I’ve never been one to toot my own horn, but I think it needs to be said – as far as children go, my parents had it pretty damn good. I was by no means a perfect kid, but...no, you know what? I was perfect. I never got in trouble at school. I always got straight A’s. I never defecated into anyone’s mailbox. I mean, seriously, what more could you ask for?
My mother though – let’s just say she was never convinced. My mom was constantly working under the assumption that I was secretly up to no good. Seeing me go straight to my room after school every day, she asked my twin if I was a “chronic masturbator.” I was studying (he told her “yes” anyway). When I lost 15lbs, she swore up and down that I had an eating disorder. The doctors would later inform her that I had Mono (which I’m sure she assumed I got from tonguing truckers at nearby rest stops).
Now, ten years later, I thought that she and I had moved past this – me being a responsible adult with a good job, my own place, and a fine assortment of neckties. I found out this winter break that I was wrong. She still thinks I’m the devil.
It was several days after Christmas. My friend Ryan had just gotten into town, and my brother and I decided to celebrate by taking him out for a couple drinks. We went to a bar down the street from my parents’ house. Feeling pretty toasty and in no shape to drive, the three of us decided to return and spend the night there.
When we got home, my mother was still awake. This is nothing unusual. Now that she’s retired, she stays up all hours of the night – like a high schooler on permanent summer vacation. I decided, being the ever-gracious host, that I should make a snack for everyone to enjoy. I looked into the freezer and found a large box of microwavable taquitos – which I’ll add, looked delicious.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I will admit that I was fairly intoxicated at this point in the evening. I quickly glanced at the directions on the side of the box, which instructed me to place five taquitos on a plate, and microwave on high for 15 minutes. “15 minutes,” I thought to myself. “That sounds about right.”
Ten minutes later I returned to check on their progress. My mother, who was sitting in the next room, perked up. “It smells like you’re burning something in there!” As I entered the kitchen, I saw smoke billowing from the microwave. “Uh…nothing’s burning” I said as calmly as possible. I opened the microwave door to 5 charred taquitos – barely recognizable as anything that was once edible. Baffled, I looked again at the box. 15 minutes for cooking in a convection oven – 2 minutes for the microwave.
The smell was rancid. I immediately opened all the windows in the kitchen and turned on the fan. My mother popped her head in to see what was going on, only to find me standing next to the open back door, waving a large newspaper furiously. “Nothing to see here!” I shouted.
She was not pleased. To say the least.
I placed the plate of charred remains out on the deck and aired the kitchen out as much as possible before skirting off to bed. I woke up early the next morning to assess the damage. The entire house reeked like something awful. The stench had permeated all three floors of the house. My hopes that the smell would clear up by morning were dashed. Furthermore, the once white innards of the microwave had now been turned to what Behr paint swabs would label something like "toasted marshmellow." As I scrubbed the inside furiously, my mom and dad came down from their room.
My dad shook his head. “You’re an idiot” he said. My mother looked at me and left the room without saying anything.
“Is she still mad at me?” I asked my dad.
“Yeah, she’s pretty upset,” dad told me. “She thinks you were high and that you have a drug problem.“
“WHAT!?” I screamed. Had I actually been high, that would have been one thing. But I never smoke weed! My opinion on marijuana has always been; why smoke up when beer is so cheap and readily accessible? Only my mother could interpret a simple culinary misunderstanding as a full-blown drug addiction. I just knew by her red eyes that she had been up the entire night, crying softly to herself as she pictured me shooting heroine in a dark alley – selling weed to rich public school kids to make enough money to support my insatiable hunger for drugs. Why had I ever suggested she start watching Intervention? And why did my brother have to buy her The Wire for her birthday?
“Maybe you should apologize to her and tell her you don’t do drugs,” my dad suggested.
“I did apologize!” I screamed. “I apologized like 20 times last night!”
“Did you apologize?” my dad asked, “or did you say ‘mistakes are why God put erasers on pencils.’”
Yes, sure, I had said that. So I didn’t exactly have the strongest case for not being high, but come on!
To make matters worse, when Matt and Ryan woke up, I informed them of the situation. “What, did she find your bong?” Ryan yelled, as my mother sat in earshot. “She didn’t flush your stash did she?” He thought it was funny. My mother did not. She refused to talk to me the rest of the morning.
I stewed all day. Why did she always have to immediately jump to the worst-case scenario? I have always tried to be the perfect son. I call every week. I sent flowers on her birthday. Not once have I ever stole any appliances from the house. Are these things a druggie would do? Sure, I had fucked up. I’ll admit it. It was pretty retarded to put a bunch of tiny burritos in the microwave for 15 minutes. Clearly, I’m an idiot. But a drug problem? Where does she come up with this stuff?
I took a long shower to calm down. As I turned the water off, my dad – the constant mediator - knocked on the door.
“What?!” I screamed. “I’m naked! Go away!”
“I just want to talk to you.”
I put a towel on and opened the door.
“I talked to your mother and explained to her that you weren’t high. She knows you don’t really have a drug problem. She just worries about you. She’s a worrier. It’s how she shows love. It’s hard, with you being so far away. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“Fine.” I said begrudgingly.
“Now, can we put all this behind us and enjoy the rest of our holiday?”
“Fine.” I said – still begrudgingly.
“Can I get a hug?” he said – not waiting for a response to wrap his arms around me.
“Dad?” I said trying to pull away. “Can we do this some other time – preferably when I’m wearing pants.”
“Yeah, this is a little weird.”
So with that – it was over. My mom and I kissed and made up, and my parents bought a new microwave. And we never spoke of it again. I know that this will not be the last time my mom dreams up some crazy scenario in her head. I can’t even imagine what the next one will be, and to be honest, I’m scared to even guess. But I know my dad is right. She does it out of love. And you know what they say about a mother’s love – it’s as permanent as the stench of burned taquitos.
