Zorba the Hutt (zorbathut) wrote,
Zorba the Hutt
zorbathut

people who refuse to tell you how they're feeling

Well, my mom gets home. And tells me she needs to check her email, which is a bit unusual because usually she says something like "could I check my email soon?" I happen to be at a good point to pause, so I do, and she does - takes her twenty minutes or so, also unusual. I glance over her shoulder at one point and notice that she's replying to a local news station - oh yeah, there was another helicopter today - apparently she sent an email to report it, and they said it wasn't important. Well, she was writing some sort of rant about how it *would* be considered important if it was in a different part of the city (quite possibly true). But anyway - I curl up in a chair and finish the last fifty pages or so of Jingo. I go over to see if she'll be done soon, and she is, she's just finishing, so I ask her what she was doing.

"Nothing."
"Really? It sounded like you had a definite reason to check email - something more than just wanting to see if anyone had sent something." (which I know full well because of having looked over her shoulder, but I was thinking that even *before* I glanced over.)
"No. Nothing. Nothing you'd be interested in."

ooo-kay . . .

Note that this is my mom, the person who'll cheerfully rant on about something you're *not* interested in for fifteen minutes. If you actually *ask* her about something, you'll be sitting there all day.

A few minutes later, she gets her pajamas and turns a light out or two, clearly going to bed. Very early for her, too.

"Are you going to bed."
"Yes."
". . . are you in a bad mood or something?"
"I don't know, should I be?"
"Well . . . you certainly seem to be."
"Oh. I'm going to bed. Good night."

And she leaves.

I mean, really . . . she probably *could* be more obvious, but she'd have to work at it . . . and she could at least *say* she is, when it's pretty blindingly clear . . .

sigh. It's stuff like this that reminds me why I really hated living here . . . now I can do something about it, finally, namely, totally ignore her. In three and a half weeks I'll be gone.

Not sure if I really want to come back here, either . . . I'm beginning to think that if I *do* come back to Seattle, I'm living somewhere apart from parents. And even that isn't even remotely certain. I'll do some major jobhunting a few months before next summer - might end up somewhere else, I'll get an apartment for summer and see what I can do on my own.

With any luck, I'll actually have some mildly impressive stuff done.
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