A happy Jewish family

I was really looking forward to doing yoga for the first time in over a week, especially with all the hiking, driving and sitting in a plane. I felt better even after the first few poses. My mom was out in the garden, so I even thought I'd have time to do yoga in peace.

I have to admit, she tried to only mumble to herself when she came into the room. Unfortunately, she decided to climb up onto the couch to water a plant just as I was in the middle of tree pose, a balancing pose that requires a lot of concentration. From tree pose, I heard my name.

A.: This minute? I'm busy.
Mom: I'm busy too!
A.: Wait a few seconds!
Mom: You are so selfish! You only ever do the things you need to do, you never do anything for anyone else.
A.: [Emerging from tree pose] Fine, what do you need?
Mom: Nothing! I don't need anything from you!
A.: I didn't think so.

She then proceeded to stomp around the room and make as much noise as possible as I went on with my yoga. While I was still in a standing pose off the mat, she kicked up the yoga mat, picked up some dumbells, and did some noisy exercises with them. Then she slammed the door and left. To her credit, she didn't turn on the tv. She continued to pout throughout the morning, and went straight to the computer as dad and I were making breakfast, prompting him to say, "what a happy Jewish family, everyone getting ready for breakfast together."

Kids on a plane

First of all, a newsflash for air travelers: there is this thing called the internet. You can go on it and choose the seats you want. I do it all the time. Ergo, I want the seats I've chosen. I'm sorry you have not chosen the seats you wanted, but I will not let that be my problem.

I like aisle seats, generally, because I like to get up and stretch a lot. It's not secret that I exhibit symptoms of ADD. So when I choose a window seat, it has to be good. And flying along the Rockies from Calgary to Denver is window-seat good. I actually remarked about it to Elisabeth; I'd said, "I'm looking forward to a great view from a high altitude that I won't have to achieve with my own two legs."

So the window seat was mine, and I wanted it. The fact that someone else wanted it, and that someone else happened to be a small child, didn't mean that he was entitled to it. I invite you, those of you giving me dirty looks right now in your head, to give me a good reason why I should have given up my seat... which I actually considered doing at first, before the mom got all passive-aggressive on me.

I approached my seat, to see a boy sitting in it and a girl in the next one over. I looked for a parent, and indicated to her that her son was in my seat. The boy started pouting and saying, "YOU SAID I HAD A WINDOW SEAT!" The mom said, "I'm sorry, I thought most adults knew how much kids like window seats." and that was the moment when I quashed any inner dialogue that was debating offering him the seat. My resolve deepened when the kids neither got up, nor moved their stuff out of the way to let me pass to my seat.

The child didn't stop whining about it, and the mom eventually asked me directly if I really wanted the seat. I told her yes, and that I'd reserved one specially. I didn't add that sitting next to her two little brats would be enough punishment, and that I shouldn't have to give up my seat as well. And that was before the girl next to me started kicking her chair, intruding with her elbow into my space, singing off key, practicing her German, and screaming across the aisle to her mom for a good ten minutes that there must be something wrong with her blow pop because the gum just wasn't coming off.

I got my view of the mountains and even took some pictures out the window. By the way, they live in Calgary, and apparently fly often (the girl said as much), and Denver is United hub. Now I'm going to tell you something that will make you think I'm a complete jerk, but I still stand by my choices, because there is one thing that the mom could have said for which I would have moved, and I almost respect her more for not saying it to get her way. The girl told me that they were going to the U.S. for their grandmother's funeral. Losing a parent does entitle one to letting one's kid have a window seat, in my book, but I can't act on what I don't know, and what I knew was that I didn't want to reward a kid for pouting and whining. If it makes you feel better, my pennance was sitting next to the two of them and having to wait almost twenty-four hours for my luggage to be delivered. Which meant I had to find clothes that fit me before I moved out... and go outside in them to get my luggage, and it wasn't pretty... and listen to my mother complain about how waiting for my luggage ruined her day.

I will stick to this: not knowing what I didn't know, I really felt no reason to give this kid something I had, just because he wanted it. Again, if anyone wants to post some comments about why a better person (with my knowledge at decision time) would have given up her view of the Rockies, I'm all ears (eyes?).

So simple yet so confusing

Even through this afternoon, I had pretty high hopes that it would be a non-blog-worthy weekend. There were a couple of things before then. I mean, rest assured, I knew I would blog about the kids sitting next to me on my Calgary-Denver flight-- that's coming up on a minute... but mom was being really... nice. I gave her a stone I bought in Canada and she actually said thank you and acted like she liked it... didn't complain about the space it would take up (which would be ridiculous because if I had space in my luggage for it, anyone has space for it), didn't say it wouldn't match her decor. This may be the first gift I've ever gotten my mom that she liked or pretended to like. She even... are you ready for this?? She even didn't say that the dress I'm planning to wear to the wedding I'm going to this weekend was the ugliest thing she's ever seen (mind you, it's not in front her yet):

Mom: Is your dress in the luggage [which was delayed]?
A.: No, a friend is bringing it.
Mom: What dress is it?
A.: The same one I wore to Julia's wedding [Julia is a family friend].
Mom: Oh, as I recall that's a beautiful dress.

Seriously, I got worried. I wondered whether my mother truly wasn't feeling well, wasn't herself. Luckily for me, she later made a point to tell me that she didn't like my hair, so I was reassured that she's fine.

Mom: I'll be ready to go for a walk in a few minutes.
A.: I'm not ready now... I'm in the middle of a workout.
Mom: Well, hurry up.
A.: I'm going.
Mom: Wait!
A.: What?
Mom: I don't like your hair like that.
A.: Okay, well, it's okay that you don't like my hair like this.
Mom: No, it doesn't look good on you.

Also, she muttered something this morning, with the news in the background, about how I need to put aside my political correctness and see the light. I'm not sure what she was referring to. She did say, as I was uploading my photos, "you know, there are places like that in the U.S., too... like Montana." Well, yes, Glacier is driving distance from Canada. We picked Canada this time around, it wasn't a political statement.

The piece de resistance was after dinner. I requested that she not turn on Glenn Beck because I find him repulsive. She said I had to watch him to stay informed, started telling me about some story about border guards being arrested for doing their jobs, and this story, which was exposed by Glenn Beck, was important to know and the fact that I hadn't heard of it indicated that I wasn't well-informed. She added with shock that I hadn't heard about something that happened yesterday; when I told her I was in planes all day yesterday, she said that was a poor excuse. I couldn't take it so I took my teacup back to the computer and continued to work on my pictures. She starte4d screaming at me from the kitchen to come back because I HAD to hear what Glenn Beck was saying... I asked her to kindly leave me alone, but here's the upside: my dad said, "you can't force her to watch it," and she didn't yell at him for spoiling me and making me the monster that I am.

I worked on the photos on and off during the day... she was pretty gracious about sharing her computer most of the time (let it be known that I was gracious about sharing mine when she visited me). Elisabeth was in some of the pictures she saw, so I presumed that's who my mom meant when she asked me about "her."

