Mum: Will you be home for dinner?

Me: Not if you’re cooking.

Mum: You’re being really obnoxious right now.

Me: So’s your face.

Mum: We had this terrible incident at the hospital a few years ago… A woman who worked there part-time was going around stealing all the nurses’ purses and-

Me: Wait, hang on, the nurses’ purses?

Mum: Yeah, so?

Me: NURSES’ PURSES? That’s hilarious! It sounds like a shitty crime novel. Like, Nancy Drew and the Troubling Case of the Missing Nurses’ Purses. Haha!

Mum’s friend: So what happened then?

Me: Oh who cares. Let’s open another bottle of wine!

Mum: Come on, get up, get out of the spa. We’re going to pose for a family portrait.

Me: Seriously?

Mum: Yes, your uncle brought his camera and I can’t remember the last time we all had a photo together.

Me: I don’t want to do that.

Mum: Just shut up and get out. It’s Christmas and we’re going to look happy.

Me: But I’ve had, like, eight beers.

Mum: Well at least you’ll be smiling.

Mum: How’s the new job going?

Me: Good.

Mum: Tell me something about it!

Me: Today I wrote a 30-second radio spot.

Mum: Wonderful! Did I ever tell you I used to write for radio?

Me: No.

Mum: I wrote a jingle for Mr Tickety’s Farm Hire. Mr Tickety’s a friend to you… Mr Tickety’s a friend to meeeeee….

Me: Please don’t sing it.

Mum: That was back when I was teaching in Moree.

Me: What station was it? One-oh-four-point-middle-of-fucking-nowhere? Redneck FM?

Dad: Haha!!

Mum: Don’t laugh at her, she’s nasty.

Mum: What are you doing?

Me: It’s hot.

Mum: You can’t just walk around the house in your underwear.

Me: Why not?

Mum: Because my ladies group from church is coming over in half an hour.

Me: They’ll love it.

Mum: No, they will not.

Me: But I’m made in God’s image and shit.

Mum: Either put on some pants or leave.

Me: Fascist.

Me: Why have there been people standing on our front lawn every morning this week?

Mum: I don’t know. Maybe they’re waiting for somebody to pick them up.

Me: It’s our front lawn, not a goddamn taxi rank.

Mum: Oh Annik, please don’t start ranting.

Me: I want to stand on the porch with a shotgun and tell them what’s what.

Mum: Where on earth are you going to get a shotgun?

Me: I know people who know people.

Mum: Yeah, right.

Me: This is our territory, Mum. We have to defend it.

Mum: Actually I think that part of the land belongs to the council.

Me: So if people started having sex right there on the front lawn, you’d just let them?

Mum: I hardly think that’s an appropriate comparison.

Me: Don’t avoid the question. Stop being such a woman and stand up for your rights.

Mum: Can you go away? I’m busy.

Me: You’re watching NCIS.

Mum: Well it’s important.

Me: I’m going to talk to Dad about this.

Mum: How come there’s no “Level 5″ on that sign? Why does it go straight from “Level 4″ to “Level 6″?

Me: I don’t know.

Mum: Maybe it’s a secret?

Me: Maybe it’s the building manager’s office.

Mum: Maybe it’s like the train to Hogwarts, you know how it leaves from platform eight-and-three-quarters? Or was it nine-and-three-quarters? Do you remember which one it was?

Me: I don’t read shitty books.

Mum: That’s not helpful…

My brother recently ripped out his shower while he was drunk and as a result, I now have to share my bathroom with him and everyone he has sex with. I complained about this to my mother and she told me that I needed to learn how to share.

Me: Like the Aborigines?

Mum: What?

Me: Collective ownership of property. Plus hardships. Everybody knows that, read a fucking book.

Mum: Why are you even still living here?

My mother has tried and failed pretty much every diet ever conceived by man, and she feels better when one of her friends tries and fails with her. However, the day she decided to do Weight Watchers, all her friends were either already on other diets or content being fat. Mum still needed a wingman, so she asked me if I would join the program with her.

“Are you serious?” I asked, looking up from my grade ten homework.

“I think you could stand to lose a few pounds,” Mum said, nodding towards my belly. Then the clincher: “I’ll pay for you.”

“Fine, but I’m not giving up alcohol,” I conceded.

“Oh god, me neither,” Mum said, grimacing, “You should though, it’s illegal for you to drink.”

“Do you want me to do this or not?” I asked.

“Okay, okay,” Mum said, “I’ll sign us up tomorrow.”

And so, for the next four months, I attended weekly meetings in a community hall with a group of overweight house-mothers. I counted points and took my measurements and wrote down goals. I pumped my fist and yelled “Yeah! We can be thin!” I adopted the Weight Watchers argot, and used phrases such as removing weight (because when you “lose” something, that has connotations of regaining the lost item.) I made muffins using apple sauce instead of oil. They tasted like shit.

During the twelfth week, I reached the bottom of the healthy weight range set for my height by Weight Watchers (somewhere around 55kg.) After this, I lost an additional 5kg. Then another 3kg. At this point, I was weighing pieces of fruit and vegetables so that I could calculate their exact caloric content. I was also taking my coffee black and going to the gym 6 days a week. My hair began to come out in clumps in the shower and my fingernails were slightly blue. Meanwhile, my mother had lost roughly 3kg and was yet to graduate from Class I Obesity. I made sure that I sat next to her at every meeting so I could lean over and look at her progress chart. “Is that a plus sign?” I asked her loudly, “Did you count your points right?” I wore my pants low and let my shirt slide up so that my hip bones were visible. I turned my nose up at anything Mum cooked and began making my own dinners, which consisted primarily of edamame and salsa. I would not eat bread or rice or pasta or red meat or eggs or butter or sugar or bananas. I was perpetually cold.

At my next Weight Watchers meeting, one of the ladies pulled me off the scales and took me to the side of the room. “We don’t think you need to be here anymore,” she told me, “You’re looking a little…slim.”

“But I can lose more?” I suggested.

“No, you can’t,” she said. “Do you honestly think you need to remove more weight?

“Not really,” I replied, “But my mum’s a bitch and I want to piss her off.”

“I see,” she said, “I don’t think you should come back next week. We’ll refund any membership fees you’ve overpaid.”

“Fine,” I said and walked outside, embarrassed.

When I got home, I ate a piece of frozen banana cake in front of my mother. Then I ate another one.

“You’ll make yourself sick,” she warned.

“Good,” I said, and went to bed.

Mum: You’re going to love Lior’s show. He is an amazing performer.

Me: Shhh I haven’t seen it yet. Don’t tell me what happens!

Mum: It’s a concert, you already know what happens. He plays guitar and sings.

Me: I said, don’t tell me.

Mum: Oh but you should make sure you cheer for the encore. He does something really cool, you’ll never guess what.

Me: He removes all his clothing and fellates himself on stage, then proposes to the sound guy.

Mum: No..

Me: He tells us all to look under our seats, and we each get a midget to take home, then they have fireworks and ice cream.

Mum: No, stop guessing, that was rhetorical. God, you’re so weird sometimes.