poeticdesires

Category: Family

  • Being the Adult

    I had the title for this post picked out for a few days, relating specifically to President Obama, and how he needs to step up against the obstructionist Rethuglicans. (That is not a typo; stop calling my party the “Democrat”, which ends with rat, party and maybe I’ll stop calling you thugs.)

    But then life got in the way.

    I was really happy at work on Friday because, for the first time, I was allowed to work with an expensive piece of equipment usually only handled by someone senior than myself. And I did a fairly good job. But, not five minutes after completing my project, my mother called. And she needed money. And I said yes, because I was happy and she sounded desperate, like she always does every time she asks for it. I regretted the entire conversation as soon as I hung up the phone.

    My mother owes me $2900. She used to owe me more, but there was a stretch where she’d send me $50 a month. Then it was every two months. This past year, she’s given me $200. In her call, she asked for that amount, and then some.

    I let the situation stew, getting more angry and frustrated as the night wore on. I called her the next morning with a few questions. Why didn’t she just use a credit card for the bill? She only had one and it was almost maxed out by a termite bill. What about the emergency fund we had set up, back when I coached her on financial responsibility? She had spent it on “this and that.” I said okay and hung up the phone.

    I continued to seethe. The money was to pay for the heat bill. Her furnace broke and a pipe broke. Before calling me, asking me for money, she called asking to possibly stay in my apartment overnight. To this I of course said yes. I understood a lot was happening to her at once. But I also saw that she had not been saving like I told her she needed to do, every pay check. And, in twelve months, she had told me multiple times she planned to pay me back, but my last $50 from her came in July. Not only that, she said she would get the money from someone else, because she needed it as soon as possible, but would pay them back with my money and then just owe me.

    The entire situation was so convoluted, I couldn’t stand thinking about it anymore. I was done. I decided this was it; after this money she was never getting any more from me, at least not until she cleared her entire debt.

    I called her back. I told her how angry and frustrated I felt every time she asked me for money, especially because she only gave me $200 this year. I cried as I spoke. She stopped me and just told me to forget about it, pretend like she never asked. She hung up.

    But I can’t pretend, because she did, and now I feel angry and frustrated and guilty, because yes I have the money, but why does she always do this? She’s 58 years old with a steady job and no rent. Why can’t she be responsible, save the money, be prepared for when shit hits the fan? Why do I have to carry an IOU from her for over three years?

    I’m her daughter, but why do I always feel like the adult?

  • Weird

    Being in my late twenties, my mother has come to view me more like a friend.  Or, at least, she speaks to me that way.  Unfortunately, or hilariously, depending on the situation, this leads to interesting conversations.

    Today we had one that made me nauseous.

    In brief: my mother almost married my elementary school principle, and we almost moved to Kentucky. 

    Correct me if I’m wrong, but this sounds like the plot of a chessy comedy. 

    At the time, I was five or six years old, so I have no recollection of any of the examples she gave: the three of us out to dinner; the Easter weekend she went to Kentucky to meet his family; the new wardrobe he bought her.

    I don’t think it’s disgusting because of his age.  Already having a father 22 years older than my mother would have transitioned me nicely to having a step-father 33 years older than my mother.  And school wouldn’t have been an issue, seeing as he planned to move us out of state, and, I assume, me into a school he wasn’t running.

    No, the disgust was because it was my principle, my hairy, old, mean, crotchety principle.  According to my mother, he was a perfect gentleman.  “I’ll never do anything so I couldn’t look your father in the eye,” my mother quoted him.  (Oh God, I think he was probably my grandfather’s age.)  In my youth, he, along with all my other teachers, doted on me.  But the idea of coming home everyday to this man in my house, this man being my father, and my mother and him, dare I even type it, having sex…

    I just gagged a little.

    As if I don’t already have a wealth of family drama to write about, this would have been a whole book. 

    But, it didn’t happen.  On my Mom’s trip to Kentucky, his family rejected her.  They thought she was too young, being the same age as his children.  His previous wife had passed away, and, I suppose, they didn’t want him replacing her.  He wanted to keep his family happy, even though it seems he cared for my Mom.  She avoided him at my school, which I attended for another six years.  He was nice to me; I got good grades and was never a discipline problem. 

