Narcissism, which, like irony and karma, is often misunderstood, is one of the more interesting things folded within the convolutions of the human brain. The Flozberk Way is heavily fueled by it and the cost to the entire family has been immense.

A very detailed rundown of malignant narcissist qualities clearly exhibited by Duh Flozzies is in development, but for now, a few simple things:

Pathological narcissism is best seen in how one relates to others more then how they self-relate. Narcissists tend to seek domination while lacking empathy as they arrogantly pursue their own needs and sideline those of others. They rarely apologize and often react poorly when called out for misdeeds.

Misunderstood: Not Narcissism 
Thinking or declaring one is good (or great) or has done a good job (or a great one) is not narcissism. If a restaurant says their Peking duck is unmatched, a bowler says his 300 game is perfect, a band says they've made a truly excellent album, or Tom Brady says he's likely the best QB in history, those are not narcissistic acts.

As a psychology major in two programs with disparate approaches, I was especially interested in personality disorders. Mom, a narcissist herself (albeit a quite unusual one with contrasting selfless qualities), loudly and often bemoaned the blazing narcissism of The Sultan of Sodomy Aydin, The Eternal Victim Mutchie, and later, once she was finally willing to regard it, her shining boy The Golden Psycho John.

And, Mom was big on talking about Greek mythology, so, let's just say that poor Narcissus and his bitter legacy were big time on the radar screen in our camp.

The issue was rocketed to center stage in 2018 when, in The Monster Clash, the idiot Princess Corn Log Tiffany insisted I was not just a narcissist, but "the most dangerous kind of narcissist" and "delusional," to boot, claims vehemently denied by both reality and every non-Flozzer who knows me. My circle has zero tolerance for malignant personalities. We've suffered more than enough of such misery.

Why was she triggered? I gave them a hard time about their habitually feeding an ailing 87 year old man 7-Eleven hot dogs and Jack in the Box tacos when he was in dire need of exemplary post-surgery nutrition. That dastardly act inspired The Princess to write an outrageously absurd, impulsive, clumsy attempt at rebuttal that gave great insight into FlozLand and pissed Dad off something terminal. 

It blew up in their faces in more ways than such fascinating clods remotely have the chops or courage to discern.

That led to an intensive, ongoing examination of pathological narcissism, The Flozberk Way, and how the two are lovelocked like a pair of mating alley cats. Here is a small part of that very interesting journey, with much more to come soon.

This one concerns Easter 1995. And 1996. And 1997.

A.D. 1995 
The family was gathered for Easter dinner at my parents' home. One Greek custom Mom could stomach is roast lamb on Easter, with the rear extremity preferred.

My then-girlfriend of 5 years, "S," didn't like lamb's legs. She was a regular suburban big-titted Texas redneck girl lacking in sophistication. For the first month of our relationship, she ate little but McD's Happy Meals, soft tacos from Taco Bell, Nestle Crunch Bars, and Fruity Pebbles.     

She'd tried some lamb's leg in years past after being pressured. Didn't like it. No biggie - plenty of ham and other stuff to eat. Prior years she'd sat far enough from Mom, who mostly disregarded her to start with, to be safe. Not this time. She noticed S's lambless plate. It began:

Mom: Aren't you going to have some lamb, dear?
S: No, thank you.

In a minimally courteous and respectful setting, the matter would have ended here. In a gracious one, maybe try a brief nod to the ample other foods on the table and perhaps a mention of other options in the kitchen. Me, I'd throw in a "Many people indeed find lamb well short of charming" to take the guest off the spot and soothe her.

Then, one glides on to things that actually matter. And, more important, that do not violate others. Unfortunately, that was not the case here.

Mom:  It's really very good. Why don't you try some?  
S: I really don't care for it. I'm enjoying the ham very much. Thank you, though.

At this point the domain of best manners has been abandoned and we're in "Dont make me come down there" territory. Anything more is harassment and decidedly uncool. Stop it, now. And, repent to your victim later, in private, when things allow.

No such luck.

The Lambassador to the Territory of Upper Sheer Audacity 
Mom persisted, quite uncouthly. Ironically, too, for she was largely a classic manners maven who scorned uncouthness and detested being called uncouth. Ask me how I know.

Mom: Why don't you like it? Don't you like steak?   
S: The taste, smell, and texture don't work for me. 

Mom actually wanted reasons (and was given them). That's outrageous treatment of a guest by a hallowed matriarch. She should have been willing to straight-razor fight to the death in the alley to ensure no such thing happened at her table.    

I was watching them keenly. Mom, because I wished to better know what sort of person she was, and S because I wished to better know what sort of person she was. 

