I snapped. She continued to be on my ass about the shrimp, nagging me incessantly about the best way to thaw it. I said: Just do what you want, but please stop nagging me. I cannot stand it. Figure out where everything is on your own, stop asking me how to turn the water on or how to use a phone, and just do it.

I got this in reply: BITCH.

I snapped: If you ever call me a bitch again, you will never set foot in this house again. I paid for you to come down here, I have feed and housed and entertained you, and because I finally get fed up with your relentless questioning and nagging and following me into my room to give me shit for freezing the bread, I am a bitch? You have got a goddamned nerve calling me a bitch. You nag and cajole people until they reach the breaking point and then you call them names when they finally snap?


Me: Why do you think I give a shit whether you throw out a plastic bag, a scrap or ribbon or put a bowl in the wrong drawer? I do not care. Yet these are the types of questions you pepper me with all day. “What should I do with this empty plastic bag?” “Where should I put this fork?” “What should I do with this scrap of turnip?” “Why is your fridge making strange noises?” “Why do you peel your carrots that way?” “Where should I put this piece of cardboard that I found on the floor?”

Honestly, this is the last time I will attempt to spend more than two hours in her presence. That’s it. I gave it a try. I tolerated the racism and the bigotry and the nagging and the judgmental bullshit only to finally speak up and be called a bitch. Party over.