Mom: How do you know her?
A.: She and I were in Geneva together, and she lived in D.C. for a while. I actually stayed with her once when I was visiting grad schools.
Mom: Does she live there now?
A.: No, she's in Florida now.
Mom: Oh, how awful.
A.: Yeah, that's much of why she suggested a hiking trip.
Mom: No, not her. The friend whose wedding you're going to.
A.: Oh, I'm friends with the groom.
Mom: How do you know him?
A.: We used to work together.
Mom: You don't know the bride?
A.: I've met her...
Mom: You don't work together anymore?
A.: No...
Mom: But you became friends.
A.: Yeah.
Mom: Why?
A: Because?

Mom: And the groom lives in Florida...
A.: No.
Mom: Here?
A.: No, it's that the Antiochian Orthodox Church is near here.
Mom: The what?
A.: I think it's a form of Catholicism.
Mom: Is the groom also that?
A.: No, I think he's just Catholic.
Mom: Is he the one bringing your dress up?
A.: No, that's another friend.
Mom: Who's also going to the wedding.
A.: Yeah.
Mom: How does he know the groom?
A.: Also used to work with him.
Mom: And they're still friends?
A.: Yeah.
Mom: Why are they still friends?
A.: Mom!!!
Mom: This other friend also lives in D.C.
A.: Yeah.
Mom: What denomination is he?
A.: I have no idea.
Mom: Which one do you know from Geneva?
A.: Neither. I know Elisabeth, with whom I travelled in Canada, from Geneva.
Mom: Ohhhhh! I get it now!

Moving on to not understanding a different itinerary

First, a non-Mom event: on the metro, a young woman started a conversation with me, told me she liked my shoes... and later asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. She thought I was 22 like her. I didn't disabuse her of that idea (although I did say, in response to her question, that I didn't know). It was wonderful.

I got home from class, finished packing, called my parents (roughly five hours before my alarm goes off).

Mom: Will you have your cell phone?
A.: No.
Mom: You should unlock it.
A.: It's not about unlocking it- I'll be in the mountains.
Mom: What are the facilities like?
A.: Do we have to have this discussion now?
Mom: Yes, I need to know that you're prepared.
Dad: Where exactly are you going?
A.: I sent you my exact itinerary, with the names of the campsites where we'll be staying.
Mom: I didn't understand it.
A.: What about it didn't you understand?
Mom: I didn't understand the itinerary.
Dad: She's getting in on the 6th.
Mom: I know that! I don't understand the itinerary.
A.: What is not clear about the itinerary?
Mom: I don't know where any of those places are, I'll have to look them up on a map.
A.: Okay.
Mom: Goodnight.
A.: Goodnight.

Gratuitous "why" is annoying enough when kids do it

I don't blame my mother for bad timing, although it's a force multiplier when what I do blame her for is already really annoying. I'd just gotten off the phone with Elisabeth, with whom I'm going to Canada, when mom called. I was just about to go pack some things of which she'd reminded me, while they were fresh in my mind. Again, though, the timing was just an aggravating factor.

Mom: Hi, how are you...
A.: I'm fine...
Mom: You won't believe what I've been doing, I've been looking for a press, I've been looking on e-bay and elsewhere, do you know anything about those?
A.: No...
Mom: To press wine, to separate the water...
A.: No... actually, I think I may have one of those. Someone gave me something called a Lapresse...
Mom: What is it like?
A.: I don't really know... I haven't used it so it's in the basement gathering dust. I probably won't be able to bring it this time around...
Mom: What can you do with it? Can you make juice?
A.: I don't know.
Mom: How much does it weigh?
A.: I don't know.
Mom: Can you estimate?
A.: No.
Mom: Just guess.
A.: I have no idea.
Mom: Why did someone give it to you?
A.: Because someone gave it to her and she didn't want it.
Mom: What's it called?
A.: Lepresse.
Mom: What?
A.: Lepresse. Le-Presse.
Mom: What-presse?
A.: Le-presse.
Mom: How do you spell it?
A.: L-e-p-r-e-s-s-e. Le-then "press" with an 'e' at the end, like in French.
Mom: Why is it in French?
A.: I DON'T KNOW.
Mom: Fine, bye.


[I go downstairs and look at it, call her back, describe it].
A.: I'll call again before I leave.
Mom: You're coming here first, then going to Calgary?
A.: [Breathing deeply] I am going to Calgary first, then going to Boston.
Mom: Okay, bye.
A.: Bye.

***

I asked a friend-- the one going to the same wedding and already transporting wedding stuff for me-- if he had room for the lepresse. He kindly agreed to take it.

I called my mother to let her know that, and if you think she said,

"Thank you for taking the time to go into your spider-infested basement and find it, and for asking your friend to carry it. I know you're busy preparing for your trip,"

you have the wrong mom blog.

Mom: Does it press?
A.: I DON'T KNOW.
Mom: Can you take a picture of it?
A.: I don't have time.
Mom: When you ask me for something...
A.: I don't ask you to drop everything and do anything.

***

I called her back to say I sent her a link to it on the internet.

Mom: Can you describe it?
A.: I just sent you a picture!
Mom: Oh. Well, if you're not using it, why not bring it here anyway?
A.: I'm not going to ask my friend to carry it if it's not what you need!
Mom: Okay. It looks like it's what I need.
A.: Okay, I'll ask him to bring it.
Mom: When is he coming?
A.: In two weeks, when I am.
Mom: Well by then I'll know.
A.: By then I won't be able to tell him to bring it or not.
Mom: I'll send you an e-mail.
A.: I'll be in the mountains, without internet access or cell phone signal.
Mom: In Calgary?
A.: Outside of Calgary.
Mom: Okay, well I'll send him an e-mail.
A.: Don't worry about it, if you think you'll need it I'll ask him to bring it, space permitting.
Mom: You're very impatient. You raise your voice often.
A.: Goodnight.
Mom: Goodnight.

What is going on here?

About fifteen minutes after the conversation described in the previous entry, my mother called me back.

Mom: I wanted to tell you that I love you. They say that one needs to say that often. I mean, I want you to know that even though we disagree about things, I love you.
A.: I love you, too.


True, we disagree about things, but we didn't actually disagree about things in the earlier conversation. I mean, my parents thought I was unprepared to accept the truth in a life lesson, whereas in reality I was protesting the packaging of a life lesson in a cheesy e-mail, and by proxy, the volume of cheesy e-mails that come my way, as well as my mother's lack of response to my request to decrease that volume.

Apparently what we disagree about is what we were disagreeing about.

We said goodnight again. Then she called again ten minutes later to ask whether she could toss an old pair of sneakers she thought was mine. [Not that it matters, but I said I didn't think they were mine but if she wanted to make sure could she wait until I arrived in Boston. On the 6th. She said she could.]

Life Lessons from the Internet

I called to check up on my mom. She's feeling better.

A.: How are you feeling?
Mom: Oh I'm fine now. The only thing I need now is for you to write a letter to Verizon for me... you're getting in the 3rd and leaving the 6th?
A.: I AM GETTING IN ON THE 6TH AND LEAVING ON THE 9TH.
Mom: Right, you said that, not sure why I got the 3rd and the 6th into my head. [Proceeds to discuss her phone drama for a considerable amount of time]. So, what's new with you?
A.: Nothing, really.
Mom: [Discusses weather]. What's new with you? What new wonders have come up?
A.: None... just sitting on the porch, here with the wonder that is my cat.
Mom: Er... the way you say that is kind of strange... it's just... it's just that...
A.: What?
Mom: You know what they say... never mind, I don't want to say it.
A.: Say it.
Mom: No, there's nothing to say.

