I Don't Think My Mother is Stupid

I don't think my mother is stupid.

But I do think she is against learning new things. If something doesn't fit into her framework of how the world was in the 1950s, it couldn't possibly be true or valid or good. And of course her vision of what life was like when she was young is not necessarily reflective of how other people experienced that time period. What I'm trying to say is that she lives in a world of her own making, and chooses not to allow reality to change the way she acts. Or the way she expects me to act.

For example, at some point yesterday I told her and my dad that my husband and I and our son would be going to see a movie on the beach on Sunday night, if they were interested in joining us. (I did not actually want them to come, I was just being polite. However, I did not ask it in a way that it was obvious I was just being polite.) She gave me her typical noncommittal answer which always makes me feel like she doesn't want to accept because something better come along. Or alternatively she won't be satisfied until I BEG her to accompany me by letting her know how I couldn't possibly enjoy it without her there with me. Neither of these makes me feel good.

Then this afternoon when she asked me why I wasn't having dinner at my sister's house (which is none of her business, by the way), and I told her because we were going to the movie on the beach, she said "I thought that was last night." Well if it was, we missed it. She treats me like I'm an idiot becasue didn't I know the movie was last night? But I never said it was last night. She just heard it that way.

Then she told me it would be alright if I want to leave my son with her if he didn't want to go to the movies. I was completely puzzled, we'd gone to the movies at the beach last year as a family and enjoy it, and I couldn't understand why she would think I would want to go see a kids' movie by myself with my son didn't want to go. The whole point of going to the movie was that it was a family thing and it was a kids' movie. She acted as if she had no idea what movies on the beach were. I told her "Well I told you yesterday it was movies on the beach." She said "yes I know it's movies on the beach" So why did she not know that movies on the beach meant movies on the beach?

This is one talking about. I don't know how to communicate with her.

Sweet Sorrow

I don't remember what I was dreaming about, but I think it involved a beach and an umbrella drink. And a klaxon alarm. Oh, no, that's not the dream, that's my alarm clock. At seven o'clock. On a Saturday morning.

For those of you who do not know me, I am not a morning person. Seven AM is too early for me on a work day, but on a weekend, it's practically unconstitutional! Or it would be, if I could ever get the Supreme Court to hear the case.

But I had set the alarm so I could wake my mom in time to get to the class at the hospital by nine. I planned to leave at 8:15, and thought an hour and fifteen minutes was a quite reasonable amount of time for her to eat breakfast and put clothes on. I was not even considering the showering part, because going up the stairs to do that would tire her out for the whole day.

After waking her, I went back upstairs to do some web surfing - the only thing that was going to keep me up for the next hour. A few minutes later she called up, in a feeble waver "Hun? You can go back to bed..."

I questioned this instruction. "I don't feel good." She has actually used the reason to beg off a doctor's appointment in the past, so I should not be surprised she is reprising it for this class. But I am not having it. I knew with absolute certainty she was going to do this, and I was prepared. I treated her the way one would treat a child trying to get out of going to school. "Well, take some Tylenol and have your breakfast. After you are up and moving around, you will probably feel better. You are extra sore right now from lying still all night."

Oh, yeah, forgot to tell ya, she was injured last night when my son accidentally tripped her, injuring the arm she broke last year. I know somehow, that was my fault.

When 8:15 comes around, she is not ready. What the heck was she doing? "Oh, I did not know you wanted to leave this early." Well, only if we want to be there, y'know, ON TIME. Does she think my car possesses some kind of time warping device that lets me leave after 8:15 to take a 45 minute trip to a class that starts at 9? (OK, off topic, but that would be cool, right?) Alas, I do not, and I am puzzled at why she thinks she can leave whenever she wants and how she is surprised that we were leaving in time to get there before the class started.

So, now, I am criticized for rushing her and causing her to miss breakfast. Did I mention the class is on nutrition for newly diagnosed diabetics. Yeah, we'll be getting our money's worth out of this.

We get there, late. After about an hour, we take a break. The hospital has a snack bar nearby, so we amble by for some coffee and a bite. We've been listening to a nurse practitioner talk about insulin resistance, the effect of obesity of diabetes, and the long term prognosis for diabetics who don't control their blood sugar. Your foot will be amputated, you'll go blind, kidney dialysis. I chose an apple for my snack, and a cup of tea. I am thinking about how I want to meet my grandchildren one day, and I'd better not become the third family member with Type II diabetes. Mom, she gets a coffee and a blueberry muffin. A freakin' MUFFIN. Full of sugar, refined white flour (aka carbs), high fructose corn syrup, and butter! I figure maybe she honestly doesn't know. Maybe she really is THAT clueless.

"Uh, mom. Really, the muffin? Maybe a banana instead? Or an omelet?" She brushes me off. "Well, is it because you don't realize how bad it is for you? Right, you know that don't you?" She shuts down, will not engage with me. To this day I do not know if she did not realize what she was doing, or was just saying "Screw it, I don't care."

I Take the Bait

"You would make a great Oriental."

"Wha..." I gulp, pausing with the paper towel I have been using to clean the top of the kitchen island. Where did that come from? Dare I ask for clarification? Is it possible it's a compliment? No, of course not. If I speak, or even stay in the room long enough for my mom to realize I have not responded verbally, she will keep talking and it will end up a slur to all people in Asia and any one who ever had ancestors from Asia, as well as a well placed dig at some foible or defect of my own.

