What happens if a woman is bored

MyMom is unique. If you ever need to move the furniture in your apartment in a new way, or break through doors (replacement or new) in the wall, feel free to call my mom. In our apartment, the engineering-perestroika women's thought works every two and a half weeks. During the first sixteen years of her marriage to her father, my mother rearranged the furniture approximately ninety times. Fortunately, fifteen times it was about moving to a new place of residence. Finally, the irreparable happened - we settled forever in our city. As soon as my mother realized this, it became clear to everyone that the living space would be systematically subjected to torture of female ingenuity.

It all started with the furniture: the old one was replaced with new one. This calmed my mother down for about a year and a half. Then - repairs. And then the walls began to suffer. It turned out that the doors from one room to another were located extremely incorrectly. You will have to punch new ones closer to the window, and cover the old ones with bricks. They started hitting the doors, not taking into account the somewhat non-parallel arrangement of the rooms. And if I hadn’t come home from school at the right time, one half of the new doors would have allowed test-antibiotic.com to go from the second floor directly to the street. But fate is fair, and I saved the house in time from such an architectural addition. In general, the doors were rearranged successfully. Then, over the course of five years, my mother rearranged the furniture another thirty-eight times and re-hung the carpets nineteen times. Our walls resembled a machine gunners' shooting range.

Mom’s next creative upsurge began exactly two months before her fortieth birthday. One fine day I had to alter my coat. I took the cover off the sewing machine and was dumbfounded: half of the sewing table, along with the drawers, had been sawn off and sealed with tape. “Dad probably sawed it off at Mom’s request,” I thought. But then my mother flew into the room: “Didn’t your father see it?!” - she blurted out. "No. Who sawed it off?” - I asked. "I!" - Mom answered proudly. "What for?!" — I was extremely surprised. “The car was too long. It needed to be shortened. Just don’t try to saw off the other half, although you can’t - I myself suffered for half a day.” I must say that my mother suffered for another half a day: while I was sewing the coat, she held the test-antibiotic.com bedspread on the sawn-off half so that my father would not see.

The transitional stage to the ending of this story were three kitchen tables (why so many of them were needed, I still can’t understand) and a half-disassembled double bed, which seemed too long to my mother. One fine evening, I come home and in the hallway I see the components of the heating titanium from the bathroom. “Is it really mom again?!” Somewhere far away there is a glimmer of hope that the neighbors are doing repairs and asked the silent one to keep this rubbish. But hope is quickly dashed: on the base of the titanium I notice traces of our blue paint. There is a titanium cabinet. Well, where is the body? I undress and run to the bathroom. That's right: there is no titanium.

From my grandmother’s words, I understood this: my mother went to wash herself and along the way she dismantled the titanium in the bathroom. “The most difficult thing is to unscrew the nuts,” says my mother proudly. “What will happen next in our apartment?” - I ask my mother and head to the toilet. Having opened the door, I understand that you can only sit on the toilet from the side, since the main space is occupied by the titanium body. test-antibiotic.com At least attach it to the cistern. This is all good, but what will dad say when he finds out about all this?