Thursday, September 3, 2009

Egg Night at the Crazyhouse

TCG:  Before we go for eggs, will you check in with Mother and bring her today’s mail, tell her we’re going for eggs, and ask if she wants us to bring her a parfait from Foster’s Freeze.

UCC:  Uh, okay…

WISIMH: I know you’re sick of her too, bless your little heart. Then again, she is your mother.


UCC:   (To DOB) We’re going for eggs. Would you like us to bring you back a parfait?

DOB:            No thanks. I’m in bed for the night.

WISIMH: Of course you are, bless your heart.

UCC: Would you like me to close the blinds?

DOB:            If you like.

WISIMN:             Then, I probably won’t bother, bless your little heart.

UCC:  Do you want me to close the…

WISIMH:  …fucking…

UCC:             ….shades or not?

WISIMH: I know you never ask for anything, thus justifying inside your little mind that you are indeed not the slightest bit of a bother to us. But you know what? You are. And you would be a butt-load less of a bother if we didn’t have to fucking guess what the hell you need, perhaps even as a matter of life or death. Much less of a bother.

DOB:            (Hating to be such a bother as to ask me to close her curtains) Okay then.

WISIMH:  And….. thank you?

UCC:  Ok, they’re closed. Have a good night. ‘Night, Sandy.

Later, on the drive to get eggs:

TCG:  How as mother?

UCC:  She didn’t want the parfait.

TCG:   (shocked)

UCC:            Yeah, she was in bed for the night. If you can call kitchen light on, laying on the bedspread fully clothed and covered with a ratty blanket “in for the night.”

TCG:            She thinks you hate her and you’re trying to steal her money.

UCC:             She’s half right.

WISIMN:    BTW, it may surprise you to know that I don’t hate her so much as I resent her. And the fact is, she’s stealing my money. Not to mention sending my spouse into ill health and an early grave. He is a 67-year-old man with COPD who has to sneak out of the house each day to secretly smoke a cigarette- the high point of his day, both pulmonarily and relaxatory. He doesn’t have the energy to care for himself, for all the aggravation you give him. So guess who does? Plus additional aggravation we both know I give him for being not wild about having lived with his mother in his house for every minute of our entire fucking 22 year marriage. 
Then there was that argument we never speak of where you shamelessly said you had to put up with my spoiled latchkey daughter during her terrible teens, and I replied perhaps you’d like to do the math on how long she was under your roof vs. Yo Momma.
I even admit I nurse childish fantasies about having you predecease her, and me giving her 30 days notice. I also admit to feeling catholic guilt about having such bad thoughts. But she’s such a demented pain in the ass. And having the two of you sucking at my soul and draining my energy like a teenage girl alone in her car in a snow storm, mashing her foot on the starter as you hear the battery turn over and finally emit that slow death-rattle of a drained battery. I feel like that girl’s car’s battery. I also fear getting old and crazy myself, but there’s not much time for me to wallow in such day-mares. Besides, it might already be too late.

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