I had clues growing up that our house wasn't an admirable one. I remember taking the bus home from elementary school and hearing a handful of children making fun of the house with the Christmas lights still up in spring. It was my house, and they knew it as soon as I ashamedly stood up to get off the bus. Dante had been allowed to climb onto the roof to trim the gutters with a strand of multicolored lights the previous fall, and neither he nor my mother had been keen for him to take them back down ("Why should we? He'll just have to put them back up again in a few months"). There weren't Santas or reindeer or anything like I've seen up year-round at some homes, but we were out of date, and it was obvious enough for the other kids to laugh at without my ever having to invite them inside.
Our yard was unkempt. A science teacher from the local middle school mowed our lawn in the summer months, once or twice a month. It was how he made money when school was out. At least once or twice that I heard of, the grass and weeds got so high that someone called the city to complain. We didn't garden. We didn't fertilize anything because, as my mother often said, "Why would I encourage the grass to grow?!" I loved weeding the rock beds as a child, but my mother wanted Dante to do it, and he wasn't interested. Sometimes I could convince her to give me $2 for my work since she'd planned to give Dante $20. She complained that I didn't always get the entirety of the root and the weeds would come back. "If you can't do something right, don't do it at all!" she'd say. I think that's why our house so rarely experienced weeding or cleaning in the first place. An all-or-nothing attitude toward cleaning and home maintenance is a great way to end up in a dilapidated building surrounded by garbage.
The time that really sticks out in my mind though was one of the times Dante totaled a car. It was the white Camaro. I didn't have a car yet, and Dante had already totaled at least one or two cars before the Camaro, so we were probably thirteen and twenty years old respectively, give or take. Our mother had always given him a pass when he wrecked a car ("It was raining! What was he supposed to do?") and the Camaro allegedly wasn't even his fault. According to Dante's retelling, a woman had crashed into him turning left while she had a red light. Other witnesses had said she had a green light and Dante was speeding, but as my mother said, "Dante still had the right of way!" Regardless, his car was totaled, and the other driver was uninsured, so his insurance was covering everything that was going to be covered. Dante also had to go to court.
Our mother was furious at both the other driver and the situation itself. She insisted Dante's crumpled white Camaro be parked at the top of our circular driveway. She took a large sheet of white poster board and wrote in Sharpie with her perfect penmanship, "This is the result of an uninsured driver." She taped her poster to the side of the car, facing outward so it was legible from the street. She seemed surprised and indignant when someone called the city to complain. The city told her she couldn't do that. It didn't matter if what she wrote was true. It didn't matter that she was angry. It didn't matter that it was "on her land;" it was a neighborhood eyesore. In case you're wondering, we didn't live in a particularly nice neighborhood. It was a middle class block of split-levels and ranches with two to three bedrooms each. There were no Homeowner's Associations back then. We had the largest, most expensive house on the block, as my parents liked to brag. It just also happened to be an eyesore.
Showing posts with label car. Show all posts
Showing posts with label car. Show all posts
Friday, September 16, 2016
Sunday, April 24, 2016
A Good Memory of My Dad
He used to drive me to White Castle. We would roll the windows down because my mother wouldn't allow it when she was in the van. He always played jazz or blues on the stereo because they were his favorites, and my mother wouldn't listen to anything but oldies when she was around ("the best of the '50s, '60s, and early '70s!" the radio ads used to tout). My dad and I listened to Wes Montgomery and Joe Pass and Muddy Waters. He liked guitarists because he played the guitar, or maybe he played the guitar because he liked the sound of it. I didn't like or understand jazz or blues at the time, but he seems to have planted a seed that grew up with me. Scarcely a day went by in the first 18 years of my life that I didn't hear "Misty" or "Willow Weep for Me." I have the voice for them now too. I didn't even know those songs had words back then.
We would order our tiny cheeseburgers at the drive-thru and then sit in the parking lot with the windows rolled down while we ate. I always took the pickles off mine, and he would add them to his own. I was a picky eater back then.
We would order our tiny cheeseburgers at the drive-thru and then sit in the parking lot with the windows rolled down while we ate. I always took the pickles off mine, and he would add them to his own. I was a picky eater back then.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
The Time I Told My Mother the Truth About Everything
This is an excerpt from an email I sent my best friend on the day I told my mother "The Truth As I See It." It happened a couple years before my wedding, on the day my mother received divorce papers from my dad. I count that phone call as one of the most important conversations of my life and one of the few times I was honest with my mother about her behavior and refused to back down when challenged. I believe this conversation was at least part of the reason my mother has reached out to me to reconnect but has never once asked me why I stopped talking to her. I said what she needed to know (if she heard it).
I mention unofficially diagnosing my mother as bipolar in this email, which in hindsight I kind of wish I hadn't done, though I thoroughly believed it to be true and that proper treatment -- especially a prescription mood stabilizer, which was one of the few things she didn't already seem to be taking -- could make her better. She did receive a formal diagnosis of bipolar disorder a couple years after this phone call took place, but I no longer believe it to be accurate. More on all that another time.
Dear Jerry,
My mom was served the divorce papers today. She called me sobbing and, when I answered, said, "I just called to say I love you." I acted sympathetic and didn't say much until she started in on my dad, at which point the invisible string that my voice had been hung up on just broke and I announced loudly, "You sold ALL OF HIS STUFF," and basically told her the truth on just about everything. I didn't yell, but when saying things I'd wanted to tell her for a long time, I announced them loudly like an orator. I was still gentle through a lot of it though, particularly when talking about mental illness, and she was the only one who cried. I told her she is bi-polar. I told her she should be on meds for it and not on meds for EVERYTHING else. I told her she appears to have Munchausen's syndrome and her car wrecks seem to be on purpose ("You think I rolled the car ON PURPOSE?!" "Yes."). I told her maxing out someone else's credit card is NOT OKAY, regardless of her defense that it was "only $500." When she complained that no one speaks to her, I told her it's because she acts crazy now. When she asked why I didn't call her at Christmas, I told her I didn't want to get yelled at. When she acted shocked and asked, "What?" I repeated myself, only more loudly and enunciating better. I did this every time she acted shocked at something I said. I asked her if she didn't remember yelling at me and leaving voice mails in which she called me a selfish little bitch, or if she really believed it didn't hurt me. She said she only remembered calling me that when I didn't send cards to my grandmothers. I don't really remember how she said it, but it came out that she thinks I am bad for that, and I can't really remember that part through the haze of anger...
