OldTroubador's blog post - See What SHE Had to Put Up With???

I’m not sure how it happened, but I have acquired something of a reputation for being a smart ass. Oh yeah, now I know. It’s because of stories like this.
I moved back home in 1985 after failing at my first try of living on my own. The rules were simple. Get a job, work hard, turn to when work around the house needed to be done, and pay rent. Food and laundry services would be provided. Well, I did all that, and worked hard at my warehouse job. And made decent money while doing so. I had good healthy meals, a strong roof over my head, and clean clothes every day when I got ready for work.
One evening, in the summer, Mom mentioned that my socks were so sweaty that if she flung them against a wall, they would stick. Well, that gave me an idea. After supper was cleaned up, I mentioned that I was going to bed, since I had to get up early the next day. I kissed Mom good night, and left her and Dad sitting downstairs watching television. As I passed through the kitchen, I grabbed a roll of tape. I went upstairs and grabbed about eight CLEAN socks. I rolled the tape up and stuck it to the back side of the socks. I then taped these socks to the wall above her pillow. I then went to bed.
Dad came up the stairs first and went into his room. I heard him laugh, then walk across the hall. He opened the door, stuck his head in my room and said “She’s gonna come unglued”. I said, “I hope so”. He showered and went to bed. Mom came up next, went in the room, showered, crawled into bed, and started reading. She never noticed a thing wrong. Until…..the tape let go on one of the socks and it landed right on the top of her head. She screamed like a snake had fallen out of the ceiling. I heard Dad laughing so hard he could not catch his breath. I was laughing so hard my belly hurt and tears were streaming down my face. Mom looked at the wall and swore like a drunken sailor. She grabbed all the socks, stormed across the hall, opened my door and flung the socks at me. She obviously did not see the humor in what I had done, and it didn’t help that, by this time, I was laughing so hard I rolled out of my bed.
It gets better. She stormed back across the hall to their room and proceeded to call Dad a sonuvabitch. “Why are you yelling at me? I didn’t do a thing!!!” he gasped, in between peals of laughter. “Exactly, you should have warned me about what YOUR son did!!!”
The best part of all this? Pulling a practical joke, and Dad taking the heat.
Of course, my journey through smart assedness did not end there. Christmas time was especially good for pranking Mom. One year, after driving home from North Carolina, Dad and I were decorating the tree. We might have had a sip or three of Old Bejoyful while doing so. We got to the point where we would put the aluminum icicles on. Now Mom always wanted them put on one strand at a time. Dad and I would put them one in small bunches and drape them over the branches. After another few drinks, I came up with a plan to finish the tree faster. I went to the garage and dragged an extension cord to the living room. Then I went back and got the leaf blower. I plugged that in and Dad stood there with two big handfuls of tinsel. He called Mom out of the kitchen, where she was baking cookies. She walked out and Dad said, “Hit it”. I turned on the leaf blower as he dumped the two fistfuls of tinsel into the air stream. Aluminum strips went all over the living room and dining room. Some even landed on Mom. Only about a third make it to the tree. Mom stood there, lightning flashing from her eyes, tinsel dripping from her hair and shoulders. Without a word, she stalked back into the kitchen. Dad and I looked at each other, then both of us landed on the floor, laughing. He told me years later that, when they moved, they found, behind the china closet and other furniture, tinsel from that glorious afternoon.
Another year, I had just gotten off the road from the drive up from North Carolina. The tree had not even been brought into the house yet. Dad and I put the tree in its stand and dragged it into the living room. I went to get the watering can, filled it, and crawled under the tree to fill the stand with water. Now, I had left the Raleigh area about 1:30 in the morning. It was just after breakfast, and I was tired. The carpet was soft, the air warm. So, while under the tree, I decided I might as well take a nap. I was just dozing off when Mom came into the living room. She asked Dad what I was doing. Dad told her to ask me. So Mom came over.
Mom: “What are you doing?”
Me: “Shhhhhh!!!!”
Mom: “What?”
Me: “Hush Mom. The tree is so dry, I can hear it sucking the water up its veins.” At this point, I heard Dad’s newspaper rustling. Mom knelt on the floor.
Mom: “You can not”.
Me: “You can too. You want to listen?” Dad’s newspaper rustled harder and faster.
Mom crawled under the tree with me and asked what should she do. Now mind you, Mom is profoundly deaf, and was at that time too. I told her to put her good ear up against the trunk of the tree and poured some more water into the base. Dad’s paper was moving around like it was in a hurricane by this point. As that poor dear put her ear against the tree, I placed my mouth near her other ear and said,
“SSSLLLUUURRRRPPPPP!!!!!!!!!”
I hustled myself out of there. Dad had tears pouring down his face and was trying, without much success, to dry his face with his handkerchief. After a few minutes, Mom came out from under the tree. She glared at me over the tops of her glasses, then turned on Dad. “You knew he was going to do that!!!” she yelled. “Why didn’t you stop him???” Dad was laughing so hard, he never did get a chance to defend himself. She stomped back up the stairs to the kitchen. We never did find out what she originally wanted. And frankly, we were too afraid to ask.
Now before you think that Mom is the victim in every tale, let me tell you how karma works.
Every Christmas morning, Dad, my sister, and I would wait patiently for Mom to come downstairs. Morning is not Mom’s best part of the day, at all. As she walked hesitantly down the steps, she would be wearing her pink bathrobe and her big blue fuzzy slippers. Her hair would be going in all directions and her face would be lined and wrinkled, bags under her eyes and no make-up on. One year, for no apparent reason, I picked up Dad’s camera, and as she came into view, snapped a photograph of her, just like that. It became a holiday tradition that we would all wait patiently for Mom, who would pout after having her picture taken, then we would open our presents. One year, we were sitting there; I had the camera aimed and focused and the flash ready to go. Mom still had not made an appearance. Dad sat there quietly as my sister and I called for Mom to hurry. She yelled down that she would only be another moment or two. We finally heard her feet and I picked up the camera. I was ready to press the trigger and saw her feet come into view.
She stepped out, wearing an evening gown. She had brushed her hair and put on make-up. Around her neck was a strand of pearls, diamond earrings were in place. She had on her stockings and high heel dress shoes. She was beautiful. I took one final picture, proof that I had been had, that there was a new champion in the house