I have a strong feeling that the 'what they say' has to do with single women and cats. Now, my mom is not the first person to bring this up, but I think it's particularly intriguing on her part, because my whole family loves cats, has always had cats. Our cat, that died three years ago this month, was very dear to us all, and my mother says she still thinks about her every day. Yet, all of the sudden, I get a cat, and it's 'oh, single woman with cat.'

I have a friend (at least one) who will not get a cat, even though she loves them, because she doesn't want to be 'single woman with cat.'

I've had a friend suggest that it's wonderful that I have a cat, because now I have companionship. I hate to disappoint her, but a furball that keeps you around because you feed her is not my idea of companionship.

You do know that plenty of non-single people have cats?

In any case, not having a cat because you don't want to feed into a stereotype, is letting a stereotype direct the way you live your life. I'm okay with being a 'single woman with cat.'

More on singleton rights here (courtesy of Jay).

Now back to the conversation with my parents.

Mom: Did you read what I'd sent you?
A.: I'm not sure-- what did you send me?
Mom: You don't read what I send you?
A.: I read some of it.
Mom: You should read all of it.
A.: I don't have time to read all of it. [And I've asked you not to SEND so much of it. And until you respect that, I'll arbitrarily pick and choose what to read.]
Mom: Did you read that one about Warren Buffet?
A.: Yeah, that was short, I read it.
Mom: And?
A.: And?
Mom: What did you learn?
A.: ??
Mom: That's the way one should live!
A.: What?
Mom: One should live like that!
A.: What, in Omaha?
Mom: One should live simply.
A.: Okay.
Mom: Follow the path your life lays out for you. Don't listen to other people.
[What matters here is what I'm not saying].
A.: I don't seek life lessons from cheesy forwards about Warren Buffet.
Dad: I think you have to come to this on your own.
Mom: No, you have to understand it now. They key is, live your life, don't get into a constant spin. [There's an untranslatable Russian word she's using, which I'll convey as 'spin' with a connotation of ADD].
Dad: Yeah, I think you can't force that attitude, I think you have to see it for yourself.
Mom: But look at me: I've been spinning my whole life and now I don't know how to stop.
Dad: He started investing when he was 14, or even earlier!
Mom: Who cares? That's not the point!
Dad: That is the point, in the sense that he did what he loved...
Mom: THAT IS NOT THE POINT!
Dad: Well, he figured it out early and followed his heart...
Mom: THAT'S IRRELEVANT!
A.: Is it really necessary to raise your voice over this? If that's the point for dad, it's a valid point.
Mom: It's not valid for this conversation. The point is, stop "spinning."
Dad: Stop listening to other people, live the way you want to live.
A.: I don't want to live in Omaha.
Mom: Live simply. Slow down. Listen to what your life is telling you.
A. Okay.
Mom: Goodnight.
A.: Goodnight.
Mom: We disagree, so we have nothing more to say to one another. Goodnight.

I'm not really sure what we've disagreed about. I mean, I didn't start defending ADD.

Dad: Goodnight.
A. Goodnight.

I have to get up in six hours; what better time to ask me about the meaning of life?

I should be asleep right now. I don't blame my parents, I guess... it's my neurosis that possesses me to blog.

I wake up at 5am most weekdays, and try to go to bed early most weeknights. My parents KNOW that. Nonetheless, they often call me after 10pm and leave a message requesting a response preferably that night. Because calling before 10pm wouldn't work as well for some reason. My dad did this about a month ago-- asked for my passport number (for a family trip next year) and preferred a response that night but would magnanimously accept a response the following day.

Anyway, I got out of class at 9:50pm to no phone message from my parents, and lost signal at the metro station at about 10pm. Got signal again at about 10:30pm, with a message from my parents (asking, with urgency, to which humanitarian organization they should donate, and no the fact that they value my opinion or at least want me to think that they do, is not lost on me).

I called when I got off the metro, discussed donations with my mom; she insisted on "escorting" me on the phone until I reached home, and at that point my dad picked up. We were all saying our 'goodnight's and I told mom to get some sleep, because she said she wasn't feeling well. After she'd already hung up, dad repeated mom's symptoms to me. And I do care, but I'd already heard them from the source, and I was definitely ready to go to bed. It's been a really long day. So then, at 10:50pm, my dad gets inspired to ask me whether I've seen some old movie, and tells me what actor is in it, tells me it's a must see, and is about to go on about it for much longer,
when I say, "you know what, I'm not going to remember any of this right now, could we talk about it later?" Which, with a few more hints, worked, but it was just baffling: why did my dad think I'd want to get into an involved discussion over an old movie at 10:50pm on a weeknight??

On that note, goodnight.

A tent, a few hikes, an itinerary, Canada

Mom: You're coming on the third and leaving on the fifth?
A.: I'm coming on the sixth and leaving on the ninth.
Mom: Really?
A.: Yeah... I get in at...
Mom: You don't have to tell me, I have the itinerary you sent.
Mom: Can we go over your books when you're here, maybe give some away?
A.: We've already been over my books, you already gave away the ones I was willing to part with and then some.
Mom: Oh, I have a vacuum cleaner for you, it's rechargeable.
A.: Thank you. I may not be able to take it back with me, as I'll have the tent and other gear.
Mom: What tent?
A.: The tent I'm taking to Canada.
Mom: You're going to Canada?
A.: We've been over this [and it's on my itinerary].
Mom: I mean, you're going to Canada after you come here?
A.: No, I'm going to Boston after I go to Canada.
Mom: And you're taking a tent?
A.: Yeah.
Mom: You're going to camp?
A.: Yes.
Mom: In Canada?
A.: Yes.
Mom: And hike?
A.: Yes.
Mom: You're going to camp, and then from there, hike?
A.: Yes.
Mom: By yourself?
A.: With a friend.
Mom: Oh, okay. It's hard to keep track when you call so infrequently. We don't talk often, so I don't know what's going on.
A.: I told you I was going to Canada [and sent you the itinerary].
Mom: Still, it's easier to remember when we talk all the time.
A.: You can also call me whenever you want.
Mom: Well, I haven't had much to report, not much has happened around here.
A.: I don't have much to report, either.
Mom: Okay, well, we'll both make a point to call more often.
A.: Sounds good.

I got the idea that my mom was trying. She wasn't inserting snide comments, she wasn't being particularly accusatory.

This past week, I took an excellent course on Conflict Resolution Skills. One of the instructors said that the skills are not applicable under at least two circumstances, for her three: a) when someone has a gun to your head, and other emergencies; b) when the person or people you're dealing with has/have a diagnosed mental illness; and her third case, c) her mother. I'm on the fence as to whether my mother is a third category. I'll try out my new skills, probably drive her nuts. In any case, I'm looking at the three or so days with my family as an opportunity, rather than dreading the lectures about coffee, sunblock, my career, nutrition, etc. I've actually begun to imagine some of the conversations, practice them in my head. Here's how one might go:

Mom: Why don't you drink coffee.
A.: I don't like coffee.
Mom: You're so politically correct.
A.: The way you say that, it sounds like you think I'm not drinking coffee for political reasons. What gives you that idea?
Mom: [Has to think about it for long enough that we can change the subject.]