When she said my father took the money away from her and that she would have to live without lights and heat, I explained that, if the bank account is empty, it's because she empties it every month. Several thousand dollars every month. I explained that I am handling their money now. I explained that it comes to me so that I can pay the house payments that she would not. I explained I had been instructed to put the rest back into their joint account each month, leaving my dad with nothing, so that the automatic withdrawal bills could be paid and she could blow through the rest the way she always does ("Blow through?" "Yes." "You think I BLOW THROUGH money?!" "Yes."). She said she spends money but (or because? I can't remember) she has no other vices. She said she doesn't own furs or diamonds; she pays bills and sometimes buys things for other people. She said that nothing will make people happy. We weren't happy when she was spending no money, lying on the couch all day refusing to move, eat, or bathe, and that we aren't happy now that she is out spending money. What do we want from her? I said, "We want you to act like a normal human being."
She cried a lot. She said we used to be best friends. I told her she used to be the center of my world. I told her she used to be my entire support system and that she dropped me in college, or in high school really, and I was forced to get over it. She claimed it was the menopause. I told her she should have admitted to it then rather than just yelling at me and accusing me of changing. I told her she is bi-polar. Again. She said she might as well take all of the pills she has and end it all. I confessed that I had thought about suicide in the last few months too, and then she cut me off to tell me about her problems some more. Honestly, it's what I expected to happen. It was more of a test than a confession. But a normal person would have at least acknowledged the fact that the other person had spoken. I realize it's hypocritical, but I hated her for not caring even a little bit. I told her that, kill her or not, most pills don't just put you to sleep, they make you sick and kill you painfully (it's true -- I've read it in books). I told her to think that over before making any rash decisions.
She told me what a good mother she was, and how she made me independent. I'm VERY independent, I told her. Still, I confessed things I maybe shouldn't have told her, like how much it matters to me what she says to me and the fact that she doesn't seem to care about me. I told her how fucked up it makes me when she calls and yells at me. I told her that being told I'm a bad person doesn't make me a better one. And I announced over her complaints, perhaps a little callously, that I know that's all I'm good for -- being her punching bag and something to bitch at -- to which she replied "no" and then returned to bemoaning her own sufferings, interspersed with bitching about how I don't send people greeting cards.
I guess that's why it doesn't matter how much I told her. She doesn't care enough to hear it. Ever. I know it was a bad day. I know it only makes sense that she would be upset about being sued for divorce and be focused on her own pain. I know today might not have been the best day, after years of mostly silence, to announce The Truth As I See It. And when she wasn't criticizing me or saying horrible things about my dad, and I had a chance to relate to her, I felt bad for her. But she couldn't leave it alone for long, and I couldn't feel bad WITH her, because it wasn't just today. It's her. This will sound ridiculous, but I can't think of a better way to say it: there is a quote that Christmas isn't a day but a state of mind. So is the worst day of your life. And she keeps that day alive in her heart all year round, and it makes sense to be focused on your own misfortunes on the worst day of your life, so maybe it makes sense to her to act this way. Or maybe I'm trying to make it make sense to me and I'm giving her too much credit. It's been a long time since she showed an interest in another human being, so it's hard to tell.
I don't envy her situation, but I don't pity her either. She makes her own choices. Her life hasn't been happy, but it has been in her control. If you are unhappy, you have to decide whether or not to do something about it. Doing nothing is still your choice. It's just a stupid one. I asked her to do something about it. I asked her to see a different psychiatrist and be evaluated for bi-polar disorder so that she can get better. She asked why she should bother. I told her, because it isn't all about her, and if she cares about her mother as much as she claims to, she will do it to make her happy. We'll see.
I mention unofficially diagnosing my mother as bipolar in this email, which in hindsight I kind of wish I hadn't done, though I thoroughly believed it to be true and that proper treatment -- especially a prescription mood stabilizer, which was one of the few things she didn't already seem to be taking -- could make her better. She did receive a formal diagnosis of bipolar disorder a couple years after this phone call took place, but I no longer believe it to be accurate. More on all that another time.
Dear Jerry,
My mom was served the divorce papers today. She called me sobbing and, when I answered, said, "I just called to say I love you." I acted sympathetic and didn't say much until she started in on my dad, at which point the invisible string that my voice had been hung up on just broke and I announced loudly, "You sold ALL OF HIS STUFF," and basically told her the truth on just about everything. I didn't yell, but when saying things I'd wanted to tell her for a long time, I announced them loudly like an orator. I was still gentle through a lot of it though, particularly when talking about mental illness, and she was the only one who cried. I told her she is bi-polar. I told her she should be on meds for it and not on meds for EVERYTHING else. I told her she appears to have Munchausen's syndrome and her car wrecks seem to be on purpose ("You think I rolled the car ON PURPOSE?!" "Yes."). I told her maxing out someone else's credit card is NOT OKAY, regardless of her defense that it was "only $500." When she complained that no one speaks to her, I told her it's because she acts crazy now. When she asked why I didn't call her at Christmas, I told her I didn't want to get yelled at. When she acted shocked and asked, "What?" I repeated myself, only more loudly and enunciating better. I did this every time she acted shocked at something I said. I asked her if she didn't remember yelling at me and leaving voice mails in which she called me a selfish little bitch, or if she really believed it didn't hurt me. She said she only remembered calling me that when I didn't send cards to my grandmothers. I don't really remember how she said it, but it came out that she thinks I am bad for that, and I can't really remember that part through the haze of anger...