So far, my lowdown hick sperm dumpster, as Mom unquestionably saw her, was impressing much more favorably than her Swiss finishing school-polished oppressor. Poor lassie was quite uncomfortable, though.

Hive Never Seen Such a Thing
It quickly got worse - the rest of the Flozberks jumped on the trolley in classic hive mind fashion. Now the whole table was fucking with poor S. Even gentle Reagan got him some. Mutchie's "Why you no like, eees gooot" stood out. This was so not cool.

One person did not participate. Can ya guess his name?

Of course ya can! His name was Charlie.

Dad, not part of The Istanbul Bunch at heart, was a fundamentally ethical man who didn't casually violate people.

I stepped in and put a stop to the sad scene with a quip and redirect, then dinner rolled on without further incident. I was a bit annoyed though, and resolved to stem recurrence.

OK, So, Check THIS Out: 
Here's the bitter irony - Mom was the most finicky, difficult eater I've ever seen. Once, when Dad put the wrong condiment (Miracle Whip) on her sammich and it entered her mouth, she raked him over the coals quite handily. Any attempt to badger her into eating something she was certain she disliked would never go well.

Of course, there's no reason why anyone would want to do such a thing to her.  

I'll spare the details for now, but Mom's dietary habits and how they put a stranglehold on our culinary lives were unique, interesting, and worthy of their own chapter, which they'll damn well get. The list of things I never saw Mom eat, drink, or do is extremely unusual for an American. But now, let us continue, for there's much more...

A.D. 1996 
One year later, I chose to nip it in the bud and make a very careful, discreet, preemptive move to ensure my partner would not be mistreated in my childhood home. Words were considered well in advance and delivery was carefully crafted, for any confrontation of Mom was a perilous challenge.

Me: Hey...

Mom tuned in and leaned toward me on the sofa, smiling and very attentive. It seemed she thought I was going to tell her something cool or secret. Some hot gossip, perhaps, which she loved. There was no telling how this was going to go. Apprehension set in.

Me: ...pretty please this year don't hassle S about not eating lamb. She really doesn't like it.

Her happy face fell. I saw her wheels were turning. The vibe was ungood. Either she was considering her uncouthness from a year ago and might fess up OR a blind, prideful pushback against the injustice I'd just unjustly inflicted upon her was being formulated.

And yes, I absolutely did use "pretty please." It went pretty poorly, though, and pleased we were not.     

Ladies and Gentlemen, The Semantics  
Mom was pissed. At first, she denied it, but I calmly and firmly made it clear that, unfortunately, it very much did happen. Then, the good stuff, for lack of a better term, got rolling.

Mom deflected focus away from the issue, as she often did, and conjured up a new one right outta thick air (she had a cigarette in her hand):

Mom:  I did not harass her!   
Me: I'm afraid ya did, and to be clear, I said "hassle," not "harass."
Mom: No, you didn't, you said "harass."
Me: Absolutely not. Definitely "hassle." My words for this were crafted months ago and actually rehearsed.
Mom: (Laughing mockingly) That's ridiculous. Nobody does that.
Me: Wrong. Multitudes do, me included, especially when dealing with the likes of you!   
Mom: I did not hassle her!
Me: I wish that were true, but no - I'm afraid ya did. Ya also harassed her. The words are essentially synonyms.
Mom: They are not. Harassment is much worse, even violent.
Me:  No. Assault is violent, as is battery. To harass and to hassle, used as verbs, have similar meaning.
Mom: They are NOT the same thing.
Me: Agreed, but all harassment is hassle. Of course, not all hassle is harassment. A certain persistance is required for harassment to exist. In this context, they are interchangeable.
Mom: They most certainly are not.
Me: Let's let that dinosaur book named after your father decide.
Mom: What book???
Me: The Theo-saurus!

Me:  (seconds later) "Hassle. Synonyms: harass, bother, badger, pester."
Mom: (crickets chirping)
Me: Whaddaya think that book named after the male organ of urination and copulation is gonna say?
Mom: What ever are you talking about, boy?
Me: The dick-tionary!

Me:  (seconds later) "Hassle. Verb. Subject to harassment or pressure to do something; harass or pester."
Mom: I did not pester her.
Me: Indeed, ya did. I was sitting right there, and changing to a different synonym ain't gonna work - it's all the same thing.    
Mom: I did not hassle her.
Me: You did. Harassed her, too. It's the same thing. Let's just save time and say you harassled her.
Mom: I did not harass her.
Me: You harassled her. That's what we call it now.
Mom:  <JUNGLE BIRD NOISE>

Sing for the Tears      
The Jungle Bird Noise was a Mom trademark. When antagonized, she would unleash a sort of avian noise lasting a couple seconds that started lower and quickly rose to a good deal higher. Merely subjecting her to a solid counterargument in a dispute could bring it.

