Over time we learned to anticipate this kind of behavior. My mother would take Ya Ya to the department store for new underwear, and we’d watch from behind the racks as she wandered out of the dressing room in her bra and knee-length bloomers. Once in the parking lot she would stoop to collect empty cans and Styrofoam cups, stray bits of cardboard, and scraps of paper, happily tossing it all out the window once the car reached a manicured residential street. She wasn’t senile op vindictive, she just had her own way of doing things and couldn’t understand what all the fuss was all about. What was wrong with kneading bread dough on the kitchen floor? Who says a newborn baby shouldn’t sleep with a collosal wooden cross wedged inside the crib? Why not treat your waist-length hair with olive oil? What stains on the sofa? I don’t know what you’re talking about.
‘That might play back on Mount Olympus,’ my mother would say. ‘But in my house we don’t wash our stockings in the toilet.’
David Sedaris, Get your Ya Ya’s out!, Naked.