Sunday, September 13, 2015

Bad Writer 4

"Leslie, Leslie," my mother walks in between the television and me as I lie on the couch. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

Looking up at her, I can lie. I can say I wasn't scheduled for work, that I wasn't feeling well, but why lie. "Yes, but I didn't want to go in."

"Why not?" she hitches up the strap of her hand bag on her shoulder then places her hands on her generous hips. "I know I didn't raise you to not live up to your responsibilities."

"Hmm, well there is a list, but it all boils down to one thing," I smile up at my mother. "I hate the place."

With a snort, she counters, "You think people don't hate their jobs? You think people like waking up every morning to ride in a bus under people's armpits, to be ordered around by stupid bosses and having to smile up in people face. No, little girl. Nobody like dem job, but they up and go because it put a roof over dem head and food in dem 'tomach."

I always knew when my mother was upset when she referred to me as "little girl" and her tongue would be peppered with dialect. This was not a common thing, she is one of those laid back mothers, she never yells and carries on, but that is what makes her worst than the mothers who did. My mother's ammunition is constant nagging and/or being disappointed. The last thing I ever wanted to do was disappoint my mother.

Still it was interesting that this one act of defiance towards the norms would upset my mother. Did it really matter that much that I didn't walk the straight and narrow?

Poor mommy, if only she knew that there was more disappointment to come.

'til next Sunday. 
Click here to read the first installment.

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