Seven words I despise

"I hate to tell you this, but..."

If I hear this one more time today, I may throttle someone. It's a good thing my parents are heading off to visit relatives tomorrow. Last night at dinner, it occurred to me that those seven words constitute one of my mom's favorite things to say. The subtext is essentially the reverse of the stated sentiment: here is a joyous opportunity for me to tell you you're wrong, real life isn't like that, or you should have done things differently.

(fyi: some grossness ahead, so if you're squeamish, you might want to skip down a paragraph.)

Today did not begin well. A combination of my sinuses and the seasonal shift has left me dry-heaving every morning when I brush my teeth. The minty tang loosens the drainage and makes me gag. This morning was worse; I thought I might actually throw up. For a moment I considered it thinking I might feel better afterwards, but the nausea waned and I was able to finish brushing my teeth.

I went back to my room to grab something to wear before getting into the shower when my Dad appeared in the doorway saying, "It's one of those days." Some air bubbles in the toilet downstairs had him concerned that my stuff in the garage was below the drainage pipe. It had just been delivered yesterday, and I was furious. Moving it all would be a serious hassle; some of the items are so heavy I'm not sure we can move them even with a handcart.

"You're not even awake yet. We can talk about this later," he said.

"Oh, I'm awake," I glowered. "I want to kill you. You're the one the that picked that side after going back and forth on it all week. I had two nice guys who would've taken it anywhere yesterday."

"I know," he conceded.

"Does this mean I shouldn't take a shower until after we've moved stuff?"

"No, well..."

"Not as far as you know," I finished for him.

"Right."

"Go away," I growled.

By the time I was out of the shower and we were having something to eat, his doom meter had reduced significantly. He'd formulated a reasonable explanation for the gurgling toilet, and nothing had actually leaked in the basement. Still the damage was done. I'd been through a sludge flood in college and even though none of my stuff had been affected, I knew I didn't want to have to deal with it happening now.

Though he basically recanted, he was still in favor of moving the stuff. Mom chose this moment to say she didn't understand why I hadn't just had it delivered to a storage area. She went on to say she hadn't been in on any of these plans. I assured her there was no conspiracy large or small. We'd only been talking about this for the past few weeks, so how she missed it all... well, it's ridiculous.

Dad laughed and said, "Just throw more shit in the mix."

"Yeah. Thanks for the hindsight advice. That's really helpful now," I added.

"Well, I don't see why you didn't have it delivered to storage," she pressed.

"I was looking into it when someone said to just have it delivered here," I retorted.

"I said that," admitted Dad.

Honestly I could've sworn both of them said that. "See?"

Mom went on to tell me what I could've and should've done.

Why don't you fucking leave already? I refrained from saying out loud.

Fortunately, the conversation took a moderately absurd turn which diffused the situation. Mom did not start to cry, so I was able to enjoy my anger and righteousness until I calmed down of my own accord.

Now, I'm just in fucking take care of it mode, so in a bit I'll sweep out the other side of the garage, lay down a tarp, and start shifting boxes.