Me, standing in front of a mirror: I think I have inhereted Dad’s legs.
Mom looks at my legs: No. Your Dad’s legs are nice (=good looking)
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Me, half crying: Mom, me and (insert a name of a guy) are done.
Mom, without even hearing the reason why: Well, you have a horrible character, so it’s not a big surprise.
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Me, all happy, telling about a crazy party with work colleagues: …and so they made me stay for the 5th bottle of champagne…
Mom, looking like tearing up: I think they all hate you there.
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Moms are for making us feel better.