When she said my father took the money away from her and that she would have to live without lights and heat, I explained that, if the bank account is empty, it's because she empties it every month. Several thousand dollars every month. I explained that I am handling their money now. I explained that it comes to me so that I can pay the house payments that she would not. I explained I had been instructed to put the rest back into their joint account each month, leaving my dad with nothing, so that the automatic withdrawal bills could be paid and she could blow through the rest the way she always does ("Blow through?" "Yes." "You think I BLOW THROUGH money?!" "Yes."). She said she spends money but (or because? I can't remember) she has no other vices. She said she doesn't own furs or diamonds; she pays bills and sometimes buys things for other people. She said that nothing will make people happy. We weren't happy when she was spending no money, lying on the couch all day refusing to move, eat, or bathe, and that we aren't happy now that she is out spending money. What do we want from her? I said, "We want you to act like a normal human being."
She cried a lot. She said we used to be best friends. I told her she used to be the center of my world. I told her she used to be my entire support system and that she dropped me in college, or in high school really, and I was forced to get over it. She claimed it was the menopause. I told her she should have admitted to it then rather than just yelling at me and accusing me of changing. I told her she is bi-polar. Again. She said she might as well take all of the pills she has and end it all. I confessed that I had thought about suicide in the last few months too, and then she cut me off to tell me about her problems some more. Honestly, it's what I expected to happen. It was more of a test than a confession. But a normal person would have at least acknowledged the fact that the other person had spoken. I realize it's hypocritical, but I hated her for not caring even a little bit. I told her that, kill her or not, most pills don't just put you to sleep, they make you sick and kill you painfully (it's true -- I've read it in books). I told her to think that over before making any rash decisions.
She told me what a good mother she was, and how she made me independent. I'm VERY independent, I told her. Still, I confessed things I maybe shouldn't have told her, like how much it matters to me what she says to me and the fact that she doesn't seem to care about me. I told her how fucked up it makes me when she calls and yells at me. I told her that being told I'm a bad person doesn't make me a better one. And I announced over her complaints, perhaps a little callously, that I know that's all I'm good for -- being her punching bag and something to bitch at -- to which she replied "no" and then returned to bemoaning her own sufferings, interspersed with bitching about how I don't send people greeting cards.
I guess that's why it doesn't matter how much I told her. She doesn't care enough to hear it. Ever. I know it was a bad day. I know it only makes sense that she would be upset about being sued for divorce and be focused on her own pain. I know today might not have been the best day, after years of mostly silence, to announce The Truth As I See It. And when she wasn't criticizing me or saying horrible things about my dad, and I had a chance to relate to her, I felt bad for her. But she couldn't leave it alone for long, and I couldn't feel bad WITH her, because it wasn't just today. It's her. This will sound ridiculous, but I can't think of a better way to say it: there is a quote that Christmas isn't a day but a state of mind. So is the worst day of your life. And she keeps that day alive in her heart all year round, and it makes sense to be focused on your own misfortunes on the worst day of your life, so maybe it makes sense to her to act this way. Or maybe I'm trying to make it make sense to me and I'm giving her too much credit. It's been a long time since she showed an interest in another human being, so it's hard to tell.
I don't envy her situation, but I don't pity her either. She makes her own choices. Her life hasn't been happy, but it has been in her control. If you are unhappy, you have to decide whether or not to do something about it. Doing nothing is still your choice. It's just a stupid one. I asked her to do something about it. I asked her to see a different psychiatrist and be evaluated for bi-polar disorder so that she can get better. She asked why she should bother. I told her, because it isn't all about her, and if she cares about her mother as much as she claims to, she will do it to make her happy. We'll see.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
A List of Mom's Antics While Dad's in Hospital
My best friend ran across and forwarded me an old email I had sent her in the days after my dad went into the hospital, but before the convict story or my taking over my parents' finances or their divorce or my wedding. It details some of the little things I had forgotten. This email was dated November 8, 2006.
So my dad is in the hospital in Cleveland for the foreseeable future, which puts my mom back in charge of the finances (Dad had come up with a system for paying everything when she stopped paying bills, eating, and getting off the couch). He had started digging them out of debt so that they were projected to actually be free of debt in five years. Here is what my mom has done since he has been in the hospital:
1. decided she has NPH, or Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus
2. went to the emergency room 3+ times
3. decided to sue Cincinnati Medical Center for putting her in a psych ward and ignoring her NPH back when she stopped eating and getting off the couch
4. found out she doesn't have NPH
5. decided she had multiple sclerosis
6. bought herself a $2300 bed and explained "if I've got a disease that will make me bed-ridden, I want to be comfortable. I deserve this."
7. found out she doesn't have multiple sclerosis
8. fell down and "broke [her] nose"
9. bought a motorized scooter and explained that "walking is obviously hazardous to [her] health"
10. made arrangements to buy a $3000 van from a woman in Queens so that she will have something to ride in when the degenerative disease gets into full swing (as she said today, the doctors ruled out NPH and MS, but she could still have Lou Gehrig's disease, Lupus, Rheumatoid Arthritis, Parkinson's, or any other number of diseases that she has heard of on television -- she listed more but I can't remember them all)
11. tried to convince me to drive said van from Queens to Cincinnati. I said no, and she has decided my cousin will leave his job, wife, and young children to do it for her. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know about this yet.
12. decided she could get Medicaid and cheap drugs if she divorced my father, so she went to see a lawyer about a "quickie divorce" while Dad is in the hospital
13. saw an ad for refinancing home equity loans on the way to the lawyer's office and decided to do this instead
14. demanded that my father get a fax number where she could send him the paperwork in the hospital so she could get his signature and refinance the loan the next morning. got angry when she was told the fax wasn't coming through and said they (nurses? I'm not sure who had the fax machine in the hospital) were lying. found out two days later that her fax machine is broken.
15. cancelled the non-profit program that had arranged for them to be out of debt in five years, because it was "too expensive" (note: all money being paid into this program was paying off debts)
Where Are They Now?
Today she has decided she will use the $40,000 she expects from refinancing their home equity loan to fix up the house ("so I have somewhere nice to live when your dad dies"), to purchase back her parents house that they just sold for $35,000 and give it to them as a surprise gift ("yes, it will cost more than they sold it for, but it will be fixed up"), and to hire a personal care aide for herself since she will need someone to dress and feed her when the degenerative disease -- whichever one it happens to be -- finally kicks in.