    I suppose, in all this, along with my dry heaves, I feel very sad for my Mom.  Her life could have been so different, so much better.  I know my Mom could have used his loving support, seeing as her relationship with my father most likely wasn’t healthy.  And my principle had money, so I doubt she would’ve worried about bills ever again. 

    The only reason she brought it up at all is because he died this past summer; she didn’t learn about it til last week.  Time drew our lives apart from his.  And, even though we tried to keep in touch with my elementary school, a small family of people we knew and loved for so many years, time has a way of distancing all things.

    She’ll want to visit the school sometime soon.  I hope it will be good for her.  Me, I’ll go because she wants to.  But I have a feeling they won’t know how to react to one of their star pupils showing up with a rocker style haircut, tattoos, and a tongue ring. 

    Boy, how kids grow up so fast these day.

  • In Memoriam

    In the suburbs outside where I grew up, there is cemetery that acts as the final resting place for the black middle and upper class.  Surrounded by expensive homes and a few acres of corn, it is an odd sight to come upon. 

    Every Memorial Day, this home for the dead has a homecoming of sorts.  Hundreds of people come to place flowers at the sight of their loved ones.  This year, I also took part in this ritual.

    Driving to the cemetery, you would hardly know a city was close behind you.  Take a turn, pass a few apartment buildings, and drive for ten minutes.  Gradually, houses get bigger.  The land surrounding each expands.  One car garages become two.  Carports become driveways become private roads.  Pools sink into the ground.  Tennis courts rise.  You know this is not where you were before.  Foliage covers the road, obscuring the brilliant sunlight that would otherwise pour through.  It feels as if you are privy to some secret hideaway, some better place to live.  How ironic that it takes death for these black folks to, “move on up.”

    Turning into the cemetery, you are immediately greeted by a volunteer in a yellow shirt.  You roll down your window and they ask, “Do you know where you are going?”  I knew.  I remembered the way: down the hill, past the large floral sign, around the curve with famous black folks graves marked in bronze & marble, up the hill with the mausoleum to the left, go about a quarter of the ways down the hill on the right.  I remembered the way we took, carrying Ella’s body in tow.  I remembered the line of parked cars, the men in dress shirts who I’d never met before, walking across the grass, sitting in the folding chairs on the earth, never actually finding stillness. 

    As I drove towards where she lay, the sheer enormity of people was daunting.  Cars lined the sides, down and up and down the hills.  I made my way, but was stopped not twenty feet from where I needed to park.  There was a jam.  Over a dozen cars, including mine, needed to back out.  I became frustrated, annoyed, and contemplating leaving.  I was already having a bad day (I’ll talk about that in another post).  But I didn’t leave, not yet.  I waited for a moment, watching the people walk by.  A woman carried a small child passed out on her arm.  Life & death are so preciously close.  A man walked on crutches, his right leg gone.  Death ever present; who knows when the end will come.

    I turned around and parked my car down yet another hill.  I walked towards the plots.  I found my family.  Aunties & Uncles in the same grave; Ella just below them.  I brushed off their markers.  I didn’t know what to say.  In situations like these, I always feel awkward.  Am I suppose to cry?  Am I suppose to say something?  What am I suppose to do?  I half expected an altercation to ensue; I had anticipated other family members being there.  But it was just me, alone, with the crowds of people seeing their loved ones.  I told Ella I missed her.  I saw the small damage done to Aunties & Uncles marker.  I went over to one of the volunteers.  He put in a work order for the fix, which apparently was common.  I left.

    When I got back to my car, I pulled out the rose my ex gave me when Ella died.  I had carried it in my car since that day, two years ago.  I put it in some tall grass and took a picture for posterity (they only allow fresh flowers on the graves).  I was okay.

    I don’t know if I’ll go back next year.  But I don’t think it really matters if I do.  Family is in your heart, not in a hole in the ground.

  • A Healthy Dose of Duh

    I don’t know if it’s irony or poetic justice that my ex has nixed the idea of us roommating again.  I brought up where I wanted to live and he mentioned how his bus ride would be over 1 1/2hrs.  (I did not bring up how I drive that amount for him now.)  He also used the one tool that would grab my attention: his mother.

