Lurk, Lurk

When I think about growing up in my mother’s care, I have to wonder, was it really that bad? Close behind the question is a voice: "No, honey. It wasn't that bad, so what the fuck have you been complaining about all these years?" Well, then, this is my conundrum. Am I full of crap, or do I have a case?

Here's a primer from the archives of memory:

Mom [charging up from the basement]: Why did you vacuum the living room after school today?

Me [looking up from my homework]: Uh...

Mom: Do you know what your grandmother is doing right now?

Me: Uh ...watching T.V.? ...knitting? ...hissing at the cat?

Mom [spitting swords]: She's downstairs talking about how hard you work.

Me: Uh...OK...

Mom: So what? Are you trying to make me look bad in front of your grandmother? Huh? You little shit...

[Shit flew with such force out of my Mom's mouth that I nearly left a slick of the stuff on the kitchen chair.]

Me: Uh...

The end. Mom made a nice clean break for it and headed back down to the red dungeon. I, on the other hand, had Calculus to massacre and a buzz of adrenaline so strong I nearly stroked out. At the time, though, I did a fine job of biting my stiff upper lip. Nothing penetrated this bitch (Yeah, right) 'cause I was an Ice Queen in the making. Impervious to slings & arrows, I was not at all ruffled by this tantrum. Not one bit.

Alright, fine. Maybe I was a little ruffled, and maybe there are a few daemons in this girl's memory chest looking to escape. And, while I'm no drama queen, let's just say I've never invited my dark side out to play (Okay, once...and I liked it). Perhaps it's time I grabbed some toys and got going. Memory, after all, is a persistent playmate. Wouldn't you say?