My mother though – let’s just say she was never convinced. My mom was constantly working under the assumption that I was secretly up to no good. Seeing me go straight to my room after school every day, she asked my twin if I was a “chronic masturbator.” I was studying (he told her “yes” anyway). When I lost 15lbs, she swore up and down that I had an eating disorder. The doctors would later inform her that I had Mono (which I’m sure she assumed I got from tonguing truckers at nearby rest stops).
Now, ten years later, I thought that she and I had moved past this – me being a responsible adult with a good job, my own place, and a fine assortment of neckties. I found out this winter break that I was wrong. She still thinks I’m the devil.
It was several days after Christmas. My friend Ryan had just gotten into town, and my brother and I decided to celebrate by taking him out for a couple drinks. We went to a bar down the street from my parents’ house. Feeling pretty toasty and in no shape to drive, the three of us decided to return and spend the night there.
When we got home, my mother was still awake. This is nothing unusual. Now that she’s retired, she stays up all hours of the night – like a high schooler on permanent summer vacation. I decided, being the ever-gracious host, that I should make a snack for everyone to enjoy. I looked into the freezer and found a large box of microwavable taquitos – which I’ll add, looked delicious.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I will admit that I was fairly intoxicated at this point in the evening. I quickly glanced at the directions on the side of the box, which instructed me to place five taquitos on a plate, and microwave on high for 15 minutes. “15 minutes,” I thought to myself. “That sounds about right.”
Ten minutes later I returned to check on their progress. My mother, who was sitting in the next room, perked up. “It smells like you’re burning something in there!” As I entered the kitchen, I saw smoke billowing from the microwave. “Uh…nothing’s burning” I said as calmly as possible. I opened the microwave door to 5 charred taquitos – barely recognizable as anything that was once edible. Baffled, I looked again at the box. 15 minutes for cooking in a convection oven – 2 minutes for the microwave.
The smell was rancid. I immediately opened all the windows in the kitchen and turned on the fan. My mother popped her head in to see what was going on, only to find me standing next to the open back door, waving a large newspaper furiously. “Nothing to see here!” I shouted.
She was not pleased. To say the least.
I placed the plate of charred remains out on the deck and aired the kitchen out as much as possible before skirting off to bed. I woke up early the next morning to assess the damage. The entire house reeked like something awful. The stench had permeated all three floors of the house. My hopes that the smell would clear up by morning were dashed. Furthermore, the once white innards of the microwave had now been turned to what Behr paint swabs would label something like "toasted marshmellow." As I scrubbed the inside furiously, my mom and dad came down from their room.
My dad shook his head. “You’re an idiot” he said. My mother looked at me and left the room without saying anything.
“Is she still mad at me?” I asked my dad.
“Yeah, she’s pretty upset,” dad told me. “She thinks you were high and that you have a drug problem.“
“WHAT!?” I screamed. Had I actually been high, that would have been one thing. But I never smoke weed! My opinion on marijuana has always been; why smoke up when beer is so cheap and readily accessible? Only my mother could interpret a simple culinary misunderstanding as a full-blown drug addiction. I just knew by her red eyes that she had been up the entire night, crying softly to herself as she pictured me shooting heroine in a dark alley – selling weed to rich public school kids to make enough money to support my insatiable hunger for drugs. Why had I ever suggested she start watching Intervention? And why did my brother have to buy her The Wire for her birthday?
“Maybe you should apologize to her and tell her you don’t do drugs,” my dad suggested.
“I did apologize!” I screamed. “I apologized like 20 times last night!”
“Did you apologize?” my dad asked, “or did you say ‘mistakes are why God put erasers on pencils.’”
Yes, sure, I had said that. So I didn’t exactly have the strongest case for not being high, but come on!
To make matters worse, when Matt and Ryan woke up, I informed them of the situation. “What, did she find your bong?” Ryan yelled, as my mother sat in earshot. “She didn’t flush your stash did she?” He thought it was funny. My mother did not. She refused to talk to me the rest of the morning.
I stewed all day. Why did she always have to immediately jump to the worst-case scenario? I have always tried to be the perfect son. I call every week. I sent flowers on her birthday. Not once have I ever stole any appliances from the house. Are these things a druggie would do? Sure, I had fucked up. I’ll admit it. It was pretty retarded to put a bunch of tiny burritos in the microwave for 15 minutes. Clearly, I’m an idiot. But a drug problem? Where does she come up with this stuff?
I took a long shower to calm down. As I turned the water off, my dad – the constant mediator - knocked on the door.
“What?!” I screamed. “I’m naked! Go away!”
“I just want to talk to you.”
I put a towel on and opened the door.
“I talked to your mother and explained to her that you weren’t high. She knows you don’t really have a drug problem. She just worries about you. She’s a worrier. It’s how she shows love. It’s hard, with you being so far away. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“Fine.” I said begrudgingly.
“Now, can we put all this behind us and enjoy the rest of our holiday?”
“Fine.” I said – still begrudgingly.
“Can I get a hug?” he said – not waiting for a response to wrap his arms around me.
“Dad?” I said trying to pull away. “Can we do this some other time – preferably when I’m wearing pants.”
“Yeah, this is a little weird.”
So with that – it was over. My mom and I kissed and made up, and my parents bought a new microwave. And we never spoke of it again. I know that this will not be the last time my mom dreams up some crazy scenario in her head. I can’t even imagine what the next one will be, and to be honest, I’m scared to even guess. But I know my dad is right. She does it out of love. And you know what they say about a mother’s love – it’s as permanent as the stench of burned taquitos.
