Ah, family.

I have decided what I will call my memoir: “How did you manage to eat two pounds of raisins in under a week?  Tales of a midnight snacker and the daughter who hid pantry staples in unusual places, just so she could actually cook.”  (Otherwise titled: “Capers are not  a snack food, especially not by the jar, and especially not with cream cheese, plus buying me gluten free crackers doesn’t mean you get to eat them, Mr. Diabetic-type-dad.  Gluten-free still has some carbs.”)

It’s either that, or: “For God’s sake, why do I bother emailing you my G-Cal at all?  If you’re just going to ignore it, I’m going to ignore the five times you call in an hour, asking me to pick up more raisins.”

I was contemplating: “It’s six a.m. on a Sunday, do not talk to me through my bedroom door and other crotchets of a woman who just wants to sleep,” but that doesn’t really sum up all the frustration, nor does “I refuse to wear house slippers because I like watching you twitch, and btws, which one of us has put a nail through his foot while wearing slippers?  That wouldn’t be me.”

No, wait, I know: “Don’t make me pull over this car.  Reminscences of a fully-grown adult who has a better driving record than you, so stop gasping at oncoming traffic and making me think something other than NORMAL DRIVING is happening.”

Sigh.

I think I need a vacation.

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