I Am My Mom

I used to try to kid myself that I was nothing like my mom.  Well, I have always known that I pretty much look identical to her, but I thought that I had managed to avoid inheriting all her perceived “bad” qualities, getting only her quirkiness and sense of humor.  This is crazy talk of course.  However, most of the time, I claim to be “really laid back” and that I “don’t really have a temper unless you are REALLY mean to me.”  These are all lies (shh, don’t tell Blake, I think he still believes them).  Even though I am (mostly) aware of my Jodi-like tendencies, I still am in denial that I somehow inherited her “New Jersey-ness” without ever having lived one solitary day in the great state of New Jersey.

Until something like this happens -

Now, I want to preface this with the fact that my mother is a lot of great things.  In fact, I don’t even know if what I’m about to describe is a bad thing…I just know that it caused me a lot embarrassment growing up in Mississippi.  See, my mom didn’t grow up in Mississippi.  She grew up in New Jersey (thus her “New Jersey-ness”).  She was pretty much the most hardcore person to ever live in little old Mississippi.  And New Jersey and Mississippi are pretty much opposites, as far as states go, and so little Kristi Dansereau was surrounded by a complete dichotomy of influences.  On one side was my mother, who ABSOLUTELY NEVER lets herself get walked on in any way.  If you pass her in line when she has been there longer than you have?  SHE WILL CUT YOU (Not really.  But she might yell at you).  If you messed with me and David (my brother) in any way?  Yelling!!!!!  And as for the women from Mississippi?  They never yelled.  If you passed THEM in  line?  Expect a tight smile.  Obviously, this means that my mom was pretty much the big sore New Jersey thumb of Mississippi society.

So, this is where my “formal complaint making phobia” really began.  My brother and I grew up MORTIFIED that someone was going to try to take advantage of my mom in some way, and that they would pay.  And we would have to be around to witness it.  We could think of nothing worse.  She tried her very hardest to raise two kids who weren’t afraid to stick up for themselves, and ended up with two wimps who ran and hid if she even hinted that her food wasn’t exactly what she had ordered (this is actually literally true.  I have been known to get up from the table and run to the bathroom in order to avoid the perceived awkwardness of sending an order back to the kitchen).  Most of the time, I still fall into this category, with the exception of the other night.

A couple nights ago, Blake and I decided that we really wanted to play Rock Band (we are most definitely cool like that).  We set everything up, and began being generally awesome.  This was 10:oo pm.  At about 10:05 pm, we hear a very loud and aggressive, “BANG BANG BANG” on the floor below us.  We kind of jump, look at each other, and then look down.  At this point, I morph into my mother.  I get MAD.  I look at Blake again and say, “What the crap!? It’s not even that late!  We live in a freaking apartment!  We are playing a VIDEO GAME!”  I then proceed to stomp my feet three times very hard (I guess I decided that would show them) on the floor.  The ceiling hitter under us reacts by hitting the ceiling three more times loudly and aggressively.  Very angry at this point, I stomp even harder, FOUR times.  Ceiling Hitter reacts with four ceiling hits.  I get ready for some serious stomping action when Blake grabs me, laughing hysterically (note:  I am not laughing).  I stop myself from stomping (I guess five times?), calm down, and eventually laugh along with Blake.

Now, this is where I would hope this story would end, but of course not, that would be too easy.  The next day, I am picking up a package from our leasing office, when the leasing agent lets me know that, “Hey…  I think my roommate got into a stomping contest with you last night?”  This embarrasses me.  I do the only thing I can think of in the utter awkwardness that was that moment.  I immediately let her know that my husband sometimes looses his temper, and that he is really embarrassed about stomping on the floor, and that it won’t happen again.