Collected Thoughts

Hello again, I know it's been a while. I haven't had a lot of free time, but some did open up when the bike ride I planned on this morning was snagged by my tearing the air stem out of the tube when I pumped my tires this morning, so here I am.

First some mom notes:

-Mom still resents Gracie, partly because she's so attached to our cat that died three years ago that she sees it as a betrayal, but largely because Gracie's adoption was a decision undertaken without consulting her. Almost every time Gracie comes up (my dad will ask about her), my mom will insert a thinly veiled indication of disapproval. For example,

Dad: How's Gracie?
A.: Good, she's sitting on my lap.
Mom: Oh, that must make the intolerable heat even worse.

-Mom continues to not appreciate how busy I am. I would be exaggerating if I followed the previous sentence with, 'based on the way she expects me to deliver stuff to her friends in the D.C. area;' in fact, that's the kind of thing she would say. But she does underestimate the time it would take for me to get to the homes of family friends in the area, especially considering D.C. traffic. Let me back up-- she made Mirella a beautiful amber necklace, and asked me to give it to her. Mirella is my friend as much as my parents' (I know her through a friend of theirs, but she and I are very close), so it is not as if I don't want to see her, but she lives forty minutes' drive in good traffic, and D.C. traffic is rarely good. Occasionally, I have meetings for work that are up by Mirella's house, and the last time this happened, as I left the meeting, it occurred to me to call her and see if I could stop by. Of course, I hadn't brought the necklace. I did tell my parents over the phone that Mirella said 'hi.' This time, I thought to arrange our getting together ahead of time, so I did bring the necklace. She called my mother to thank her. My mother (according to Mirella), uttered something about hadn't we seen each other before this moment and since I had the necklace in my possession. I envisioned a repeat of the boots scenario but realized that since I wasn't in the same car, if mom gave me crap, I could just hang up.

***

Now for some non-Mom related blogging about customer service.

-Ah, Verizon, such the leach. Only a monopoly can be brazen enough to charge people for services they don't want. I mean, it's bad enough that I would have to pay to not be listed in the yellow pages, but it gets worse.

I noticed a few extra dollars on our phone bill, with 'long distance' in the description. Note that our phone is not connected; we have phone service solely to enable our DSL. We never wanted long distance, never asked for it, so I called to complain. That charge was removed from our bill.

The next month, there was a $6 charge, with 'long distance' in the description. I called again.

Turns out, that initial charge was for not using our long distance. Yes, Verizon is charging for not using their long distance service. The second charge? For removing long distance service from our package. Yes, we had to pay to remove a service that we never requested in the first place, so that we would not get charged for not using it.

Up next, Banfield Animal Hospital at PetSmart. Gracie had fleas, so by extension, I had fleas. It was BAD. I was losing the little sleep I had time to get, because I was getting bitten in the middle of the night. I needed both medication for my cat, and spray for the furniture, curtains, etc.

Incidentally, on my way from work the day I planned on getting this stuff, it was pouring down rain. I actually lost control of my car and hydroplaned, just on the highway, but thankfully managed to regain control and keep going. However, I opted to take a busier route that was less likely to be flooded than the rural roads I normally take (yes, I work in the boonies). I knew there was a PetSmart in one of the strip malls along that busier route, pathetically because it was right next to a Babies-R-Us and I've gotten so many baby gifts this year, the year of the babies, that I had no trouble finding the PetSmart. I asked the woman at the Banfield counter for both flea medication and furniture spray. She must have heard me because she gave me directions for using the spray on my furniture. Nonetheless, when I got home, ready to exterminate the blood-sucking little bastards that were making my cat's and my life difficult, I discovered that the spray she'd sold me was also for the cat. I was LIVID. Furthermore, the receipt said they didn't take returns on prescription items, so if I wanted to try to get my $55 back, I'd have to once again return to the same out-of-the-way store to argue my case, my case being that they sold me a product I did not ask for, so they better damn well take it back. More importantly, I had to contend with another night of being flea bait.

The next day, I returned and made my case to a different veterinary nurse behind the counter. As she went back to ask her manager, I heard,

"Excuse me, ma'am... you're standing in dog pee."

Indeed I was. I stepped aside.

The nurse returned and said she could only give me store credit. I said like hell she could (only more politely) and asked her firmly to refund the amount to my credit card. She did. I also told her about the dog pee. She pointed me to the furniture spray, which was in the main part of the store.

-Alexandria Ambulance Service, which was so wonderful when I needed them, is not as great in administrative areas as it is in its first response (better than the other way around, I suppose). My insurance covered a little over half of my ambulance bill, so I received a bill for the rest from the ambulance service. On the stub there was a place for one's credit card number, i.e. sixteen boxes in which you write the digits of your credit card number. So I did, and sent it in, so imagine my surprise when I got another bill last week. I called to determine what the problem was, and was directed to call the same number with 888 rather than 800, as the number had been misprinted on their letterhead. I called, and was told that the problem was that they didn't take credit cards. Apparently, they'd switched companies and the new system was not yet up and running. But instead of actually indicating this on the second bill, they left me to guess. Had this not been the ambulance, I would have been willing to play this by just sending my credit card number every time. As it were, I went home and sent a check. Two days later, I received the same bill, this time, with the phone number printed correctly. But the credit card option was still there.

-Thrift store, at which I bought a skirt and a few books, including a very large hardcover cookbook. The volunteer put my stuff into a paper bag with no handles. I said, "Could I trouble you for a bag with handles?" Although I said it with no trace of sarcasm, etc., she got defensive and said, "we have no bags with handles; if we did, I would have given you one." Luckily, one of the regular salespeople rolled her eyes and said, "give her a bag with handles," and took a plastic bag (that the first woman probably didn't give me because it was too flimsy, not out of spite) and placed the paper bag inside of it.

***

My rules for moviegoers:

-If you are too dumb to independently follow the plot of a movie, wait until it comes out on DVD. DO NOT go to see it in the theatre if you need to constantly (or ever, really) ask your companion what is happening. Even my mother, who likes (but probably does not need) clarification about what's happening in a movie, has the decency to wait until said movie has ended.

-If you are so codependent that you cannot wait until the movie ends to discuss it, wait until it comes out on DVD so that you can discuss it in the privacy of your own home.

-Do not stretch your arms over your head or for any reason create an opaque layer over your head. There are people sitting behind you.

One of us is imagining things

Mom: Are you in touch with Nina?
A.: Yeah. I know she's in town, I won't be able to make it up in time to see her this time around...
Mom: She's going to Argentina and Hong Kong, all paid for by work... she's proof that one should just go with the flow and do what she feels is right [and so on about how Nina's always done the right thing by defying convention and following her dreams]. Well, you've always done that too, except that Psychology degree was completely worthless. And we've always supported you in doing what you think is right.

I didn't argue. I just marveled at her ability to manipulate reality.

Mom: One more thing, I'd like you to put 911 on speed dial, as the first entry in your address book.
A.: So I can dial it by accident all the time?
Mom: You never know, it's so dangerous out there.
A.: It's three numbers; it's just as easy if not easier to dial them as it is to retrieve an entry from my phone book.
Mom: Well this way you wouldn't even have to think about it.
A.: I don't have to think about it anyway. I managed to dial 911 with one hand while the other was occupied with containing the bleeding flap protruding from my arm. If it's in my phone, it'll get dialed by accident, and it wouldn't save me any time.
Mom: Well, you never know.
A.: I'll know how to dial that number if I ever need to.
Mom: Okay, well, goodbye. Call often.
A.: Okay, goodbye.