One nice day in 1975 or so, Neila and I were off to Jack in the Box when the great song "Dream On" by USA rock legends Aerosmith came on the radio. I marveled at how vocalist Steven Tyler sounded much like The Jungle Bird Noise, but at lower pitch. Neila laughingly agreed, pointing out that Mom could let it rip while quickly removing her slip-on flat shoe to smack her or John. 

Had she ever done that to me, she'd not have gotten her shoe back, for damn sure. But, I digress...

To aid our fine readers, here be the most jungle-birdy ejaculation from "Dream On," isolated from the music and not-at-all-eerily repeated for a good 80 seconds or so.

Back to the Fray 
The sounding of Mom's iconic-to-us shriek spurred Dad to break from his kitchen duties and come to the den, asking what the problem was while glaring at me, a scene that played out many, many times in our zany lives.  

Mom wailed to Dad that I accused her of "viciously attacking" S. Those were her exact words. Good grief...I very nicely and gently asked her not to rudely bother S about eating lamb, and THIS is the result? THIS?!?!?! 

*Sigh*

Often, distracted people at red lights to hold up traffic after the change to green. Phones are often a factor. When one makes a little tap on the horn, most respond with forward motion and a waved apology. Others react less nobly, spanning a wide range from obscene gestures to drawing a handgun and killing the honker. 

Many simply lack the character to responsibly deal with being legitimately called out. That's how the Flozberks roll. They often fancy themselves beyond reproach. As a result, efforts to set them straight often go memorably poorly.

No, I did not accuse Mom of viciously attacking anyone. That's not what harass, hassle, or harassle mean. Nobody said we "hassled" southeast Asia with Operation Rolling Thunder. I've never heard that the Green River Killer "harassed" Seattle-area prostitutes. It would be sketchy to claim Stephen Paddock "badgered" concertgoers in Las Vegas.

Disappointed that Mom had yet again stooped to cobbling a false reality to make her own son look bad, an act no parent should wreak, I earnestly and accurately eviscerated her arguments and the clash escalated to interesing ground.

Lamb is NOT Rape! 
I heaved up a hail Mary to help her understand: The act of putting someone under repeated duress to eat flesh they don't want is a close relative of sexual assault. Or, at least harassment. Or, possibly harasslement.

That made her declare, quite emphatically, that I was crazy, which never failed to sting to the bone across the decades and hundreds of times she did that.

I was prepared, though:

Me: Common sense suggests I'm not the one acting crazy here and what's the difference if it's lamb or someone's prick? She doesn't want it in her fucking mouth!
Mom:  <JUNGLE BIRD NOISE>
Dad:  <HIS VERSION OF THE JUNGLE BIRD NOISE>

Yes, Dad had his own sound of high dismay, a two-part "awwww, aaahhh" thing, and, amusingly, it sounded much like some squawks from David Lee Roth during the fadeout of Van Halen's classic "And the Cradle Will Rock..." from the exquisite Women and Children First album, the work that changed my life forever after Mutchie unwittingly bought it as part of her compulsive shopping habit that laid an avalanche of music and porn on my 10-12 year old ass. 

To aid our fine readers, here be the most Charlie-like ejaculation from "...Cradle..." isolated from the music and not-at-all-eerily repeated for a good 80 seconds or so.

I heard Mom's noise innumerable times. Dad's, not so much. I can't recall one other instance since this Easter 1996 affair. Really, Dad and I got along quite well.

Innyhoo, we continued to contentiously jaw over whether harassling someone to eat lamb is like rape, with Mom eventually screaming "Lamb is NOT rape!"

As nice as it was to get that question settled, this truly was proceeding abominably, and as Mom grew even more animated, I made a most dreadful error that never would work with Mom: I commanded her. 

The result was heartbreaking.

Me: This is a disgrace. Stop it. Just stop it. NOW.

I was almost growling, jabbing index finger aimed at her from several feet away punctuating each syllable. My patience was at an end, I'm sad to write.

Salut 
Mom fucking lost it, launching into a tirade in which she repeatedly mock-saluted me while hollering, "Yes sir, anything you say sir," her normally-lovely face twisted into a grotesque mask of rancor. Mom and I have a lot of water under the bridge, but never before or since did I see something quite like that. 

Dad actually had to extend an arm to keep her from advancing upon me, suggesting she calm down. This was the only time Dad ever made a gesture supporting me in any way during a head-butting between me and Mom during our 40 year "Lucifer vs. The Madonna" run of intermittent strife.

