Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Dear Moms,

Not an hour after you came over to see my decorating progress, I received a wonderful compliment from you. You looked at my book wall and said that it was absolutely stunning and that in fact, it showcased Me most wonderfully.

Imagine that. However, why is there always a however with mothers? Not five seconds into my glowing bask of happiness, you interjected with a crinkle of the nose, and asked me what sort of dining table and chairs I’d purchased, and when they would be arriving.

Oh, mother. Mother, mother, mother. Moms. I can see where this idea of yours came from, after all, this is the space in my loft provided for dining, and a place where I’m sure everyone else who has a unit identical to mine has placed their dining table and chairs. But when I told you that I hadn’t purchased any kind of dining set and would, in fact, not be getting one at all, the look on your face was akin to that of a perplexed flamingo.

Where am I going to SIT? Where am I going to EAT? Am I not aware that being sans table & chairs is perhaps the most unstylish, etiquette-less way of living? How can I expect to have any manners, in fact, how can I even expect to bear children with manners if I don’t SIT DOWN properly on a CHAIR, and eat dinner from a TABLE?

Ah but you see, I’d thought of that. I again showed you my pair of brown ultrasuede topped bar stools, pulled up to my extended kitchen counter (a.k.a Breakfast Bar), and said this, mother, this is where I am going to eat. It’s just me, myself and I living here you know, and I’d rather enjoy the full view of my shelves, books ‘n stuff, than swallow up space with furniture I’ll hardly ever use. (Note that I also refrained from telling you that I love sitting & eating on the kitchen counter).

Seeing your victory quickly fading you played the Sandy card, since you properly adore him, and asked me where he would be sitting when I make him dinner? Where will my boyfriend eat if I’m not properly serving him dinner on a table? The couch, I replied, and if not the couch, the floor. We really like to sit on the floor and eat off the coffee table, watching movies.

You snorted. Knowing you, snorting is trouble. You snorted, rolled your eyes and told me, point blank, how this type of living was for perverts and women of the night. Not only was I being a ruffian, but I’d just gone right ahead and RUINED my loft.

Oh, mother. Mother, mother, mother. Moms. I know that even trying to explain that this is my house and this is the way I like it would be totally futile, since you absolutely know your way is best, but what else can I say? This is my house, and this is the way I like it. Really like it, in fact. I value my space a lot more than a table, and some extra chairs that I really, really won’t be using. I mean, really.

Fine, then. Your defeat absolute you turned to leave, muttering all the while.

Oh, moms. I may not be a fan of dining sets at this age or with this setting, but never fear. I know which forks to eat with, and when I’m in restaurants, I almost always opt to eat sitting at a table. And I know that one day, should I ever bear children, you will sweep in and make sure they know how to sit properly on chairs, and eat even more properly off fine china plates, that are nicely set on a table. A far, far cry from their Bohemian mother, I’m sure.

Most very uncouthly,

Your daughter