Vegan Chick’s Blogtober Post 11
Don’t you just hate it when your mom wins??? God, I thought when you became an adult, that shit was supposed to end or something.
Well, here you go. This is about as exciting as my night got. I guess you could call this my sad idea of a storytime.
My Mom Totally Bribed Me With a Space Heater So I’d Clean My Room
So, before I start this story… yes, I know full well that I’m 24 and should totally be cleaning my room of my own volition.
That being said, I’m 24 and reserve the right to throw my shit all over the place so long as I keep it to my personal space.
Quite frankly, I’m actually not mad about cleaning my room. I’ve actually been wanting to clean it for a long-ass time. I just haven’t felt like it… because I’m a serial procrastinator and the second season of Big Mouth on Netflix was more important.
But it’s getting cold out.
Most of the rooms in our house are surrounded by other rooms, so the insulation in the walls retains the heat of the house.
Not my room.
My room is up against the wall that joins our house with the house next to ours. There’s a lot more space between my wall and whatever room is on the other side in the next house.
Which means there’s probably only a 5- to 10-degree difference between the temperature of my room and the temperature outside.
So, as you can probably tell, I need all the damn help I can get.
And now, for the moment of truth: The Bribe
My mom is all too aware that as the weather gets colder, so does my room.
(A couple nights ago my back actually start to hurt from how hard I tried to scrunch myself into a ball under the covers just to get the illusion of warmth to my toes. Had to get one of those super-fluffy blankets and put it under my sheet to keep from getting a cramp).
So, last night (Sunday night), we’re sitting on the couch prepping to watch one of the British TV series we love to watch together (Hinterland– highly recommend) and started to mention how cold it had gotten.
I mean, it had seriously dropped about 40-degrees in 30 hours.
To which Mom responds, “Well, you know I’ve got that space heater downstairs in the basement. You can put it in your room, but you have to get all the stuff off your floor first”…
Cheeky. Little. Hobbit.
A little backstory, I call my mom The Hobbit. First, because that name is damn adorable; second, because she is very petite and Irish; third, because we live in Columbia, MD where everything sounds like it came straight out of a Tolkien novel.
It has nothing to do with the size or amount of hair on her feet. She is smol all over.
But damn, she is good.
I narrow my eyes and tell her, “I’ll tear your house apart to find that space heater”.
She remains unbothered.
Just shrugs her tiny shoulders and keeps eating her Trader Joe’s meringues.
She knows she’s won.
To make a long story short (or rather, to bring to a close a short story that I’ve stretched waaayy too long for the sake of entertainment), I allowed my tiny Mom-Unit to stick her hands under my bed and judge me.
No, I didn’t need her help cleaning, but I knew she’d wanted to get in there for a long time. Plus, she’s too entertaining when she gets her game-face on.
But you’ll be happy to know that I did get my space heater…
Totally worth it.
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