Clothing Wars

I swear my mother is a clothing dunce.

I don’t know how many times I have to pick out her cloths for her before she somehow understands what she should and shouldn’t wear. She leaves in what I can only say was an obvious attempt at grunge cloths, then comes back smelling like baby and immediately pulls down one of the suitcases to pack.

So, she’s packing a bag again. I don’t know why. I don’t care. All I know, is that she just seems to keep either ignoring me or grabbing more cloths that I continue to only have one thing to say; “NO!” Why is it I’m the one with a sense of style?

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It’s been a running joke for a long time that Ziva helps me pick out my cloths. She goes and sits on one of two options I set on the bed, or she straight up pulls it out of my hand. This time, the crazy child is all kinds of vocal. I’m packing for a weekend back in Ohio for my sister’s graduation. So, I’m pulling things out of the closet in contemplation, and the dresser. She keeps watching me pull them out without a word, then pounces and knocks them off the bed onto the floor, screaming the whole time as if nothing is acceptable except two pairs of jeans and a blue three quarter lengths shirt. I mean, it started off as if she was almost just saying, “No, Mom. Not that.” Then, it turned into, “SERIOUSLY? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? Do you seriously not understand the words that are coming out of my mouth? I said the *fill in the blank with whatever piece of clothing*!”

Addendum: Ziva has since silently watched me pull out my red skirt and another, cooler, shirt…and knocked the blue three quarter lengths shirt to the floor and curled up beside the other two. I guess she approves?