This could have been better but it's relevant.

Galchen.

I found the answer!

As you well know if you've been paying attention, it's not easy to get my mom off the phone. Saying, for example, "this is a REALLY bad time, I'm going to be late, goodbye!" or "We can talk about this later, I have to go this minute" usually don't get me anywhere. I've doubted whether, "My house is on fire and I can't talk," would.

Imagine my surprise then at the following conversation last night:

Mom: Where have you been?
A.: Huh?
Mom: It's been two weeks since we've talked!
A.: I believe we spoke earlier this week.
Mom: We did? I don't think so.
Dad: Actually, we did.
A.: In any case, I can't talk now, I'm reading "Harry Potter." I'll call you tomorrow.
Mom: Oh, okay, I'll let you get back to that.


Now, this is not something I'll ever be able to use again, but still, I was impressed at her deference.

I am, by the way, available as a human being again case you were wondering. I stayed up late reading, woke up early to read, and finished shortly before noon. It was excellent.

It was a kind of funny scene- my roommate's daughter was here for the weekend and she was reading too. We'd stop every few chapters to compare where we were and what we thought. We were both completely enrapt.

A couple of people have told me they were surprised that I was a fan, which surprises me. I mean, it's a great book (they are great books). I highly recommend them.

***

After I finished reading, I headed out to the Sackler to see the "Encompassing the Globe" exhibit on the former Portuguese Empire. On my way to the metro, I called home, and, since no one answered, left a message saying (in Russian), "Hi, give me a call back, I may or may not be able to come to the phone until later this afternoon, though."

My parents called me back this evening.

Mom: What was the second part of your message?
A.: What?
Mom: I got the first part, but wasn't sure what you meant by the second part.
A.: Does it matter?
Mom: Sure it matters.
A.: Something about my being around or not when you call.
Mom: What exactly did you say?
A.: I don't remember.
Dad: Why does it matter?
Mom: I'm just curious about what you said.
Dad: How is everything?
A.: Fine, you?
Dad: Good, we just got back from Rhode Island.
Mom: How's work? Do you like it? Are you not exhausted by that long drive.
A.: [Shrug. Why don't you also remind me about how there are no good swimming holes in the D.C. area?] No, it's fine.
Mom: Just wondering.

I love Alexandria...

...and I so disagree with the Libertarians.

Originally, I didn't want to move out of D.C., in spite of its inadequate social services that have in no way kept up with its cost of living. In this entry, I will not dwell on the other things I love about Alexandria, such as the shopping (for necessities and otherwise). It's all about the services.

Almost a year ago when I accidentally shoved my arm through a window, I heard sirens within a few minutes of calling '911.' It was indeed a very timely response. I'm not sure how much blood I'd have lost had I dialed the same number in the nation's capital.

I've always enjoyed my local library, although it's apparently nothing like the main Alexandria library. I have high standards for libraries, having grown up in Newton. Still, I was surprised when I got an e-mail last night letting me know that my copy of Harry Potter was there and would be available for pickup as soon as the library opened today. I know there were at least twenty people ahead of me on the list; I guess they got at least that many copies. The librarian said I could only have the book for two weeks. We both smiled, because few people need that long.

On my way to the library (which was really on the return leg of my bike ride), I needed to wash my hands, having had to replace the chain back to its proper place. Not one but two people actually stopped to help me deal with my bike issue, which has never happened to me before. I remember I was struggling with my seat once (the original had been stolen and the replacement wasn't staying in place; I didn't need outside help, but still), and the closest I got to an offer for help was someone riding by and saying, 'you're all set?' as he sped away. Anyway, I was grateful to the people who stopped to help me, but my hands were black with grease. Fortunately, along the Mt. Vernon trail are comfort stations with clean and functional facilities that rival those found in many airports.

In case you're wondering why I'm not reading Harry Potter, I have plans in an hour and don't want to start it only to have to put it down.

Addendum to earlier post

So, I'd mentioned how I'm learning to spend money on things I need, etc., just like I'm learning to not eat food that I don't need to eat, that I don't want to eat, but it's an uphill battle because I grew up observing money being spent according to bargain-value rather than need and being expected to justify acts of non-eating.

Gina and I have shopped together a few times and once I took her to Crate & Barrel Outlet, where she found mugs for $1.50 each. Apparently I'd said, "is that a good price?" and she laughed and thought I was nuts. But that's how messed up I am. See our IM below:

me: oh I almost blogged about you again but got too lazy
Gina: Really? What'd I do this time?
[smile]
me: I blogged about the hiking book story and almost added how you think it's funny that I say, "oh, $3 for a mug, is that good?" or whatever it was
Gina: $1.50.
me: okay I'm so blogging that
Sent at 10:21 PM on Wednesday

stroll down mom-memory lane

This is not be the first time I'll have surprised myself and you in whom I've chosen to cite or paraphrase; Note the following quote from former Congressman Dick Armey: "[A]s in a dysfunctional marriage, every fight is really about something else."

That is so true for many fights my mother chooses to pick. I first became aware of this when I was home for the holidays a few years ago. Mom's bursts of fury are often sudden, disproportionate and otherwise uncalled for. One stands out: New Year's Eve three or four years ago, mom screamed at me for a while for being selfish (also not unusual) when I conveyed my plans for the day, which entailed joining my friends (some also in town from their respective grad schools) for an early afternoon walk around Boston. My mother screamed that meeting my friends at 1pm would leave her to clean the house all on her own. I started reasoning with her (I hadn't learned), explaining that we'd have plenty of time to clean the house together; at some point in my explanation, it occurred to me that she couldn't possibly think we wouldn't be able to clean the house; this was about control, and, to give her some credit, about her wanting to spend more time with me. How much more effective would she have been had she said, "I was really hoping we could spend more of the holiday together"? By screaming, she just made me want to get out of the house.

She often resents the time I spend with my friends and picks fights on proxy issues. The Northampton trip (see late May blogs) was a perfect example: I'd done something to offend her earlier on, so she was picking a fight over that trip. The most popular proxy for whatever's really bothering her is how much something cost: Once when I was in high school, she was going out of her way to rain on my parade of excitement about making homemade sushi (avocado); she saw the wasabi powder, asked how much it cost, and emitted an exasperated, angry sigh when I said, "three dollars."

It has occurred to me that the Flagstaff fight, which I consider-- no pun intended-- the mother of all fights, could also have been a proxy fight. Background point I: I have to take some responsibility and admit that I haven't always been as in-control of my finances as I should have been (see Mom crashing my IRA account, for example), and I didn't realize when I went to college that my mom would take her contributing to the tuition, on her own insistence, as a license to micromanage my life (although she would probably do that anyway). This got really bad (once, my dad apologized for opening a letter from the college addressed to me, by accident; mom argued that her paying for college gave her the right to open my mail). Every time I told her what classes I was taking, she would yell at me about how those would not help me get a job. From Geneva, I e-mailed her my list of classes. She e-mailed back saying she was "shocked, surprised and disappointmented." So I was determined to avoid a repeat of this situation and insisted that my parents not pay a cent of my graduate school tuition. But I let my guard down (subsidized loans covered about a third, and my family has an aversion to debt); when my mom insisted that taking out unsubsidized loans would be financially irresponsible, as she could get a better rate on her home equity line. I caved.