My dad is pretty panicked in his hospital room in Cleveland with no way to do anything about this. He never really paid attention to the finances before she gave them up, at least not to my knowledge, so it's distressing seeing him in this situation. He doesn't know about 80% or so of the list above, and I want him to be aware of the stuff he might be able to prevent, but I don't want to freak him out since I think he'll heal faster if he calms down. I'm glad for my situation, being out of there and all, but I wish I could do something to keep her from ruining the rest of his life. I'm not sure what kind of situation they'd each be in if they did divorce -- surely the alimony would ruin them both, and he'd still be saddled with the debt she racked up. Oh, and I forgot to mention that, shortly before #1 on the list, my mom canceled her medical insurance.
I made Thanksgiving travel plans finally and determined that I would not be able to tolerate actually being in the same house as that woman without snapping (I've been really docile on the phone -- you'd think I was on Valium or something, but in reality I just try not to pay too much attention to what she is saying), so I'm staying in a hotel in Cleveland and spending a few days with just my dad and fiance. The hotel has an indoor pool, and there are a few restaurants in the area (it's in the outskirts of the city and we plan to stay in that area), so Michael* and I figure when we aren't hanging out at the hospital, we can pass the time in a leisurely fashion, and the hospital will probably be pretty calm too. I'll miss not seeing friends in Cincy, but I really would not be able to handle her, plus she was insisting on accompanying me to Cleveland on the one day I'd get to see my dad. It just wouldn't have worked. I was really good today when I told her though, because when she accused me of loving him more than her and of not wanting to see her, I laughed and said, "You're being silly, Mommy," and explained calmly that my father has cancer and is in the hospital 4 hours from anyone he knows. Even she knew that her retort of "that's what he wants!" was weak at best, and that her argument that he doesn't like people only holds for people he dislikes, like her.
* The fiance. This is not his real name.
So my dad is in the hospital in Cleveland for the foreseeable future, which puts my mom back in charge of the finances (Dad had come up with a system for paying everything when she stopped paying bills, eating, and getting off the couch). He had started digging them out of debt so that they were projected to actually be free of debt in five years. Here is what my mom has done since he has been in the hospital:
1. decided she has NPH, or Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus
2. went to the emergency room 3+ times
3. decided to sue Cincinnati Medical Center for putting her in a psych ward and ignoring her NPH back when she stopped eating and getting off the couch
4. found out she doesn't have NPH
5. decided she had multiple sclerosis
6. bought herself a $2300 bed and explained "if I've got a disease that will make me bed-ridden, I want to be comfortable. I deserve this."
7. found out she doesn't have multiple sclerosis
8. fell down and "broke [her] nose"
9. bought a motorized scooter and explained that "walking is obviously hazardous to [her] health"
10. made arrangements to buy a $3000 van from a woman in Queens so that she will have something to ride in when the degenerative disease gets into full swing (as she said today, the doctors ruled out NPH and MS, but she could still have Lou Gehrig's disease, Lupus, Rheumatoid Arthritis, Parkinson's, or any other number of diseases that she has heard of on television -- she listed more but I can't remember them all)
11. tried to convince me to drive said van from Queens to Cincinnati. I said no, and she has decided my cousin will leave his job, wife, and young children to do it for her. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know about this yet.
12. decided she could get Medicaid and cheap drugs if she divorced my father, so she went to see a lawyer about a "quickie divorce" while Dad is in the hospital
13. saw an ad for refinancing home equity loans on the way to the lawyer's office and decided to do this instead
14. demanded that my father get a fax number where she could send him the paperwork in the hospital so she could get his signature and refinance the loan the next morning. got angry when she was told the fax wasn't coming through and said they (nurses? I'm not sure who had the fax machine in the hospital) were lying. found out two days later that her fax machine is broken.
15. cancelled the non-profit program that had arranged for them to be out of debt in five years, because it was "too expensive" (note: all money being paid into this program was paying off debts)
Where Are They Now?
Today she has decided she will use the $40,000 she expects from refinancing their home equity loan to fix up the house ("so I have somewhere nice to live when your dad dies"), to purchase back her parents house that they just sold for $35,000 and give it to them as a surprise gift ("yes, it will cost more than they sold it for, but it will be fixed up"), and to hire a personal care aide for herself since she will need someone to dress and feed her when the degenerative disease -- whichever one it happens to be -- finally kicks in.
My dad is pretty panicked in his hospital room in Cleveland with no way to do anything about this. He never really paid attention to the finances before she gave them up, at least not to my knowledge, so it's distressing seeing him in this situation. He doesn't know about 80% or so of the list above, and I want him to be aware of the stuff he might be able to prevent, but I don't want to freak him out since I think he'll heal faster if he calms down. I'm glad for my situation, being out of there and all, but I wish I could do something to keep her from ruining the rest of his life. I'm not sure what kind of situation they'd each be in if they did divorce -- surely the alimony would ruin them both, and he'd still be saddled with the debt she racked up. Oh, and I forgot to mention that, shortly before #1 on the list, my mom canceled her medical insurance.
I made Thanksgiving travel plans finally and determined that I would not be able to tolerate actually being in the same house as that woman without snapping (I've been really docile on the phone -- you'd think I was on Valium or something, but in reality I just try not to pay too much attention to what she is saying), so I'm staying in a hotel in Cleveland and spending a few days with just my dad and fiance. The hotel has an indoor pool, and there are a few restaurants in the area (it's in the outskirts of the city and we plan to stay in that area), so Michael* and I figure when we aren't hanging out at the hospital, we can pass the time in a leisurely fashion, and the hospital will probably be pretty calm too. I'll miss not seeing friends in Cincy, but I really would not be able to handle her, plus she was insisting on accompanying me to Cleveland on the one day I'd get to see my dad. It just wouldn't have worked. I was really good today when I told her though, because when she accused me of loving him more than her and of not wanting to see her, I laughed and said, "You're being silly, Mommy," and explained calmly that my father has cancer and is in the hospital 4 hours from anyone he knows. Even she knew that her retort of "that's what he wants!" was weak at best, and that her argument that he doesn't like people only holds for people he dislikes, like her.
* The fiance. This is not his real name.
