"I think I'll turn on the radio," my mom said, interrupting the lukewarm frozen entry "meal" that I had so painstakingly microwaved for her. It was either that or burn her another grilled cheese sandwich. My mother is obviously flourishing under my doting care.
"You can't," I told her as I enthusiastically chewed my barbecue steak bite like it was a teething ring. I waved her back into her seat.
"Why not?" she wondered, eyeing her "chicken" suspiciously. She was becoming wise to my wicked ways. She now peeks at the side-down portion of my grilled cheese before taking a cautious nibble.
I spat out the rubber steak bite.
"We moved it to your apartment today," I told her. She sat down, disappointed. I offered to sing but that did not appear to impress her.
Sullen, she speared a questionable-looking piece of chicken with a tad more violence than necessary. Not for the first time, I wondered about my own personal safety around her.
"This needs salt," she announced, rising again.
I sighed.
"Oh no," she said, pausing, "What?"
I lowered my head in shame. "I packed it," I admitted.
She sat down again and stared dismally at her "chicken." Some daughter I'm turning out to be.
You gotta hand it to her. When my mother is trying to politely avoid food poisoning, she will NOT give up.
Rising once more, she headed into the other room.
"Where are you going?" I asked. If I had to eat this garbage...then by God, so did she.
"I need to use the restroom," she explained.
I sighed.
"Oh no," she said, stopping short, "What?"
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