Oh, icy

I see now... why I should not talk to my parents and hide in my room. My mom wanted to talk (complain) to me about my dad. I, being the good son, ever-listening, comforting, acting as a parent, an ear to talk to, a shoulder to cry on, a psychiatrist, a psycologist and the devils advocate, listened. But when I say listen I mean fear for my sanity and life. You know that scene in the Simpsons where Bart has to repress his memories of Homer crying in his bed. Yeah. That. Execept it was my mom, and I was sitting on the floor.

So without spilling the details of the conversation, which should be left private (and is boring and repetitive and repetitive) I'll just say that talking to my mom after she's had QUITE a few glasses of wine is like treading on thin ice wearing stilts with chainsaws on the bottoms. No matter what I said she wouldn't stop yelling. And it wasn't the rational calm yelling (huh?) no, it was the mumbling, whisper-yell that only the truly angry and drunk yell. It was fun. And today has been a lot of fun too. Because apparently I've deeply insulted her, just by pointing out some character flaws that she asked me about! and asuming that what we had was a conversation not a yell-fest.

So now she's mad at me because I listened to the 'enemy' and was 'brainwashed'. Yes, that's happened. I couldn't form an opinion on my own, no, I needed to be brainwashed by my father. It's not possible that she really does have these aspects of her personality, that'd be just plain crazy. By the way, one of those aspects is holding a grudge... so I'm in it for the long-haul. HOORAY!

IESSO