Last weekend we saw “The Fighter”. Great movie. Great story. Great cast. I loved the mother – a tough, cigarette smoking broad loaded with faults played by Melissa Leo.
In one scene she is arguing with her husband and daughters about the direction one of her sons is going. One of her daughters dares to side with the brother and the mom gives her a drop dead look and asks, “Are you disrespecting me in my own kitchen?”
Why didn’t I ever think of that? Disrespecting your mother in her kitchen is like spitting on a grave. Bad, bad idea. I have given life to children who twenty years later stand in my kitchen with the fridge open, grazing away and saying, “Is this all you’ve got to eat? There’s nothing in here (chomp, chomp, chomp). What’s the deal with the fruit?”
I am hereby empowered. Disrespect my dancing, disrespect my hair on high-humidity days, disrespect my need to always have lipstick on when I leave the house (so I don’t look dead) or disrespect my fondness for yoga pants when I don’t have a yoga body. But disrespect me in my kitchen? I just got me some boundaries.