This is my life.

My mother, bless her soul, only ever wanted one child. I think. Whether she did or didn't is irrelevant because she ended up with only one child, me. She may look back on that decision and think that she should've wanted no child. I don't know.

Due to the fact I am an only child, all of the childly duties of maintaining my mother's household fell to me. This combined with a natural mechanical ability makes me pretty damn handy. I've installed laminate flooring, painted every room in her house, wired outside security lights, installed garbage disposals, laid down carpet, everything but hang wallpaper. That I cannot do. My uncle once said 'Anna can do about anything she sets her mind to.' This was a nice way to say I'm too damn obstinate to give up and admit there actually may be something I cannot do. I'm thinking of quitting my day job and install tile professionally. Just for a change.
The past two weekends I've spent painting my mother's bedroom. It wasn't too bad except for the fact that she interpreted 'You'll have to get all the stuff out of your room for me to paint it' as 'I'll just move piles of stuff around and make it look like I'm doing what she wants.'

I'm not sure if you've ever painted a bedroom with the full antique bedroom suit still in said bedroom but it isn't easy. I cannot count the number of times I screamed 'Damnit Momma! I'll be damned if I'm doing anything for you ever again.' I liked to killed myself at least twice. Literally almost died. (This is much funnier if you imagine my exaggerated Southern drawl. Go ahead, I'll wait.)

(Hang in there, we're getting to the point of this story shortly.)

Now the room is painted. She just needs to buy a rug. (Why anyone would cover those hardwood floors is beside me but I have no doubt that once I've got whatever rug she buys installed she'll decide to re-finish the floors.) A large area rug which is really freaking expensive but never mind that because she just has to have one and she has to have it this week. The other thing she has to do this week is go to the beach.
She has this grand plan of ordering a rug and going to beach. Guess who is going to be at her house to receive this rug and lay it down?

Bingo, was her name-o.

Here's the fun part of this story.

We go to the locksmith to get a key made for me so that I can do just that. (Not that I mind because honestly it's a lot easier for me to get things done at her house if she isn't there.) Can you believe that my mother lost her house key in the lobby of the locksmith's for 20 freaking minutes? SHE LOST A KEY AT THE LOCKSMITH'S. How, in the name of all that is Holy, do you do that?

You seriously cannot. Make. This. Shit. Up.

I finally found it in the coat of her pocket which I told her to check no less than 42 times. This, the futility of it all, is my life.