think it's because even she knows jumping right into a 24/7 all day every day schedule with my dad is something even her enduring patience and saintliness can't master right off the bat. To prevent my sister and I from early orphanism, I'm more than happy to have her stay with us. She cooks, she cleans, she spends time with my kids, all the things I should be doing but now don't have to.

Free labor and childcare don't come free, though. There is a downside to all of this. She's crazy. I can hear you already saying, "yes, but Trisha, YOU'RE crazy." And you would be correct. But I'm second-generation crazy. She's the original genetic anomaly. Her crazy is light years advanced from mine, and I'm pretty sure it's one of those genetic gifts you just GET whether you want it or not, like ugly feet or a big nose.

This is just a glimpse of our day:
Mom: Don't you think tigers in zoos should be declawed?
Me: I don't think tigers should be in zoos. They should be in the wild.
Mom: But the ones that are already in zoos. Don't you think they should be declawed?
Me: No. I think they should not BE in zoos. It's mean and unnatural.
Mom: Well, if I was a tiger, I would gladly be in a zoo. I'd be so grateful to have a place to live, 3 square meals a day, people to take care of me, and getting the freedom to do whatever I want.

I think to myself, um, that is the EXACT opposite of being a tiger. That is being a house cat. Tigers do not want to be house cats. But I don't want to play this game anymore so I decide to keep quiet and wait it out. But  it just morphs into more. Now she wants to talk about chimpanzees, this despite our conversation earlier about "cute" monkeys in which I told her quite firmly that I don't like monkeys, so anything they do that is perceived as cute is in fact NOT cute because monkeys. are. not. cute. They're rude, dirty, loud, ugly little animals. There's nothing cute about any of that. Actually, if you left off the ugly part, you'd be left with a description of me, but I actually AM cute and I'm not dirty. Well, I am, but not in an unclean way, just in a wicked way. Definitely not in a monkey way.

While I wholeheartedly agree that the level of intelligent conversation drastically diminishes when two members of our genetic bloodline are in the same room, the fact that she cooks like a fiend and spends time with my kids more than makes up for it. But I do feel bad for Jay, who tries his hardest to tune us out and save his brain from the peculiar strain of idiocy my family and I can project. He may eat the food, but he stays far, far away from the Kool-Aid.