Background point II: Recall Nina, who is the closest thing I'll ever have to a sister; her mother, who is a wonderful person, notwithstanding her mission of professing the health benefits of urine; her father, at whom my mother yelled for bringing her a mask from Georgia that she didn't think matched her decor; and her brother, who came to my mother's birthday dinner drunk. The latter and his family live in Arizona; his parents visit him often and come back with great stories and beautiful pictures, inspiring my parents to visit Arizona. I joined them during spring break of my first year in grad school. One of my roommates then was from Arizona and told me that it was important, if I planned to do any hiking, which of course I did, to get a good book, because the best trails were not visible from the main roads and were intense enough that one needed a detailed map. I mentioned this to my parents before the trip.

I arrived in Phoenix a few hours before they did and shopped around for a good hiking book. I held off from buying one because I thought maybe I'd find a better deal elsewhere, and said as much to my parents when they arrived and asked if I'd found a book.

A few days later, we were in Flagstaff on a stopover to the Grand Canyon. At this point, I had assessed the hiking book situation and determined that they all pretty much cost the same so I decided to just get one. My mom had stopped into a jewelry store when I stopped into an outdoor gear store. I emerged with a hiking book.

Mom: How much did it cost?

A.: $17.

Mom: WHAT??

A.: $17.

Mom: I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME. HOW COULD YOU SPEND THAT MUCH ON A BOOK? HAVE YOU NO SENSE OF FINANCIAL RESPONSIBILITY?

A.: Could you please get a hold of yourself? Is it worth getting this upset over $17??

Mom: THIS IS PRECISELY MY POINT. YOU DON'T VALUE MONEY! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THAT IT ALL ADDS UP! YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE ANY MONEY OF YOUR OWN, AND YET YOU WASTE MONEY ON THINGS LIKE THAT BOOK!

A.: I did charge that to my own credit card.

Mom: SO WHAT? I'M PAYING YOUR TUITION!

A.: You insisted on paying [a fraction of] my tuition.

Mom: I DID? I DID NOT!

A.: I do have a job...

Mom: YOU DON'T HAVE A REAL JOB! AND THAT'S NOT THE POINT! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THE VALUE OF MONEY. THE FACT THAT YOU KEEP SAYING, "IT'S JUST $17," SHOWS HOW MUCH YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THAT $17 HERE AND $17 THERE ALL ADD UP!


Now, I meant by, "it's $17," "is it really worth engaging in a screaming fight in the middle of a family vacation over $17 or really even a somewhat larger sum?" But she interpreted it as a sign of my gross financial negligence. She also threw back at me the fact that I'd said a few days earlier that I'd been hoping for a better deal than $17-- if $17 was too much then, why wasn't it too much now?

Answer: I believe in shopping around, but I also believe in spending money proportionately to the experience it buys or enhances, and I believed that book would enhance our hiking experience beyond its $17 (it did). For my mother, this was an issue of control (to this day, she asks me the prices of things she knows I've bought, and often gives me crap about them). My mother's attitudes about money, together with attitudes about food and clothes, are ones I continue to fight against when they sneak back into my thinking. For my mother, this fight was about my making a minor purchase without her permission. Perhaps she felt I was insufficiently grateful for her financing of my education.

This was about her having no perspective or consideration. I was past the point of being embarrassed over her screaming in the middle of the street and of being moved by her threats that we "go our separate ways" and meet up at the end of the week; she's done that before and, being the order-loving person I am, that option scares me and she knows it, but again, I was past that. I was angry at what she was doing and wasn't going to let her get away with it, so I said fine. She tried to get dad on her side, but dad wasn't buying it.

Dad and I got dinner separately; she probably went back to the hotel and stayed there. By the morning she tried to pretend that nothing had happened. Close to the end of the trip, we ran out of "obvious" things to do-- we'd covered the major national parks, and that book saved us. It had some amazing hikes that we never would have known about, that offered beautiful views we wouldn't have otherwise seen. Afterward, my mother called and kind-of-apologized. I mean, she really apologized, but her apology was, "I didn't realize that those were the kind of trails in that book; I thought it would have just mapped out the trails in the national parks, for which we'd get free maps at the gate." The more meaningful apology would have been, "I should have trusted your judgment when you decided to buy that book. You're an adult, and I know how financially responsible you are. Also, no matter what, I shouldn't have started screaming and ruined everyone's evening like that." I choose to believe that that's what she really meant.

A few other things from this trip, which took place the week before the invasion of Iraq. My mother has pulled a Tom Friedman-- she was all pro-war beforehand, but listening to her now you'd think she knew it was a bad idea after all. As usual, despite my pleas of, "I am on vacation and I don't want to talk about it," she insisted in arguing with me about the war and using infantile and ad hominem arguments, at that.

Speaking of immature, the morning after the Flagstaff fight we drove to the Grand Canyon, planning on getting breakfast on the way. We were almost there and there were few options, but I saw a waffle house, and my mother saw a McDonald's across the street from it. I've refused to eat in McDonald's ever since I read Fast Food Nation, which has only increased my mother's determination to eat there whenever we're together. I suggested that we all go to the waffle place so we could eat together; out of spite, she went and got herself breakfast at McDonald's. I had a power bar. Actually, this happened again the day after my grad school graduation-- we were on U & 14th, and this place NEXT TO the McDonald's there offered Smoothies and other breakfast food. My mother proudly marched over to McDonald's. She realized pretty quickly her statement was lost on us, though, and joined dad and me in the other place.

While I'm at it, let me continue to clean out my closet of stories I've been carrying around for a while. Some may be repeats (the long Google entry has quite a few). You may think I have a problem letting go, but really it's that I have a very good memory, and I'm detail-oriented.

I'll start with my mother's going out of her way to make disparaging comments in front of my friends, and then move on to her trying to convince me that I'm inept. My mother has always been a great cook, and she feels threatened by my cooking. I recall making tirami su and her determining that I wasn't using enough coffee, so she came over, grabbed the entire operation out of my hands, and soaked the ladyfingers in the coffee (which makes them too soggy). I'd made bread once, leading one of her friends who'd stopped by to say she was impressed. Showcasing her insecurity, my mother declared that she, too, made bread (which I assess to be untrue, given that when I made bread for the first time in her house, she went to open the oven to see how it was coming along). Anyway, there were a few months when I'd moved back from Wales, found a job (which my mother would go out of her way to try to convince me not to take and later to quit), and struggled to find an apartment in the crazy Boston rental market of summer 2000 (perhaps because my mother had insisted on accompanying me to apartment interviews). In that time I lived with my parents. One day, a very close friend came over to make pizza. Mom kept walking by to say, "I don't think you're using enough garlic," etc. In her intended coup de grace, she walked in to the kitchen, looked haughtily upon our project, and walked over to the freezer, from which she removed a cheap frozen pizza and declared, "in my opinion, this is the only pizza you really need."