My brain is spinning. How can I extricate myself? I am obviously in the middle of something, I can't just walk out. I consider blurting out "Gotta go, Christmas tree's on fire," but I can't do the right thing. I have to know. Like the proverbial cat, my insatiable curiosity is going to be my downfall.

"What do you mean, I would make a good Oriental? Are we talking carpets?"

"No, I mean with the cleaning. You're just like an Oriental - they are always cleaning - they keep their kitchens so clean." They do? How many Oriental kitchens have you been in, Ma?

"I did not know that. I had never heard that particular stereotype"

"It's not a stereotype. They do. You know that Chinese woman I used to take care of? She was always cleaning and telling me to clean her kitchen." Mom did a stint as a sitter when people would go out of town and needed someone to care for their elders in their absence. So that's it. My mother's experience with one woman ostensibly from China translates into unequivocal truth for the population of an entire landmass and many large islands therearound.

"Mom, that's ONE PERSON."

"Oh, and your uncle's wife, too. All the Chinese are like that."

"Way's not Chinese, she's Malaysian." OK, of Chinese descent. Now she's got me so worked up I'm just being contrary. This is so wrong on so many levels I'm trying to deconstruct the many flaws in her logic, but I settle for using all my energy to JUST SHUT UP. Like a violent ocean wave, it will pass if I just let it.

Does this stuff happen to anyone else?

Ringer

I am sitting at my desk, upstairs in my office. I just brought the phone to my mom, because my brother called her on my number, rather than using the number that gives it a special ring so she knows its for her. I handed my mom the phone and she started yelling into it like it was a deaf, non-English speaking contraption from Mars. I walked back upstairs and went back to work.

She bellows from her living room, which is where the garage used to be, down a flight of stairs, through the kitchen, and down the hall. She uses a shortened, one syllable variant of my name (the name she gave me). But she stretches it out to several syllables, bending the note and letting her voice crack with each one: "Cah-ah-ahn!!!" I, making a big show of patience (to whom? I am alone upstairs), restrain a loud sigh and pick up the cordless on the desk next to me. "Yes?" I say politely.

"Are you on the phone?"

"No, I just brought you the phone when Gary called."

"You are not using it now?"

"Well, I picked it up when you called so you wouldn't have to yell."

She pauses a moment to process this. "Does your fax machine just cut in when you are on a call?"

"I don't have a fax machine."

"Well, it just cut in and made an awful noise and then that 'schhh schhh' sound. We're you trying to use it?" I still don't have a fax machine.

"No, mom, I don't know what it could be."

Pause. She's waiting for me to offer to do something, but I don't know what it is. "I guess I'll just call him back."

"OK. I'll hang up now."

My sister thinks she's getting old and forgetting things. I don't. I think she's just getting worse at whatever that thing is that's wrong with her.

Technical Difficulties

Blogger locked me out of my own anonymous blog, and you missed out on months and months of complaining! But I'm back, with unbelievable stories about the woman who raised me who now poisons my life from within my own house. There is no escape.

OK. That was a little harsh. It's just how I feel right now. What good is an anonymous blog if you can't say what you really feel?

Tell Me About Your Mother

Psychotherapy (aka"talk therapy") is a wonderful thing. Mostly, I get validation from my therapist, but she also makes me accountable when I start trying to avoid responsibility for things. She strongly advised me NOT to let my parents move in with me (more on that conversation later), and she was right. But, I did it anyway, and the stories I tell when I need to vent have led her to suggest I write all this things down. She thinks I could write a book.

Well there's nothing like suggesting a book to a frustrated novelist to get her in good spirits, so I bounced out of there and though about how I would do it. I can't publish such a thing until my parents and everyone who knows them, is dead. But if I use a fake name, and don't tell you who they are, I can let go with all the stories. So, with a nod to Frank McCourt, I give you:

Everyone Loves Gary!

If you've ever seen the sit-com Everybody Loves Raymond, you have an idea what my family is like. My mother is Doris on that show. Everybody knows this. (Well, a cross between Doris and Mrs. Costanza on Seinfeld). The funny thing is, when she saw an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, my mother commented on how she did not like it, and the mother character is annoying and mean. My sister and I could barely get out of the room fast enough to burst into tears of laughter at that!

This is my Family:

Ma Kelly, the matriarch, named for this blog after Johnny Dangerously's mother, played by Maureen Stapleton, who looks a little like my mom. She was born in Brooklyn in the 1930's, rasied by her mother after her father died, and married my dad in the late 50's.

Pa Kelly is obviously my dad. He was like the fourth kid in my family - he always asked my mom for permission to do things. She gave him an allowance, even though he was the only one who worked.

Mimi is what I will call my sister. Of the two of us, she was "the pretty one." I was "the smart one." Keep that in mind, it will be important later. I am the eldest, she is the youngest, which doesn't matter at all now - but it did when we were kids.

Gary shall be the name I give to my brother. Go out and rent Parenthood, the 1989 movie with Steve Martin. The way Diane Weist's character interacts with her son is how my mother treats my brother.

And yes, I know, I watch a lot of TV.

My Secret Apartment in the City

I've been wanting to do this for a long time. This is where I will write what I can no longer blog in that other place. Mostly family stuff. 'Cause, you can't make this stuff up....