    She is still having financial troubles.  She hasn’t gotten another job yet.  She’s hoping unemployment will help brunt the pain.  His mother is roughly the same age as mine, but for some reason she seems to be elderly.  She’s only 59, but she walks like she’s 69.  Unfortunately, she won’t qualify for Social Security for another six years.  Bridging the gap between now and then will require assistance, most likely from my ex.

    His mother doesn’t want to move out of Washington, DC.  She gets health care through the government there and fears she will loose coverage if she moves.  My ex refuses to live in the district again.  I do not want to be caught up in that mess again.

    My roommate agreement idea does not cover all the drama that is bound to fall upon my ex’s life in the next six years.  I can see myself still being a good friend to him, and most likely a neighbor, but I can’t be caught up in that mess.  And he knows that, which is why we can’t live together.

    So now I’m faced with high rent in a slightly seedy place, but at least it’ll be close to work.  I’ll save on gas, be able to ride my bike (i.e. more exercise), and hopefully be okay with just being me, alone.

  • The Fat Note

    I got my first fat note the other day.  For those of you who don’t know what a fat note is, pull up a chair and learn.

    A fat note is when someone, either anonymously or not, sends you a letter in the mail telling you about a new diet craze or a way another person was able to shed lots of pounds.  Yes, people actually do this.  I once witnessed my mother receive an anonymous fat note, with a newspaper article attached. 

    I received my first fat note from, of all people, my father, about a week ago.  At the time, I just ignored it.  Okay, that’s a lie.  I let the emotions seethed inside me until I finally let out some of my frustration to my SO (though thankfully not at him).  And my SO, at times the more practical and level headed in our relationship, told me to tell my father everything I was laying before him.

    So what did I do….?  You guessed it, I ignored the fat note.  That is, until my father just called me.  Like just now.  His fat note concerned the latest craze in weight loss cure-all, the acacia berry diet. 

    I have never been one to subscribe to diet trends.  I know why I’m the weight I am: 1) I do not live an active lifestyle (translation: I’m a lazy bitch who rarely exercises.) & 2) I do not practice portion control (translation: I often don’t give a shit about what, or how much, I eat.). 

    I know what I have to do to loose weight.  1) Live a more active lifestyle (translation: Get my ass of the couch and go for a walk, or do the yoga DVD that sits on top of my DVD player but gets ignored, or dance around the apartment til I’m a sweaty mess.) & 2) Maintain portion control (translation: Stop eating Burger King & Taco Bell & Mama Lucia for dinner (al)most every night.  Just because they are less than five minutes away and practically on your way home does NOT mean you should take them up on their offers.  You buy food; eat it more often.)

    Of course, everything comes down to execution.  With my, at times, erratic schedule, I stop caring about what I eat if it gives me an hour extra sleep.  If I’m going on a gig that will last all day, sometimes I rely on the food places around the venue rather than pack my own meal.  And, unfortunately, my SO is not a good influence.  There have been times when I’ve eaten dinner, he’s come home late, and on the way back calls me and asks what I want from BK or Taco Hell.  And I (al)most always cave in, asking for a small fry & small drink, or a small sandwich & drink, thinking the smaller portion is better.  What would really be better is if I just said no.  But self control is not my greatest strength.

    I recently heard a scientific study proved junk/fast food is as addictive as any narcotic (heroine, cocaine, etc.).  I believe them.  Just the thought of fast food can linger in mind for days.  I’ve actually said to myself on a Monday, “You can have so&so fast food if you wait until Friday.”  I did this, thinking I would forget about my craving.  But that didn’t happen.  My ass remembered my thought and then indulged my craving.

    This is most definitely not how I want to live my life.  I don’t like how I look, don’t like how I feel.  Shopping for clothes just doesn’t happen, unless I need something for work, because I know the sizes won’t fit.  Trying to find an outfit for my friends’ wedding was an ordeal, a sad & frustrating ordeal.  And don’t get me started about swim suits.

    I want to make a change, but my father’s good intentions do not help.  He wants me to come by and pick up the acacia berry juice he bought for me, tomorrow.  And I will go because I love him.  But there needs to be some recognition that there is no magical pill, or magical drink, that’s going to help me loose 60 to 100 pounds.  Only I can do it.  It’s just hard to do.

  • On A Lighter Note?

