Daddy or Chips
Ramsay Tupper reminded me

Las week I told you about the fantastic Mrs Rakky, my mum. Considering she has valium for blood and rarely gets riled about anything, this question should be far further into the territory of the late Mr Rakky, my dear departed Dad.

Dad’s peeves would fill an encyclopedia. Anything could annoy him, from the inconsequential to the glaringly obvious. In many ways I am a carbon copy of him, particularly when it comes to getting riled. After a long and pointless rant about, say, cyclists, my mother will just give me that look that says “Just like your Father.”

One peeve that must be genetic is that neither Dad nor I could abide people eating our food. Taking food off my plate comes with the risk of being stabbed in the hand with a fork. I will gladly give you my meal, you can have all of my cake; I’m not a selfish person, honestly. But if it is on my plate, it belongs to me and I don’t share. Dad was exactly the same.

Before I was born, Mum and Dad lived in a nice little house in the North of England with their little kitty, erm, Kitty. Often, after a hard day’s work neither of them could be bothered to cook and so Dad would go to the chippy to buy their dinner. As ever, Mum would be on a diet (I’ve inherited that from her) and would tell dad not to get her anything, she’d make a sandwich. Dad knew this meant that she’d eat the sandwich, then steal chips from him. So he made her a deal. He would buy her a portion of chips, she could take the 5 or 6 that she wanted and he would throw the rest away. And he’d still have his own portion. No, mum insisted, it was fine. Dad warned her, if you don’t get your own portion, you don’t get any. Last chance…

Dad returns from the chippy with a steak pudding and tasty portion of chips, hot and smothered in salt and vinegar. He unwraps his dinner and sits down to eat it. Mum looks over, almost having to bite her knuckles to prevent herself from stealing the potatoey goodness.

Then, from upstairs, Kitty wanders over to my Dad and sits at his feet, expectantly. Dad smiles and utters the fateful words…

“Hello sweetie, would you like a chip?”

At this point, calm as you like, Mum walks over to where my Dad was sitting, picks up the plate and hurls it into the kitchen.

This is the only time in history that anyone can recall that Mum has lost her temper.

When eating in restaurants these days, Mum and I have an understanding. I have to lighten up a bit and learn to share nicely. She has to promise not to throw things. And to pay…
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Tue 6 May 2008, 14:02, 1 reply)

Moms throwing things, FTW
My parents have been happily married 30 years this December. They're still very much in love.

I've never seen them fight (although I'm sure they have, just not around us).

Except once.

My dad used to tell my mom it wasn't good for her to drink pop in the mornings, as the caffeine was bad for her.

I suppose it used to really get on my mom's nerves, but she usually laughed it off pointing out he drank an entire pot of coffee by himself every morning.

My mom also suffers from insomnia, so one morning after not being able to sleep for a couple days she walks into the kitchen, looking a little worse for wear, and pours herself a large fizzy glass of Dr. Pepper.

My dad eyed my mom as she sat down at the table and started off "You really shouldn't drink that shit early in the mor...bllaaaarrggg *crash*"

My mom had calmly threw the liquid contents of her glass into his face, then hurled the glass into the wall behind him. Then, in the most polite manner, said "oh, fuck off, I'll just grab a bottle of Dr Pepper on the way into work" as she serenely gathered her purse and left.
(StupidAmericanTourist, Wed 7 May 2008, 1:33, closed)