This, one of the darkest moments of my life, was a hideous display for a woman with an encyclopedic knowledge of Shakespeare and etiquette. I was embarrassed that she was my mother. What an awful feeling. 

When I remember Mom, the seething, saluting visage from that moment is the first image to plop into consciousness, and writing that without crying proved impossible. 

What a shame. 

Thank goodness other, less nauseating imagery also flows in to lend some balance to that mess. Mom most certainly was at times awesome. But the dark side...

Splash. Smoke. Eat. Flee. 
The fracas was suddenly stayed by the distracting drama of failson-in-training Ryan pushing a sweet little girl and her much-fawned-over new, white, lacy Easter dress into the pool. I can't even remember who she was.

I went outside and smoked (literally and figuratively), while explaining the incident to S as everyone else oozed toward the dining room. Only Mom, Dad, S, and I knew about the brief - perhaps three or four minutes - conflict. There was no lamb hassle, harassment, or harassle at the table this year.

I kept a low profile, talked mostly to S and Reagan, and let Mom and John ruthlessly dominate the table conversation per their standard practice. I should have sat at Dad's end of the table more, for he was generally the odd man out, like usual. Mom and I did not speak the rest of the night.

After one plate of food, and, for the first time, not much lamb, I bade all farewell and we got the fuck out of there to go home and party.

This was one of a handful of landmark incidents that greatly diminished Mom in my eyes. Never again would I think of her as well as before.

A.D. 1997 
The following Easter was the first in which we had two cars, so S made a beeline to her lunatic family and I did same to my lunatic family. Brace yourself: Never again did she attend an Easter with my lunatics .

Mom asked my why S didn't come. I was a bit surprised by the tone deafness of that inquiry. Uh, why didn't someone you showed little regard to for the last six years and was in consecutive Easters put in quite uncomfortable, uncouth situations absent even the slightest shread of a good reason come for a third helping?

Seriously?

Right when I was about to make Mom mad yet again, the phone rang. It was Mutchie, not much known for saving the day, saving the day. She and Mom got to yappin' in a foreign tongue, I went in the kitchen and helped Dad.  It would be four years before I would again bring a companion to Easter dinner with the parents.

Said companion was and is a much more worldly gal with a foodie palate who loves lamb and fit right into our weird-ass foreigner holiday dinners. Would that make a difference? Hell, given the events of the last two Aprils, one would much think it would. 

Fuck, No
Mom treated S's excellent, amicable, honorable successor poorly, with actual tragic, near-fatal, permanent results for both her and me in one critical matter. That endured 14 years until she finally bought a clue during the last months of her life while in hospice care.

Lisa would ultimately prepare and feed both Mom and Dad their final meals and ended up as the single most valued and proficient caretaker for Dad and Tasha.  

Bottom Line 
So, what in tarnation was the deal here? 

What would make a learned woman who was often a quite pleasant, ethical, champion for the free will and dignity of others (and, sadly, often quite the opposite) opt to levy such an uncool intrusion onto a holiday guest and member of the family, debase herself so when confronted about it a year later, utterly fail to grasp the impact of those offenses another year later, and not come remotely close to apologizing for it (or even regarding it) for another 18 years until her last heartbeat?

Answer? Malignant narcissism laced with autocracy, a breeding ground for such audacity.

There is no reason for a sane, free adult to care if another chooses ham over lamb. What we have here is simply a pathological need to control others based, in this case, on a notion that they should be like her. The cringey part is that the matter was trivial, the reward miniscule, and the cost potentially pretty high. That's how a narcissist behaves.

Same goes for the unaccountability, initial resistance to atonement, and long-term failure to make any amends. Had I done such things, they would have eaten me alike until the victims were made whole in good faith. But, I'm not a malignant narcissist autocrat.

I'm reminded a bit of Mom's son's appalling venture I call The Parakeet Disgrace. Messin' with people in the pursuit of essentially nothing is not a good look.    

The Lamb Stops Here 
Ultimately, I find this to be my fault. Mom is Mom. I knew who I was dealing with. The best course of action would have been to just chill and see what happened at the table next year, then groove with it gracefully.

Absent such sage restraint, there were many crossroads at which de-escalation beckoned, but was not engaged. Often, not causing misery is more important than being right. It's a fine line.

Yes, Mom's mock-saluting, agonized rage remains in the first burst of neurons when I think of her, but the legacy of that Easter 1996 will always be how I failed to use my wisdom and love to prevent a state in which one very dear to me so diminished herself. 

I could have done better, therefore I should have done better.

Sorry, Mom :(  Sorry, Dad. :(  :(

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