Friday, May 1, 2015
My Mother, Savior of Convicts
On the Greyhound bus home from seeing my dad in the hospital, my mother said she met some convicts who were in the process of being transferred between prisons. One of them stole her cell phone, or she left it behind and he kept it. When she got home, she said she called her phone and the man who had sat beside her answered. His name was Jeremy.* She told him to give back her phone, and Jeremy explained that he couldn't. She threatened to cancel her phone plan, and he begged her not to. His life depended on that phone, he said. Another prisoner would kill him if he didn't have that phone and let him use it. So my mother continued paying for her cell phone while a small subsection of the local prison population used it.
Some months later, Jeremy got out of prison. He contacted my mother, who invited him to live in her home. My dad was still in the hospital, and Dante had found his own apartment, so no one else was around. She promised Jeremy and another ex-convict, Sam*, several hundred dollars per day to clean the house. These were the kinds of extravagant offers she often made and never paid.
She also invited another woman, Beth, to live at the house too, though I don't know how they met. I only know that Beth slept in a hospital-style bed my mother claims to have spent several thousand dollars on, and bled on it, and had hepatitis. My mother complained about her hepatitis blood ruining the mattress long after Beth moved out. I remember talk of a second woman living there briefly, but I remember nothing about her.
As one of their odd jobs around the house, my mother asked Jeremy and Sam to fix Dante's car, which was sitting broken in the driveway. She gave them the keys, and when she came back outside and discovered both the car and the men were gone, she called the police. She told the police her son's car had been stolen. The police found both the men and the car at a local gas station, and both Jeremy and Sam went back to prison.
*This was not his name.
Some months later, Jeremy got out of prison. He contacted my mother, who invited him to live in her home. My dad was still in the hospital, and Dante had found his own apartment, so no one else was around. She promised Jeremy and another ex-convict, Sam*, several hundred dollars per day to clean the house. These were the kinds of extravagant offers she often made and never paid.
She also invited another woman, Beth, to live at the house too, though I don't know how they met. I only know that Beth slept in a hospital-style bed my mother claims to have spent several thousand dollars on, and bled on it, and had hepatitis. My mother complained about her hepatitis blood ruining the mattress long after Beth moved out. I remember talk of a second woman living there briefly, but I remember nothing about her.
As one of their odd jobs around the house, my mother asked Jeremy and Sam to fix Dante's car, which was sitting broken in the driveway. She gave them the keys, and when she came back outside and discovered both the car and the men were gone, she called the police. She told the police her son's car had been stolen. The police found both the men and the car at a local gas station, and both Jeremy and Sam went back to prison.
*This was not his name.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Mother Goes Off the Deep End
When I was 21, my uncle died in a car accident. He was one of my mother's younger brothers, and she told me later that he was an alcoholic. In hindsight, I don't know if this was actually true or just something she told me. He might have become an alcoholic later in life, or it's also possible she was referring to the fact that he wasn't a teetotaler. If he was an alcoholic before I left for college, he hid it well.
He'd been out for drinks with his son and drove home drunk. My cousin was driving behind him to make sure he got home safe, so he was there when my uncle crashed his car and died. My mother was understandably distraught. She immediately got herself a prescription for antidepressants.
I tried to tell her that I didn't think the antidepressants were a good idea in this instance. She was grieving, not depressed, and I was afraid they would make her anxiety attacks skyrocket to new heights. She'd already dropped out of college due to her anxiety at this point, and she reported that she woke up in a heart-thumping panic most nights for no apparent reason. My mother took the antidepressants anyway. I don't know what else she was taking at the time.
If I were to make a timeline of my life, there would be a mark at age 21 that says "Mother Goes Off the Deep End." She'd exhibited mood swings and money problems and spending sprees and binges and reckless driving for as long as I'd known her, but they were normal day-to-day occurrences for her, intermingled with quiet time. Now they lasted for weeks without a break. She seemed to function in fast-forward. She seemed high to the point of being almost psychotic. She didn't hear me when I talked, and it seemed like she was intent upon hurting everyone she knew. This was around the time I started feeling upset and afraid every time I heard from her.
Occasionally she seemed deeply depressed for the first time since I'd known her. Her voice was much deeper and quieter on the phone. She didn't cry or scream. It was like she had no emotions at all. She still didn't seem to hear me when I spoke, but she didn't threaten me either, so that was good. Most of the time, I could guess she was depressed by the fact that she wasn't calling me at odd hours or leaving me shrieking voice mails demanding money and calling me a bitch. We could go months without talking when she was depressed. No warning calls from my dad to say that she was gunning for me, or for him either. Depression was good. Depression was safe. I felt bad she had to endure it, but if it had to be one or the other, depression was better for the rest of us. There was no "normal" anymore.
He'd been out for drinks with his son and drove home drunk. My cousin was driving behind him to make sure he got home safe, so he was there when my uncle crashed his car and died. My mother was understandably distraught. She immediately got herself a prescription for antidepressants.
I tried to tell her that I didn't think the antidepressants were a good idea in this instance. She was grieving, not depressed, and I was afraid they would make her anxiety attacks skyrocket to new heights. She'd already dropped out of college due to her anxiety at this point, and she reported that she woke up in a heart-thumping panic most nights for no apparent reason. My mother took the antidepressants anyway. I don't know what else she was taking at the time.
If I were to make a timeline of my life, there would be a mark at age 21 that says "Mother Goes Off the Deep End." She'd exhibited mood swings and money problems and spending sprees and binges and reckless driving for as long as I'd known her, but they were normal day-to-day occurrences for her, intermingled with quiet time. Now they lasted for weeks without a break. She seemed to function in fast-forward. She seemed high to the point of being almost psychotic. She didn't hear me when I talked, and it seemed like she was intent upon hurting everyone she knew. This was around the time I started feeling upset and afraid every time I heard from her.
Occasionally she seemed deeply depressed for the first time since I'd known her. Her voice was much deeper and quieter on the phone. She didn't cry or scream. It was like she had no emotions at all. She still didn't seem to hear me when I spoke, but she didn't threaten me either, so that was good. Most of the time, I could guess she was depressed by the fact that she wasn't calling me at odd hours or leaving me shrieking voice mails demanding money and calling me a bitch. We could go months without talking when she was depressed. No warning calls from my dad to say that she was gunning for me, or for him either. Depression was good. Depression was safe. I felt bad she had to endure it, but if it had to be one or the other, depression was better for the rest of us. There was no "normal" anymore.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
How My Mother Bought Me a Car
When my brother was a teenager, my mother promised to buy him a new car if he made straight A's in the years leading up to his 16th birthday, rather than the failing and barely passing grades he had previously earned. I was very young and assumed the same deal would be extended to me, the straight A overachieving child, and argued "not fair" at the claim many years later that it was not. "Elephants and children never forget," she muttered, and my parents were buying me a car.
