Uncontrolled chaos

My parents don't have air conditioning. Even 2002, the year I moved away from Boston, it wasn't unusual for people not to have air conditioning. When we got back from the airport, they had a lot of fans going.

A.: You know that fans don't actually chill the air? Just one's skin.
Mom: Well, it circulates air.
A.: Hot air. All I'm saying is, it makes sense to turn them off when you're not home, or even not in that room.

They set up a fan in my guest room, which was hot as Hades. The fan was helpful a third of the time, when it faced me. The button to get it to not rotate was broken. I tried to fall asleep anyway, but half an hour later, around midnight, I came downstairs and asked for another fan.

My parents came upstairs. Mom pointed out the button. I pointed out that it was broken. She started messing with it. I begged her not to. She did anyway. Upon ascertaining for herself that it really was broken, she agreed to another fan. Dad brought one. I said I'd set it up myself, they could go back to whatever they were doing. They insisted on plugging it into various outlets in the room from which the fan wouldn't reach me. Finally, I plugged it into the closest outlet and went back to sleep.

The effect--the prolonged process, which results in a delayed return to sleep--is only partly the issue. It's the disorganization that really gets me. In addition to the disorganized behavior, the disorganized, cluttered house sets off a wariness in me. It's not that my house is spotless--but it's an organized chaos. My parents just don't manage their stuff well, and, yet, they're constantly buying more of it.

A couple of days ago, over the phone, mom asked what I'd eat for breakfast. I asked whether she had oatmeal. She did, she said, but the moths had gotten to it.

Then why does she still *have it*? That would be when you put the oatmeal with the moth larvae in the compost, and say that you don't have oatmeal.

I offered to bring some--I had a ton, since I'd bought some at Costco--and told her she should store it in glass containers. Last night, as I was blogging, she demanded that I come into the kitchen to see how perfectly the oatmeal I'd brought fit into two containers. Then, this morning, she couldn't find the containers. Out of disorganization, not age-related memory loss. She has so much crap--so many cake mixes that she never makes, etc.--that she has no idea where anything is. I asked if she wanted oatmeal, too. She said, of course, it's her favorite grain.

Then breakfast became a saga.

A.: Do you have milk?
Mom: No, I have cream. Do you want that?
A.: No, thanks.
Mom: Just use less of it.
A.: It's not that, I don't like cream (much less in my oatmeal). Flax seeds?
Mom: Somewhere...

This launches a search through various cabinets. I decide to stop asking for things. The oatmeal is ready. Mom's not.

Mom: I'm busy with the flowers! They're most important.
A.: Okay. Well, I'm going to have my oatmeal while it's hot.

I would have waited, but I had no idea when she might be ready. She was still dealing with the flowers when I went to blog. I felt bad, until the weekend, when Dad--a huge proponent of the Whole Family Dining Together--insisted that we don't wait for mom, or we'd never sit down to eat. She'll keep finding other things to do, more plants to water, etc.

Mom: You disrupt my whole routine whenever you're here!
A.: For three days, I think you can handle it.
Mom: We could have had breakfast together!
A.: I thought you were ready for breakfast.
Mom: I thought I would be.

It's just a clash in styles--one that transpires when they visit, as well. I'm an efficiency machine (at least when I need to be, which is usually). I don't f* around. I mean, I do, but even the f*ing around (reading the paper, watching the Daily Show) is scheduled. But I know what needs to get done and I know where everything is. I have to--I work full time and maintain a house and two yards, on my own. I can't afford to dilly-dally.

Mom: You might step outside to the fresh air, rather then going to the computer!
A.: Get off my back, mom.
Mom: Don't tell me to get off your back!
A.: Then stop nagging me. I'm busy. I'll step outside if you let me finish reading the paper.

Mom: Here's why it won't work for you to have a garden: your father and I, the first thing we do is see how our flowers are. The first thing you do is go to the computer.

Again with the computer. Am I one of those people who sleeps with a smart phone by my side? I do a number of things in the morning before waking up my computer. And when I get home from work--before waking it up again--I water my plants.