Touche

I was fourteen years old. I had just been sent to my room.

I don't remember what the argument was about. Mom was stubborn. I was stubborn. Together, with the right set of circumstances, we were the tempest in the teapot.

And the teapot had just exploded.

Fine. Send me to my room. Who cares?

Being sent to my room is no big deal. Everything I own is there.

So I stormed up the stairs, stomping hard with every accentuated step.

Bedside lamp on. Television on. I lay down on my bed to drown out my anger by watching glorious programming in black & white . This goes on for a few moments when Mom bellows from the bottom of the stairs. "I sent you to your room to be punished - not to have a good time! Turn that TV off NOW!"

With calm, assured steps I got off my bed and walked out of my room to stop at the top of the stairs. There she stood at the bottom of the stairs; imperious and angry.

In direct contrast to her barely contained rage I calmly stated, "This is my TV. You gave it to me for Christmas. It's mine; not yours. And I'll watch it when I want to."

Her eyes blazed; her nostrils flared. Ignoring her with a smug satisfaction I walked back into my room. I lay down on the bed and continued to watch television.

After five minutes, suddenly and without warning, the light and the TV blinked into nothingness. The room was dark. What the hell...

However, light was still on at the bottom of the stairs. The TV was still on in the living room, where Mom had been watching it. I heard the cellar door close in the kitchen and Mom's own heavy footsteps parading across the first floor back towards the living room.

I get off of my bed and run to the top of the stairs. "Hey!" I yell. "What's going on?"

Mom appeared at the bottom of the staircase.

"It's MY electricity - not yours - and it goes where I want it to go."