    Saw the therapist yesterday. Spent plenty of time venting, especially about my mother. Affirmed my decision to not give her money, again, was the adult thing to do. Also pointed out, though I know it is the right thing to do, how much guilt I feel about the situation, down to me trying to justify why she asked. Part of my homework for the next month is trying to stop myself from doing that, along with not giving in.

    Talked about emotional things, like my irrational fears and trying to conquer them. In general, it was a good session. Will definitely come in with a list again. [Aside: I literally wrote out a list of the things impacting my life in the past month that I wanted to talk about. Helped keep the conversation flowing and not waste any time trying to figure out what to talk about. I’m good at avoidance and denial, so I guess this was good as a homework assignment as well.]

    The hard part about the next month is trying to find the moment when I’m going to have “the conversation” with my mother. It’s odd, me having to parent my mother even though she is a grown woman. But this episode, along with all the other times she’s come to me for “help”, and her two bankruptcies due to credit card debt, illustrate just how big of a problem she has with money management.

    I won’t give her money, but I can give her advice and (with the aid of a book) some guidance. After all, I literally took out a financial planning book from the library, read it cover-to-cover, and took notes. My mother, unfortunately, is a prime example of why we need a financial planning class requirement in every high school in America. If we did that, credit card companies would be none too pleased and maybe fewer people would be in bad financial situations.

  • Third Time’s the Harm

    It happened again, and I can’t say I didn’t see it coming, but I thought it wouldn’t be so soon.

    Okay, explaining that odd opening statement: my mother asked me for money, again. And I said no, finally. I cannot tell you how much this both pisses me off and makes me feel like the dirtiest shit in the street.

    My mother called me while I was driving home from work. As soon as she said, “I need your help,” I recognized the meaning of that phrase. She needs a new roof. My mother expected me to pay for a new roof. WTF!

    I love my mother with all my heart, by how can you ask your child for something like that when you know they are not rich? Just because I got some money when Ella died doesn’t mean I am this bottomless pit from which to solve all of her problems.

    Truth be told, a lot of that money went to my debts. I was a recent college grad with a car note, student loans, and two credit cards to pay off, when that money fell into my lap. I did what I thought, and what ultimately turned out to be, the smart thing at the time and paid 90% of my debts. The rest I stuck in an emergency fund and a CD, where I wouldn’t be able to touch it. And low and behold, seems like that was a good decision.

    I’ve digressed from the point. I am not a money purse. I am not my father, a medical doctor with a private practice and enough money to lend my mother when happenstance comes her way. I am a 26 year old aspiring (meaning not yet published and just trying to find someone to read my work) writer. I am not a bank, a lottery ticket, or a charity.

    What blows my mind about this is the amount of money I would have to pony up to help her and the fact she didn’t even realize what she was asking. I tried to make the analogy that asking me to pay for her new roof was like asking me to buy her a new car. It just wasn’t going to happen, though of course I said it nicer than that.

    My mother currently owes me over $3000. While Ella was sick, she was trying to pay for an Alaskan cruise. Talk about bad timing, this was when I needed her to help me pay Ella’s rent. Before she got sick, I paid Ella $250/month, while I tried to get regular tech work. When she got sick, she stopped working, and it fell to me to try to get the rent paid each month. I asked my Mom to help, but that lasted for about three months. I some how found a way to get us by.

    When Ella passed, and I had received life insurance pay outs, my mother asked me to “help her” with her Alaskan cruise. At the time, I understood she wanted a break from the heart ache. But, to do so I had to put it on a credit card. Not only that, she asked me, closer to the event, for some spending money while she was there. Fine, I thought, but she will owe me interest, a fixed amount of money I added to the total.

    [Aside: What most angered me about the situation is that my mother had the opportunity to back out and recoup about half her money. When she saw she wasn’t going to be able to pay, she should have done that. But, by this time, she had waited until the very end, when paybacks were no longer possible, and came to me.]

    More recently, my mother asked for my “help” to fix her car. I understand the situation, being without a car. What I don’t understand is why couldn’t just save up the money to fix it instead of asking me for it. She can bus to work. Yes, her church is kind of far away, but she still could have carpooled with someone or left out very early to take public transportation. What made the situation worse during the car incident was a repeat of the past, her needing me to help twice for the same problem. You’d think I would have already learned.