Bear with me, two stories branch out of the one above. The first is on a topic you know well and one referenced in the title of this blog-- my mom considers herself a more competent manager of my career than she considers me. You know about Google, you know a little bit about TI (I actually got a phone message from one of her friends begging me not to take that job), and then there was the time she happened to call me as I was on my way to an interview for an internship:

A.: I have to go, I'll call you later..
Mom: Where are you going?
A.: I have an interview for an internship.
Mom: Where?
A.: At an umbrella organization that comprised environmental groups working on preservation in Latin America...
Mom: WHAT? WHAT? Have you lost your mind?
A.: Mom, I have to GO.
Mom: Don't even think of taking that-- what are you thinking??
A.: I'm just going to the interview. I HAVE TO GO.
Mom: Don't even go to the interview!

... and so on.

Ah, the second branching story-- my mother insisted on accompanying me to apartment interviews. I tried to cut this practice when I saw it was hurting my chances in an already tight market, but it wasn't easy. One time, my mother INSISTED on coming with me, and when I said no, she asked me to give her the address where I was meeting the potential roommate, in case she'd need to give that information to the police should I not return. I succumbed, only to see her pull up in her minivan at the time and place of the meeting. I felt my face turn beet red and went up to her car, and said, "leave. now." At home that night, she pulled the not-talking thing, but I knew she knew she was wrong because she'd apparently lied to my father about the situation- she told him that she and I had agreed that she would show up. I said to her, "you can keep acting righteous, but you know you were wrong." It worked and she let it go. When I did finally find a house, she and my dad were both horrified that I hadn't consulted them before taking it (it, i.e. the house, turned out really well). Sure I was just a year out of college then, but my time abroad especially was replete with making independent decisions and plans, and doing so became natural to me. They didn't see that then; my dad by now has gotten it; my mom not so much.

Which leads me to another theme, my perceived ineptness. For so long, I thought it was me, but it turns out that other people also lose wallets, forget to do things sometimes, etc., but every time something like that happened to me, my mother treated it as evidence of my ineptitude. It also becomes a mom-fulfilling prophecy-- she stresses me out to the point that I mess up, it's like typing when someone's looking over your shoulder. In fact, she loses things too, but I feel no need to tie those incidents to her competence as a human.

Beyond the mom-fulfilling prophecy, she also makes it worse by filling a void that is not there (not to mention nagging me--do I realize I should be practicing to drive a stick/looking for a job/looking for an apartment/packing for my trip the same day or next morning, etc.). I think she must have genuinely believed that she had to remind me that my lease was running out (she didn't).

I can't believe this was ten years ago, but the spring before Geneva, I had to buy a ticket to Paris (location of the pre-Geneva orientation program). I was on it, but apparently not on it enough for my mother, who in addition to nagging me regularly, had a travel agent friend of hers look into tickets for me. I found one on British Airways for $400 and let her know I was about to buy it; she was surprised and said that her friend had found one for $400 on some crappy charter flight company and wanted her to get a commission for it; I caved. Fast forward the night I was supposed to depart (also the night Princess Diana was killed). We show up at the airport three hours early; flight is delayed three hours; we go home and return five hours later, at two in the morning; due to poor signage and airport employees who give us bad information (tell us that the correct terminal, where we were, was arrivals only), we miss the flight. I am upset (I have a friend meeting me in Paris upon arrival; I have a meeting in Paris the following morning). Crappy charter company offers to send me for free on their next flight, four days later. I have to buy another $400, from British Airways, that will get me there in the middle of the night. That's about two weeks of the very painful data entry work I spent the summer doing. I don't really blame my mother for the whole thing (and actually the full story is pretty good but not particularly relevant), but I can't help but thinking of the situation as an example where my mom could have just trusted me.

Anyway, enough reminiscing. It's time to move on.

The world is not your babysitter

The dentists and their staff were late opening the office in the morning, and a number of people had gathered outside waiting, including a young boy and his father, who was letting him run wild. The boy was bugging everyone else who was waiting, and several times ran into the store next door (yes, my dentist's office is in a strip mall), while his father ignored him.

Finally, the dentists & co. arrived, opened the office, saw me, let me go. As I was leaving the office I heard the kid still bugging everyone in the waiting room. He asked me as I left whether they'd brushed my teeth. I said yes; What I should have done was turn to his father and say, "perhaps next time you could bring a coloring book or other distraction for your son, rather than making everyone else in the waiting room babysit him?"

Silly me, forgetting to carry a notepad

I have come to understand that my mother is not going to ask whether it's a good time to talk, but I do wish that she would ask whether I'm in a position to listen attentively to what she's saying and/or take notes before she starts describing the substance of her latest complaint in great detail. Instead, she launches into a complicated explanation the minute I say "hello" and fully expects that I process whatever she is saying into a letter.

On Friday afternoon she'd sent me a short paragraph complaining to her old phone company that their failure to turn off her phone service when she'd asked them to resulted in interference with her new phone service. I quickly re-wrote it for her and hit 'send.'

That evening, I headed out to meet my friend Marcela, who'd just returned from over a month in Ecuador. I had informed her of the self-imposed shopping-and-restaurant ban; she was supportive, but still invited me to drink water in her presence while she shopped and dined. It was about 8:30 PM [on a Friday night] when I was half-way to the metro and my mother called, and immediately launched into her phone service drama. She continued onto her dissatisfaction with my revision of her letter.

"What was that paragraph you sent? Was that about some other situation?"
"It was a revision of your letter."
"I didn't understand what you wrote-- what does it have to do with anything?"
"I wrote exactly what you wrote, only politely and in correct English."
"Well, it doesn't make sense to me..."

She goes on in detail about what happened, about how every time they called they told her to write and when she wrote they said the issue could only be resolved by phone. Legitimate complaints, and I'm not one to judge another person for going on about the mundane. Here's what I will say: does my mom not realize that I don't sit around with a notepad handy, waiting for her instructions? I am often on the go... it wouldn't hurt to ask me where I am or what I'm doing before expecting me to drop everything and take notes, if not out of considerateness, than out of pragmatism.

About five minutes into the phone service details, I get to the metro. A commuter train goes by and then there's an announcement.

"WHAT is that noise? Where ARE you?"
"At the metro?"
"Why are they talking?"
"They make announcements. About elevator outages and such."
"Anyway, so I was trying to explain to them that they were supposed to disconnect the phone line...WHY is it so noisy?"

Does she expect me to apologize for being at the metro, or perhaps for the metro for making announcements while she's talking to me?

"It's noisy because they're making announcements."
"Can you even hear me?"
"I can, but my train is here and I'll lose signal in a minute or so."
"Well, call me when you get home."
"I don't know what time I'll get home, and I'll most likely want to go to bed immediately."
"Well how are you going to know what to write?"
"Send me an e-mail with the details!"
"I DID send you an e-mail with the details!"

I was happy to have a distraction from the phone/letter issue. I called Marcela when I got to the mall, but she was in the middle of a transaction and said she'd call me back in a minute. In the meantime I kept walking, and she did call a minute later and ask where I was. I realized that I had been magnetically, instinctively drawn to Banana Republic. I thought about the beginning of a Lewis Black show-- perhaps Black on Broadway, when he's on his way up to the performance and someone asks, "how are you?" and he grumbles, "how the f* do you think I am?" Marcela's "where are you," an innocent and natural question, was almost met with, "where the f* do you think I am?" I'm in one of my natural habitats, the sale rack at Banana. Not because I was irritated at all... it just came into my head. I did just say, "Banana Republic."