She wanted to get the cheapest new car possible. I was concerned when she told me that the car she wanted to buy would crumple like a tin can and kill anyone inside if I got into an accident. I suggested getting a nice used car like my friends had instead since they are dramatically cheaper than new and we could get something better quality, but she said she didn't want to have to worry about me being stranded in a broken down car at night (spoiler alert: it broke down a lot).
When my social security checks started arriving in the mail in my name instead of hers, my mother decided I should pay for the car myself. The new, poor quality car she wanted to buy cost double the amount of my checks, so I again claimed "not fair." She told me to lease the car so that my checks would just barely cover it, to which I again said "not fair." She refused to add me to the car insurance plan she and my dad had, arguing that I would make their premiums skyrocket. Their premiums were already high based on the number of tickets she got and accidents she caused. She spent my high school career so close to losing her license that she went to court every time she got a speeding ticket.
She eventually caved to my complaints and they paid for my car. I would pay for the insurance and gas and maintenance, and it would remain in her name. "You can't have a car in your name at 16 anyway," she said. "You're still a child." When I asked again at 18, she said no, that putting the car in my name would put me in the pool to be called for jury duty. Jury duty starts at age 21 there, but I didn't argue.
When I left for college in a big city far away, I left the car behind. My mother was angry at my refusal to continue paying for my insurance plan in my absence. I would no longer be receiving my social security checks since my mother said she needed them to pay for my tuition, so the only money I had to get me through the school year was what I had saved up working that last summer at home. I told her to add the car to her insurance plan. The car needs to be covered, not me, I explained. She calmed down. I don't think she understood how car insurance works.
A few years later she rolled the car into a ditch, as depicted in The Car. She had taken Ambien before driving and fallen asleep at the wheel. She said the car was totaled but demanded I pay to have it fixed. I hadn't lived in the same state or driven the car in years, but she insisted it was still my car and thus my responsibility.
I reminded her that the car was never in my name. She had forgotten.
She wanted to get the cheapest new car possible. I was concerned when she told me that the car she wanted to buy would crumple like a tin can and kill anyone inside if I got into an accident. I suggested getting a nice used car like my friends had instead since they are dramatically cheaper than new and we could get something better quality, but she said she didn't want to have to worry about me being stranded in a broken down car at night (spoiler alert: it broke down a lot).
When my social security checks started arriving in the mail in my name instead of hers, my mother decided I should pay for the car myself. The new, poor quality car she wanted to buy cost double the amount of my checks, so I again claimed "not fair." She told me to lease the car so that my checks would just barely cover it, to which I again said "not fair." She refused to add me to the car insurance plan she and my dad had, arguing that I would make their premiums skyrocket. Their premiums were already high based on the number of tickets she got and accidents she caused. She spent my high school career so close to losing her license that she went to court every time she got a speeding ticket.
She eventually caved to my complaints and they paid for my car. I would pay for the insurance and gas and maintenance, and it would remain in her name. "You can't have a car in your name at 16 anyway," she said. "You're still a child." When I asked again at 18, she said no, that putting the car in my name would put me in the pool to be called for jury duty. Jury duty starts at age 21 there, but I didn't argue.
When I left for college in a big city far away, I left the car behind. My mother was angry at my refusal to continue paying for my insurance plan in my absence. I would no longer be receiving my social security checks since my mother said she needed them to pay for my tuition, so the only money I had to get me through the school year was what I had saved up working that last summer at home. I told her to add the car to her insurance plan. The car needs to be covered, not me, I explained. She calmed down. I don't think she understood how car insurance works.
A few years later she rolled the car into a ditch, as depicted in The Car. She had taken Ambien before driving and fallen asleep at the wheel. She said the car was totaled but demanded I pay to have it fixed. I hadn't lived in the same state or driven the car in years, but she insisted it was still my car and thus my responsibility.
I reminded her that the car was never in my name. She had forgotten.
How My Mother Spent My College Fund: Part 1
When I was little, I remember my mother telling me I had a savings account. She said my dad put $1k in it towards college each year, which would yield a good amount for a college fund back in that day. I must've been about five at the time because she said there was currently $5k in it, and that my brother, Dante, had a comparable savings account too.
I remember asking about my savings account when I was a little older, and my mother said it had $5k in it. I wondered why my dad had stopped putting money in the account, but I didn't question it. I didn't want either of my parents to yell at me.
I knew Dante's savings account had paid for three things: a new bedroom set when his bed broke, sessions with a child psychologist, and a very old Mustang that our mother had bought and presented to him as a gift.
I don't know where my savings account went. When I started getting my college financing lined up at age 18, I asked my mother about it and she said the money was gone. Later, when I was grown and started talking with my dad on the phone, I asked him what year he had stopped putting money into the account. He said he hadn't.
I remember asking about my savings account when I was a little older, and my mother said it had $5k in it. I wondered why my dad had stopped putting money in the account, but I didn't question it. I didn't want either of my parents to yell at me.
I knew Dante's savings account had paid for three things: a new bedroom set when his bed broke, sessions with a child psychologist, and a very old Mustang that our mother had bought and presented to him as a gift.
I don't know where my savings account went. When I started getting my college financing lined up at age 18, I asked my mother about it and she said the money was gone. Later, when I was grown and started talking with my dad on the phone, I asked him what year he had stopped putting money into the account. He said he hadn't.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
My Mother's Paper Route
Because we lived off my dad's veterans disability checks and social security, my mother said the government limited how much she could earn to $5,000 per year. Because that is approximately half of what my the government gave my family per month (yes, the checks totaled close to $10k per month tax free -- I know the numbers because I managed my parents' finances for several years -- more on that another time), she never needed to work for a living. She retired from nursing at the age of 24 when they adopted my older brother, but she took on a handful of odd jobs and get-rich-quick schemes over the years. This was one of the strangest: the paper route.