    And now there is the roof. That’s it. I’m done. Until she pays me the $3000+ she still owes me, no more. I just can’t. It makes me angry. It makes me feel used. And it makes me not want to be around her when she does this.

    Having said all this, I know I could afford to pay for her roof, but I shouldn’t have to. I paid for her cruise and I paid for her car. I think $3000+ worth of my help is MORE than enough for good daughter status.

    When am I suppose to stop? When all I have left is my emergency fund? Or do I have to give all that up, too?

    It’s time my mother learned how to deal with traumatic financial situations, without an all saving hand to intervene. I’ve gone through them and handled it. It’s time she did, too. In short, it’s time for my mother to act like an adult.

  • I’m An Aunt Bitches!!!

    If you have any intelligence at all, you can deduce from the title of this blog that I am over the hill ecstatic that my BFF (yes, I used the acronym, wanna fight about it?) gave birth this weekend. And by this weekend, I mean the ENTIRE weekend.

    Okay, not quite, but it felt like it. Her water broke at 2:34a Saturday into Sunday. You may ask why I know the exact time of this momentous occasion. Well, it’s because she sent out a text message to EVERYONE to let us know.

    I must say, I owe a great debt to the internet and technology in general. We knew going in that she only wanted her husband and mother by her side. So, the rest of us who have a vested interest in this little life waited…and waited…and did I mention the waiting?

    I love my BFF. She is so strong. I knew she was strong before, but I think enduring 24hrs of labor puts you among those who’ve stamped a ticket into Valhalla before they reach 30.

    If you didn’t know, I am a worrier. All through the day Sunday, I kept my cell phone out and by my side & my laptop on my lap, as I constantly hit refresh on Twitter and Facebook. I texted her husband a few times, trying to get updates. I was so happy when anything was said, just letting me know she was okay, if by okay you mean writhing in pain trying to push something big out of a small hole.

    I got the text message at 2:32a, Sunday into Monday, letting me know my niece was now in this world. To calm my always worrying nerves, I asked how they were doing, and was relieve to find out she was nursing just fine.

    I am so happy, it seems nothing could ruin my day. Which, of course, has just doomed me for the next 24hrs, but that’s okay because my little niece is finally here and my BFF survived one of the hardest ordeals of any adult female’s life.

    SO MANY PICTURES TO TAKE. I’m going to go visit Wednesday and completely fill my memory card with shots of my little niece. I will get permission from Mom & Dad as to whether I can share her image with the world. And even if I can’t, those images will be for me of that beautiful girl.

    This child will be surrounded by SO MUCH (young, liberal, completely understanding no matter what) love. Watch out world; this kid is going to conquer you all.

  • WTF

    Twitter is down. That’s annoying.

    To be honest, Twitter is the best part of my day (while my SO is out of state). Apparently it’s been down since 9am, which gives me little hope that it will be up again soon.

    Well, seeing as I have oodles of time and no rampant, instantly self indulgent, way of filling up my day…

    Last night, while cleaning up the apartment, I found an old notebook. Call me shocked when I realized it was a story I had worked on years ago. I know you will find this highly narcissistic, (then again you are reading my blog) but I had been working on an autobiography of sorts.

    The first question (insult) that comes to mind when I type this is, “What are you doing writing an autobiography? You’re not even 30!” Yes, this is true, but, as I was writing the stories I could remember of my life, I found I talked more about my family then myself.

    So far, I’ve centered on my parents, my brothers, and my aunts and uncles. As I wrote all these interesting factoids, from my father’s philandering to my relatives eccentricities, I was more interested in them than me. I found it interesting that one, all these people existed, and two, I was related to them. I know every family has their stories, so why shouldn’t I write about ours.

    I imagine, once I’m done (though who ever is with such an expansive concept), I’ll pull things from this blog as well. So much has happened in the two years since I lost the notebook and found it again, the biggest of which was the loss of Ella.

    I know I will need to include her, as well as Aunties and Uncles, but, truth be told, I imagined writing about the three of them as their own book. In fact, there is another notebook in my home office with their names on it and the opening lines already written. Like this lost example, I starting writing and then stopped to think about how I wanted to proceed.

