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.”
I think I need a vacation.