I was in my early teens when my mother got her paper route, which means she was in her early forties. To me, paper routes were something kids with bicycles did for a first job when they were still too young to be baggers at the local grocery store. I didn't know any paperboys, but according to TV shows, the child would get up early, get the papers ready, and ride his bike through his route, throwing a paper at each doorstep. He would finish by sun-up and then do other things. This was not what my mother did.
My mother got the papers ready throughout the day while I was at school and sometimes while I was at home. They were scattered across the living room floor as she worked through them, which might have seemed more foreign if she hadn't already been a hoarder and the floors already strewn with random debris. I'm not sure how long it took her to roll up the papers and slip them into their plastic casings each day, but I saw her doing it a lot, so it seemed like hours.
Then when I got home from school, we would load them into the car and she would drive me to the neighborhood where her route was. Then she told me to get out of the car and deliver the papers door-to-door. I had to hang them nicely on the door handles, NO! we could not throw them from the car window like people do on TV, and if someone was outside, I had to hand deliver the paper personally and talk with the person and exchange pleasantries. She would see if I didn't because she drove slowly down the street, watching me while I walked and delivered papers. If I hung the paper on a door knob when a person was somewhere outside, even if they were engaged in something like mowing the lawn, she would yell at me to go back and hand deliver the paper. I was shy, which made interacting with strangers difficult on its own, but doing my mother's paper route in this weird, forced way while she yelled at me from her slow-moving car mortified me. Sometimes the people she saw outside who she wanted me to hand deliver papers to were my classmates, which was worse.
When we finished her route, it was usually around 4pm and I was famished. She had pretty much stopped cooking by that point in my life, so then she would take me out to dinner, usually to Denny's, where she complained that it cost as much to feed me as she earned doing her paper route.
Her original plan had been to build a paper route empire. She said she'd heard of another middle-aged woman who subcontracted out multiple paper routes to local children, taking a cut of their pay while they did all the delivering, and this scalable model appealed to her. She never made it that far though. She just drove slowly alongside me, watching me deliver papers every afternoon, until one day she told me she quit.
I was in my early teens when my mother got her paper route, which means she was in her early forties. To me, paper routes were something kids with bicycles did for a first job when they were still too young to be baggers at the local grocery store. I didn't know any paperboys, but according to TV shows, the child would get up early, get the papers ready, and ride his bike through his route, throwing a paper at each doorstep. He would finish by sun-up and then do other things. This was not what my mother did.
My mother got the papers ready throughout the day while I was at school and sometimes while I was at home. They were scattered across the living room floor as she worked through them, which might have seemed more foreign if she hadn't already been a hoarder and the floors already strewn with random debris. I'm not sure how long it took her to roll up the papers and slip them into their plastic casings each day, but I saw her doing it a lot, so it seemed like hours.
Then when I got home from school, we would load them into the car and she would drive me to the neighborhood where her route was. Then she told me to get out of the car and deliver the papers door-to-door. I had to hang them nicely on the door handles, NO! we could not throw them from the car window like people do on TV, and if someone was outside, I had to hand deliver the paper personally and talk with the person and exchange pleasantries. She would see if I didn't because she drove slowly down the street, watching me while I walked and delivered papers. If I hung the paper on a door knob when a person was somewhere outside, even if they were engaged in something like mowing the lawn, she would yell at me to go back and hand deliver the paper. I was shy, which made interacting with strangers difficult on its own, but doing my mother's paper route in this weird, forced way while she yelled at me from her slow-moving car mortified me. Sometimes the people she saw outside who she wanted me to hand deliver papers to were my classmates, which was worse.
When we finished her route, it was usually around 4pm and I was famished. She had pretty much stopped cooking by that point in my life, so then she would take me out to dinner, usually to Denny's, where she complained that it cost as much to feed me as she earned doing her paper route.
Her original plan had been to build a paper route empire. She said she'd heard of another middle-aged woman who subcontracted out multiple paper routes to local children, taking a cut of their pay while they did all the delivering, and this scalable model appealed to her. She never made it that far though. She just drove slowly alongside me, watching me deliver papers every afternoon, until one day she told me she quit.
Meet the Parents
My parents have hated each other since before I was born. I saw them kiss once, a quick goodbye peck on the lips when my dad dropped us off at the airport for a trip to Walt Disney World while he stayed at home with the dog. I got the impression my parents didn't confide much in each other, but they told me lots of things. Here is how they ended up together, based on the stories they each told me.
My parents met in high school when they worked together at a local fried chicken joint. They weren't friends, and they attended different schools on opposite sides of town. My dad graduated and enlisted in the air force to avoid being drafted to the front lines of the Vietnam War. My mother graduated a year later.
My dad worked on airplanes as a mechanic during the war. When he wasn't in Vietnam, he lived in a house near the base in Reno. He loved the dry heat of the desert and still talks about it in a wistful sort of way. He got into a motorcycle accident while he was home on leave at the age of 21. He said he was riding his motorcycle when a cop hit him while making an illegal left turn. The handlebars of my dad's motorcycle had pushed around through his back, severing his spinal column. He spent the next two weeks in a coma, and when he woke up, he said he received notice that the police had benevolently decided not to ticket him for the accident and also that he was never going to walk again.
My dad had been seriously dating a beautiful red-haired girl at the time of his accident. He'd been planning to propose to her. She was the love of his life, he told me. When he woke from the coma, he drove her away. She had still wanted to be with him, but she deserved a fully functioning man, he didn't care what she wanted, and it goes on. I don't think he really expected her to leave, but she finally did, and he was alone. The scenario seems predictable if you've met him.
He was still recovering from the accident when he received a letter from my mother. She was still living with her parents in the town where they'd both grown up, taking a course to become a licensed practical nurse. She'd read about his accident in the local newspaper and wanted to reconnect. I presume this was about the time that my dad realized the beautiful red-haired girl wasn't coming back and that my mother might be his last option.
