The #1 son fancies himself some kind of royalty. A feudal lord, perhaps. No keeper of the inn, that one. More of a master of the house. He expects to give orders. Like this afternoon, when he tried to boss The Pony and me into straightening up the Mansion for his little Bad Movie Night soiree he had planned through the week. And informed me about Thursday night upon return from his academic match.
If there's one thing Mrs. Hillbilly Mom doesn't cotton to, it's taking orders from a just-turned-legal adult who resides in her Mansion without benefit of rent. Who eats her food, has no suggestions for the weekly grocery list, and complains that there's NEVER ANYTHING TO EAT IN THIS HOUSE.
If there's another thing Mrs. Hillbilly Mom doesn't cotton to, it's cleaning her house. It will just get messed up again. There are so many more fun things to do. Like the dishes by hand, and ten loads of laundry. Oh. Those are just more things to do. Not the fun ones. Like when #1 spends Friday night after school until midnight taking pictures of various flaming objects at a friend's house. He's going to combust in a fiery conflagration one of these days. Which will sorely impede his habit of laying abed until 11:00 a.m.
I informed #1 that he could continue his not-French maid impression, and leave us out of it. He DID clean his bathroom, and the basement bathroom, and vacuum the living room where nobody is going to be, and dust the end tables. In his own way, of course, never having had the proper not-French maid training. No dainty feather duster for that boy. He used his natural talents. Both cheeks. If you drop a morsel of food on the end tables or coffee table at the Mansion, you might want to think twice before popping it into your mouth. Those tables have been thoroughly butt-dusted by the #1 son.
He had the audacity to complain that the house smelled like cleaning products. I informed him that the not-French maid should take better care with her duties. As he started to add his two cents, I shared one of the mysteries of life that he has not yet solved:
"You are not some blueblood born with a silver spoon full of Grey Poupon in your mouth."
Yes, sons that age are charming, aren't they? The only smirky satisfaction you can soothe yourself with is this: someday, he will be another woman's problem.
ReplyDeleteSioux,
ReplyDeleteWell, she will be getting a table-duster. However, she might want to think twice before popping a dropped morsel of food into her mouth.
Oh, sweetie, it is not as bad as you think! It could be a DAUGHTER. Girls are worse at that age.
ReplyDeleteKathy,
ReplyDeleteYou are definitely right on that one! I am not a mother of daughters, but I stand in for fifty of them at work.