Anyway, we walked around talked while she had dinner, it was a good night. I got home around 11pm and dutifully called my mother and asked if I needed to get letter-writing instructions that minute. She said she'd wait on the phone technicians tomorrow, but started getting into the whole story again. I interrupted with, "I know..." and regurgitated part of it so that she'd see that I actually heard her the first time. Her response, in a semi-accusatory tone: "Well, you were in such a hurry, I couldn't tell if you'd taken in anything that I said." Her tone is difficult to convey, but by my reading, it was one of, "well, you weren't exactly sitting by your phone with a notepad!" as if that's what she expects when she calls and proceeds to elaborate on the complaint-inspiring situation in great detail. We said goodnight; we were both satisfied to leave it at that.

Why did you send me that?

I was all fired up about this in the car today, although earlier when it happened I'd decided to let it go, on account of mom's being really sweet lately. She left me a message saying she loved me (and not asking where I could possibly be at whatever non-exotic hour); she asked me to do something for her at my convenience rather than the usual drop-everything; and she said she'd let me go, even before I insisted that I had to go, on the 4th, when I said I was at a friend's house (literally, "as a guest" or even more literally "among guests," for those of you who care; transliterally, "v gostakh.")

She did, a week or so ago, go on about how she couldn't believe there were no lakes around here to swim in the summer and how awful and isn't Massachusetts just so much better, etc., but I had let it go. In fact I almost let it go again, because I was feeling particularly ADD and between blogs opted to go online shoe shopping, and between my retail-therapy-deprivation (no clothes until I lose weight) and Gina's being online and enabling me as I sent her links to the shoes-- it was almost like shopping together in person-- I went nuts on piperlime.com and it felt great... but I still want to blog...

...and not even because of what my mom did; it wasn't new or unusual. It was almost my fault for forgetting that that's what she does-- I shouldn't have provoked her. I saw a great deal for air & hotel in Hawaii and sent it to her, thinking she'd either look into it or delete it. Because that's what people do. Of course, what my mom does is call me and ask me why I sent it to her. Now the last time she did that, she was downright accusatory and mean, and she wasn't this time. She's certainly smart enough to figure out why I'd send her a travel deal she might be interested in; she just doesn't opt to apply those smarts to the issue at hand.

[Earlier tonight, when I thought of e-mailing my friend Pauletta about the shoe sale, I almost thought she might call me and say, "why did you send me that? don't you know I'm on vacation? I just went shopping for shoes (or I'm going shopping for shoes this weekend). Is there a reason you think I need shoes?" I quickly realized she would say none of those things; she would click on the link, or ignore it and move on with her life. Then, this train of thought led me to another epiphany... mom is insistent (recall the fights where she insists that I take things and does expect justification for my not doing so), so she expects me to be as well.]

Anyway, Mom asks these kinds of questions when she watches movies as well. For as long as I can remember, years before she ever saw "Zoolander" and asked why the miner was disappointed in his son for becoming a male model, she'd ask such questions throughout a movie, in the genre of "why this?" "why that?" "why did that person get upset when his wife left him?" "why did that object fall when it was dropped out the window?"

"Why did you send me that e-mail about the trip to Hawaii?"
"Because I thought you might like to go."
"Oh, I won't have time... we're going to spend a week on the Cape..."
"You don't have to explain it to me; just delete it."
"...and then another week perhaps in Maine. I thought you knew..."
"Mom, just delete the e-mail." I wasn't going to interrogate her about it.
"When I got that, I thought maybe you were going to Hawaii."
"What? No, I'm not."

True, I've gone to Hawaii a few times in the last year or so, and I've sent her my airline itinerary for her information. I've always told her first, though, and I've never disguised that itinerary as a travel deal. There was no way that e-mail was an indicator of an upcoming trip on my part.

So back to why I didn't let this go: as in the past when my mother asks me why I've sent her something, I try to follow her logic for doing so, and that leads me to, "maybe to her I'm not just sending an e-mail, maybe she thinks I expect follow-up... but wait, she sends me SO much crap ALL the time, she can't possibly think every e-mail about a travel sale or other sale requires a good reason..." and then I get stuck on, "she sends me so much crap..." and veer off on the crap she's sent most recently.

And that's when I got angry, in a way that I don't get so much angry about, say, stupid jokes (at those, I get annoyed and move on with my life), but it's the ignorant, hateful political stuff that really irks me, because it's an indicator of the base level of discourse that consuming this country. It's not that I disagree with the political opinions (although I usually do); it's that I resent the author of whatever forwarded piece of garbage for propagating ad hominem arguments and oversimplifying complex situations. I've occasionally replied, with "this is a bunch of crap and here's why," or "could you please stop sending me this bravo sierra," but my mother isn't one to respond to my pleas, even when there are practical considerations behind them (such as "I'm in Nicaragua, internet time is rare and the connection is slow, could you PLEASE stop clogging my inbox with large forwards.") With the political stuff, she thinks she's doing me a favor, or at least educating me. I can follow (I said 'follow,' not 'appreciate') the logic that far: she's going to change my mind with informative e-mails. Well if that's her goal, she needs to find pieces that are well-written, not sophomoric, not pulled out of the rear end of someone too uninformed and insecure to engage those that disagree rather than insult them.

On that note I leave you. Peace out.

Earth to...

A friend of mine lives in an apartment building about twenty minutes' walk from my house; he occasionally travels, and on those occasions asks me to feed his cat. Having done this a few times, I know the drill-- I request the building key from the concierge or ask him or her to buzz me in when I get to the right place (the concierge is in a separate building from the cat), check in on the cat, return the key, and move on with my life. The "drill" is usually uneventful.

Last week, the drill was rendered interesting (eventful would be a stretch) by a concierge that made me wonder whether he was stoned and revived my interest in playwriting.

"Hello."
"Hello. I'm here to feed a cat in ____. Could I have the keys, please?"
"What's your name?"
"A......."
[Concierge looks through the the books, finds the page that lists me as an authorized guest.]
"Alison?"

I spell my name. This is what some call learned helplessness-- especially in situations like these where it really doesn't matter, I don't bother insisting that my name be pronounced correctly. At the same time, it fascinates me that someone who has it in writing write in front of him, for some reason finds it easier to offer an approximation than to just read from the page. I won't go on about how I am not the president of any Central Asian state; my name is not difficult to pronounce, nor too long to sound out; I simply wish to report the concierge's unnecessary struggle with it.

"Do you know the key number?"

Okay, now why on EARTH would I know the [four- or five-digit] key number? Honestly.

"No. If it's easier you could just buzz me in."

"We don't allow dogs in the lobby."

I look around, genuinely thinking I may have unwittingly brought a dog with me. Then I wonder if he's referring to me. He sees the puzzled look on my face and says,

"If you have a key you can go in through the back."

I intensify my puzzled look.

"To bring the dog back in."

"I'm feeding a cat."

"Oh, okay."

***

I don't think I expect too much of people. I mean, sure, it was later in the evening, he's probably had a long day... but I didn't expect him to, say, remember my name or business in the building from having heard it earlier in the day. It just didn't occur to me that he would rather guess my name than read it, and make up a scenario for my requesting entry to the building. If I had time I'd write a play about this, make up a whole day of interactions.