My mother said she had liked him when they worked together at the fried chicken joint in high school but that he'd been a jerk then. Now he was paralyzed from the chest down, wheelchair-bound, and largely dependent on someone to take care of him. Why should that change how I felt about him? she wondered. "Everyone has a right to a little bit of happiness," she told me. Besides, the doctors had only anticipated he'd live five years beyond the accident. With her help, he could have a wife and a house and a child in that amount of time. "I always thought of your dad as my first husband," she explained. And she started writing him letters.
My parents wrote back and forth, and when my dad moved back into his parents' house in their hometown, my mother started coming over, courting him. She was only twenty but had already been engaged twice. My dad was sorry to leave Reno. He'd liked the desert. He'd liked riding his motorcycle. He'd liked the red-haired girl. My parents' dates largely consisted of hanging out at my dad's parents' house, snacking and watching television. A man my mother used to date came back to town for a visit and asked if he could take her out. My mother asked my dad what she should say. He said he didn't care, they weren't exclusive, and she could do what she wanted, so she made plans. When their date finally rolled around, my dad asked her, "Are we getting married, or what?" She canceled the date with the other man, and my parents were engaged.
My parents met in high school when they worked together at a local fried chicken joint. They weren't friends, and they attended different schools on opposite sides of town. My dad graduated and enlisted in the air force to avoid being drafted to the front lines of the Vietnam War. My mother graduated a year later.
My dad worked on airplanes as a mechanic during the war. When he wasn't in Vietnam, he lived in a house near the base in Reno. He loved the dry heat of the desert and still talks about it in a wistful sort of way. He got into a motorcycle accident while he was home on leave at the age of 21. He said he was riding his motorcycle when a cop hit him while making an illegal left turn. The handlebars of my dad's motorcycle had pushed around through his back, severing his spinal column. He spent the next two weeks in a coma, and when he woke up, he said he received notice that the police had benevolently decided not to ticket him for the accident and also that he was never going to walk again.
My dad had been seriously dating a beautiful red-haired girl at the time of his accident. He'd been planning to propose to her. She was the love of his life, he told me. When he woke from the coma, he drove her away. She had still wanted to be with him, but she deserved a fully functioning man, he didn't care what she wanted, and it goes on. I don't think he really expected her to leave, but she finally did, and he was alone. The scenario seems predictable if you've met him.
He was still recovering from the accident when he received a letter from my mother. She was still living with her parents in the town where they'd both grown up, taking a course to become a licensed practical nurse. She'd read about his accident in the local newspaper and wanted to reconnect. I presume this was about the time that my dad realized the beautiful red-haired girl wasn't coming back and that my mother might be his last option.
My mother said she had liked him when they worked together at the fried chicken joint in high school but that he'd been a jerk then. Now he was paralyzed from the chest down, wheelchair-bound, and largely dependent on someone to take care of him. Why should that change how I felt about him? she wondered. "Everyone has a right to a little bit of happiness," she told me. Besides, the doctors had only anticipated he'd live five years beyond the accident. With her help, he could have a wife and a house and a child in that amount of time. "I always thought of your dad as my first husband," she explained. And she started writing him letters.
My parents wrote back and forth, and when my dad moved back into his parents' house in their hometown, my mother started coming over, courting him. She was only twenty but had already been engaged twice. My dad was sorry to leave Reno. He'd liked the desert. He'd liked riding his motorcycle. He'd liked the red-haired girl. My parents' dates largely consisted of hanging out at my dad's parents' house, snacking and watching television. A man my mother used to date came back to town for a visit and asked if he could take her out. My mother asked my dad what she should say. He said he didn't care, they weren't exclusive, and she could do what she wanted, so she made plans. When their date finally rolled around, my dad asked her, "Are we getting married, or what?" She canceled the date with the other man, and my parents were engaged.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
The Car
When I was in high school, my parents bought me a car. My mother had always complained that my brother's insurance didn't allow her to drive his car, so when she started talking about driving mine, I asked her if the insurance on it covered her. After all, I was new to both driving and insurance. I had no idea how this stuff worked, but I wanted to make sure I was doing everything right. I guess my mother misunderstood my question because she promptly told my grandparents that her ungrateful daughter wouldn't let her drive the car SHE had bought for her. Every time she met someone new (I know this must be hyperbole, but it certainly seemed like every time -- it certainly wasn't confined to relevant situations), she told them about how I wouldn't allow her to drive my car. A car SHE had paid for! A teenager didn't trust HER with a car!
I should mention here that my mother did have a history of what might be called reckless driving and was close to losing her license on account of how many speeding tickets she had and how many accidents she had caused. So she was more than a little defensive when she thought I fancied myself a superior driver. The frustrating part for me was that, on the occasions when I tried to explain to her audience what I had been referring to about the insurance coverage, she just talked over me.
For the next few years, every time we got together with my grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins for holidays, she would pull this story out of her repertoire and tell it again. Her indignation at not being trusted with my car got her worked up every time.
I finally stopped hearing her complaint at not being trusted with my car when she drove it while on Ambien, fell asleep at the wheel, and rolled the car into a shallow ravine of some sort, totaling it. (P.S. She called me afterward and told me I was responsible for paying several thousand dollars to have the car fixed because it was "my car." I ignored most of the things wrong with that claim and instead reminded her how she hadn't wanted my name on the title and so it was not legally mine at all.)
I should mention here that my mother did have a history of what might be called reckless driving and was close to losing her license on account of how many speeding tickets she had and how many accidents she had caused. So she was more than a little defensive when she thought I fancied myself a superior driver. The frustrating part for me was that, on the occasions when I tried to explain to her audience what I had been referring to about the insurance coverage, she just talked over me.
For the next few years, every time we got together with my grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins for holidays, she would pull this story out of her repertoire and tell it again. Her indignation at not being trusted with my car got her worked up every time.
I finally stopped hearing her complaint at not being trusted with my car when she drove it while on Ambien, fell asleep at the wheel, and rolled the car into a shallow ravine of some sort, totaling it. (P.S. She called me afterward and told me I was responsible for paying several thousand dollars to have the car fixed because it was "my car." I ignored most of the things wrong with that claim and instead reminded her how she hadn't wanted my name on the title and so it was not legally mine at all.)
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