The Object of My Affliction: Dra-MOM-ic

Recently, I got super annoyed. You’re thinking this is nothing new but this time, the object of my exasperation was my mom.

I’m sure you expect the following to contain a crapload of bitching, but that is also nothing new.  As you know, I never disappoint!

Mom “made a show” of emailing me several weeks ago to announce that she wanted to come down to us for Labor Day weekend. “Say whatnow?” said my husband. “Preposterous & unbelievable!” apprised my psychotherapist (kidding – I don’t have one… yet). She said she was doing better with driving long distances since beginning acupuncture treatments a few months ago.

Mom has never come to visit me on her own.  Ever.  Hubby & I average a trip upstate once, maybe twice, a year.  She came down with her now ex-husband probably more than 4 years ago already.  Mom struggles with PTSD from a recent fender-bender plus some newer issues with spatial disorientation.

“Great! When do you wanna come?”

Her email reply said she’d be down on Saturday around noon.  “Great. We can sleep in a bit”.

The next email detailed how her new “friend”, the MyTime textravaganza of the moment (my 60ish mother stops every 2 seconds to text & takes calls during meals like a flipping TWEEN), would come pick her up from my house at 2:30 to take her out… and then back to HIS place. For the remainder of the weekend.  Our plans were breakfast Monday morning before her drive back home, bringing her tally of quality-time with us to almost zilch for the entire Labor Day weekend.

So my house was a fucking layover. A meeting point making it convenient for the goof (he seriously was) to come get her (eventually – ANOTHER blog post! WIN!).  She wasn’t even with us long enough to see her grandson, who worked hockey-camp tournaments the whole weekend.

Oh, well… It’s a MAN, BABY! so priorities be priorities, I guess.

I was tempted to borrow my cousin’s stewardess uniform to serve mom drinks in dinky, clear-plastic cups with one ice-cube while giving departure status updates.

coffee tea or FU1“The Captain urges you to make your final trip to the facilities and be sure all bullshit is securely stowed away as we will be departing DAUGHTER-WHO-YOU-NEVER-VISIT in the next ten minutes…”

It may sound like I am unreasonably bitter.

Why NOW, after years of dealing like a mature, well-adjusted adult?  The answer to this can probably be found back in turbulent times when it seemed I was raised on a deprivation diet of resentment, boys’ size Regular pants, impatience, antagonism and Chef Boyardee by someone who was supposed to “love me like a daughter”.  Really, feeding a kid pasta from a can does qualify as neglect/abuse… look it up.

Leaving my issues with low-quality, mass-produced pasta products behind, I’ve struggled with the lack of value mom places on our relationship. This issue also serves as a trigger for my suspicion that mom & her side of the family may have been kind of racist. It just never really felt like I met their “standards”; not that stubborn little me ever cared much to try… They can thank their level of BS for my penchant for the automatic kiss-off.

What proof do I have of any of this? What BS standards did they require of me? Stay tuned


About LVital7019

Just your normal, everyday 9-5er. An uninspiring position in an inspirational non-profit moves me to constant goof-offery; aimless, on-the-job procrastination; a crankiness that borders on psychosis; and attempting to craft something meaningful with words. Just another so-called-job inspiring someone to feats of insanity with a hint of creativity... (Insert demonic laugh HERE.) View all posts by LVital7019

11 responses to “The Object of My Affliction: Dra-MOM-ic

Use your words...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Tony Single

artist. wastrel. a quantum of potential.

The Greenwich Village Literary Review

A magazine by writers who love to write for readers who love to read.

The Winter Bites My Bones

The Collected Poems of Dennis McHale: 1981-2016

%d bloggers like this: