The voice of a loud woman wakes me up in the morning. The powerful roaring sound echoes through the entire house. The noise leaves my ears in aching pain and shatters every thought in my brain. I lie in bed, slowly gaining consciousness. The magnitude and volume of this sound is so familiar, I would know who it is miles away. My mother.
Slowly, my body emerges from my fortress of sheets. I stumble over my book bag and maneuver my way through the piles of clothing on my floor in the quest to shut up my mother. I drag my feet down the steps toward the marching band. As I cross the threshold, I see my mother sitting on a chair in a corner of the kitchen with the telephone in her hand. She is still in her Chinese nightgown. I never understood her fascination with Asian culture. I do not understand why she cannot wear a regular nightshirt to sleep in, but she just loves to wear her shapeless shirtdress to bed. Instead of scolding her as I intended, I sit on the bar stool and wait for her to get off the phone. As I twirl my hair, she notices my presence and raises her finger for me to wait a minute. I nod back with a smile. Unfortunately, one moment is ten minutes in Anita Pilzer time. When she is not done after ten minutes, I come to the conclusion her conversation will take another twenty. She could not be worse at time management.
I turn on the television and begin to watch The Kardashians. I quickly become fixated by Khloe and Kim's entertaining fights and amusing pranks they play on one another. I love the ridiculous clothing they wear and the gaudy jewelry they flash. Finally, I hear her hang up the phone, and she draws closer to the center of the room.
She immediately tells me to change the channel from the untalented and incoherent celebrities, whom I cannot get enough of, to her favorite station, Fox News. Her brainwashing Republican views have inevitably rubbed off on me, although I continue to play devil’s advocate during conversations to see her reaction to my thoughts. I try to express the opposing side’s view just to annoy her. She always answers my questions and even thinks of something harsher to challenge me with.
I greet her with a good morning, but immediately ask her about the phone call. I enjoy hearing about the conversations and especially the gossip she has with her friends. The topics range from not being invited to a dinner party to the sharing of a recipe someone recommended to her. I add comments, like "No, she did not" or "Wait, stop. That is too funny." She loves the sidebar comments I give because they are always what she wants to hear.
Today, my mother told every person she spoke to on the phone how incredible the strawberries at Costco are. Although I laugh and smile saying, "They are amazing," I cannot help but think her addiction to this chain store is not normal. Everything we purchase is in bulk. The inventory in our attic of unused products is overflowing. I do not know when we are going to use three paper shredders, set up a life size chessboard, or shower enough to use sixty bottles of Kirkland Signature Shampoo.
While she retreats to the refrigerator, she tells me my food options for breakfast, although she already took out the eggs. I request two eggs scrambled; it is the easiest for her to cook. Although she was a Home Ec major in college, which she insists was practically pre-med with all of the science classes she had to take, my mom makes very simple and basic foods. She is obsessed with healthy eating and trying to get fit. All the foods we have are incorporated into some diet she is on for that week. I enjoy trying to help her with her diet because I can tell she is eager to shed some pounds, but usually her phase stops because of her lack of motivation. She gets too tempted by all of the wrong foods. When I tell her that I want eggs for breakfast, she praises herself on the idea that I eat similarly to the way that she wants to eat.
After my mom places the pan on the stove and starts to whisk the yolks, "the nag,” my mother’s alter ego, insists I go upstairs and change. Even though she is still in her nightgown, she hates to see me looking "like a homeless person." I come to terms with the fact that she right-- I am not looking my finest. I drag my feet to the stairwell and stop when she adds, "Make sure your room is clean."
Now this is a problem I have. My mother and I have two different definitions of the word clean. I think it is when my drawers are closed, my bed is made, and things look sort of put together. My mother, on the other hand, thinks my room must be spotless: the floors immaculate, the papers impeccably stacked, my bed made perfectly. One time I insisted my room was "clean,” but I left a Q-tip and a piece of paper on the floor. I had to wash my dad’s car.
The "lifestyle" she pressures me to have does not translate to her own space in our house. Her desk is an exploding bomb. There are papers all over her desk: invitations to parties she never RSVP'd or bills she forgot to pay. And she calls me unorganized.
In my room, I pick up a few items of clothing and stick them into the set of drawers, cramming them in. I change into my new Nike athletic tracksuit, which my mom purchased for me, and inevitably has the same one herself. My mom picks out the majority of my clothing. She always says, “Your friends will never be honest with you if they think you look good or bad.” My mom does both.
With my computer in hand, I walk downstairs once again. I strut into the kitchen and turn to my mother so she can see from her station at the stove my entirely new outfit that she picked out. I search for her approval by pretending to show off my muscles through the nylon material. She steps back, lifting her head and chest up. "Stand up straight," she whispers. I roll my eyes and stomp away.
I slump on the bar stool, turn on my computer, and hide my face within a page of the internet. The hot plate of food emerges before my eyes seconds later. As I eat breakfast, my mom scrolls through emails on her Blackberry. She is not the least bit technologically savvy, (she just learned to copy and paste which was a big feat) but she insisted on getting a Blackberry even though everyone in my family, including my father was against the whole thing. She has over 300 unread emails on her phone. She defends herself, saying that it is too hard to look at all of them on her mobile device. Even so, she never gets around to answering them on the computer. So basically, she never checks her emails.
Once I am finished eating, I put my plate in the sink and wash it off, while my mom throws her phone on the counter and gives a loud grunt. I look up to her and thank her for the meal. "Anything for you," she always says. Both of us discuss the rest of our day. I am going to the gym and buying a gift for my dad at the mall. Before I am able to complete my sentence, The Nag turns to me and gives me the what-about-your-homework-look. Although I got into college over a month ago, my mom continues to lecture me about school and my assignments. I strike back with the stop-it-mom,-I-am-in-college,-let me-be, I-will-not-have-you-next-year look. She slowly drops the conversation, but always adds her last point of view at the end of an argument, making sure I know that she was right.
I quickly grab the keys from the counter and tell her that I will be gone for a couple of hours. She shouts back, "I love you," as I close the door behind me.
After working out at the gym, I call my mom asking her what she is doing. She finished getting dressed, took my dog out for a walk, and watched the news. When I get to the mall, I call her for advice about what gift I should get my dad. She suggests this digital picture frame that changes images. Inevitably, it will be the best gift I've purchased for my father. My mother always knows best.