    I found myself last night muting the television (scandalous!) and picking up where I left off. I wrote about three pages (front and back). And it felt great.

    I’m currently working my way through my mother’s siblings. She is one of eight, so it’s taking a while.

    I’m not quite sure what the eventual book will be like, but I’m enjoying the experience of writing it.

    Another little twist: I started this project right as my SO and I started our relationship. Talk about surreal, reading how we had a five hour conversation when we initially started “hanging out.” [I know that is the right term for what we did, but it seems so juvenile. People, we really need to come up with a more adult lingo for the adolescent feelings and experiences we still have to go through. Just a thought.]

    I imagine the story of my family will be intertwined with the story of our relationship, if nothing else for the fact that when I start each new entry, I speak a little about my day. And my SO is such a part of my life, back then and now, I don’t know how you can’t keep it from permeating on the page.

    Well, that helped, a little. Seriously, I’m sure they’ve already come up with a name for Twitter addiction. I may not know it, but it feels like I have it. Or maybe it’s just a learned impulse, since I’m on it all the time at work.

    Oh well, gotta give up the dope sometime.

  • It’s Official

    We are now cohabiting.

    This past week has been a sweaty, long, humid affair. We had to move all of my crap out of the 1BR into the 2BR w/ a Family Room. Granted the two buildings are about 500-750ft apart, but half of the trek was on grass. Not fun. Besides hauling way too much stuff from one floor to another, our errands included, but were not limited to, the following:
    – dismantling the Fios DVR boxer and router
    – waiting for the Fios guy to install new DVR boxes and router
    – cleaning for 2 1/2 hours last night
    – dropping off the keys and rent checks through the rest of this year this morning
    In total, it took 4 separate days to get it all done. However arduous it all was, though, it’s over.

    Well, at least my part of this torturous affair is complete. My stuff is officially out of the old and into the new place. Nothing is clean. Everything is everywhere, but it’s there.

    Stage two of this affair starts in a week. My SO is going away to beat people with sticks. Anyone else been to War? I hear it’s fun, though if I went I imagine all I’d do is read, knit, or crochet. I’m not the hitting-people-with-sticks type, but to each their own.

    In the interim, I’m going to try to make sense of the tornado that is our apartment. My SO’s stuff will join mine once he’s returned next Saturday. He leaves tomorrow morning.

    To be honest, I am both looking forward to and dreading the coming week. We are with each other every day. It’s been two years since the last War my SO attended, and I’m not ashamed to say it sucked. A whole week without the person you love is not fun, not matter the level of freedom is gives. But, with my SO out of the way, I will defiantly get a lot done. And, frankly, I need to in order to fit anything else in the place.

    I planned out my weekend, figuring filling it up will keep me from thinking too much about the seven long days I have ahead. Saturday I’ll be spending with friends. And my mother is coming over Sunday to help with the mess.

    I’m thinking my Mom will have laundry and kitchen duty. (The place has a washer & dryer in unit. I love our apartment.) It’s enough to be substantial work without taxing her too much. I like the free labor, but I’d be lying if I said my mother was the cleaning type.

    As for me, I’m thinking I’ll attack the desk nook (Family Room). Currently, I have notebooks and papers strewn all over, along with CD’s and books. I’m going to buy a dresser to organize the notebooks and papers, and I have a rather large bookcase for the rest. This can get done, but it requires me to not be my normally lazy, procrastinating self. We’ll see how it goes.

    In the interim, I really need to start kicking my ass. I saw a recent picture of myself and wanted to vomit. I ignored the fact that the photo was of me and my best friend, who is very pregnant and cute, and fixated on my arms and my stomach. I literally said, “I’m fat” out loud, realizing we were about the same size. So, while my SO is away, I’ll be getting up and doing yoga before work.

    I’ve also been calculating my calorie intake, which has been horrible. Since nothing is organized and there is literally stuff everywhere, I haven’t been able to cook. We’ve eaten fast food at least one meal (if not more) a day for a week. That will stop tomorrow.

    So, yeah. We have an apartment together. This is real commitment. Did I mention I’m scared shitless? This is the first person I’ve lived with since my first relationship, which ended when my boyfriend was arrested and taken out of the house while I was at work. Long story.

    Anyway, on a lighter note… nope can’t think of anything. Going back to work now.