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Lost

 


  Yeah, about that template thing... I sorta lost it. Lots of solid code tweaking, gone. I don't know if I should take that as a sign from God that I find something other than writing to occupy my brain.

Because, y'know, there are better things to do! Aren't there? Or is this it?

Feh.

I'm still butthurt over my mother's antics today. This wasn't a moment for blorfting. 

Me: Hey, mum. Can I bring my chair down here to-

Mum: No.

Me: -to share time with you in the evening?

Mum: I watch old tv shows.

Me: Uh huh, me too! [I actually do like the same shows]

Mum: Evening is my time to relax.

Me: I won't talk to you or have the dogs here to-

Mum: No.

Oy gevalt! Forget I asked!

But I couldn't forget. It gnawed on me until I remembered that she sneaks alcohol in the evening. She stopped drinking after her heart surgery. It was nice while it lasted.

She buys and hides three mixer 16oz bottles at a time; we have to take her to the grocery store every three days. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out. 

Today would be another third day. She became increasingly demanding under the pretext of needing groceries, and after making it clear that she didn't want my presence in her life. Jeff and I are both disgusted by it.

I confronted her on it this afternoon.

Mum: [cranky] I need to get to the store. Are you going to take me or is Jeff taking me?

Me: Can't you go tomorrow? 

Mum: I need groceries!

Me: What you want is more alcohol. 

Yes, I went there. It was brutal but I remained firm regardless of the excuses. Then the emotional pressure cooker exploded. The shock wave probably registered on a seismograph somewhere on the planet.

Silence mercifully followed. Minutes ticked by. And then...

Mum: So which one of you is taking me to the store?

Me:...

Jeff:...

Mum: I need-

Me: [angrily putting the Bronco key in front of her at the table] I'm not going to support your alcoholism. Drive yourself. [/scene]

I went outside and mowed the grass. Full. Metal. Manic.

Two hours later, I asked Jeff to take her to the store to get just what was on her list. She then returned home triumphant because she purchased seven bottles so she won't buy them every three days.

Me: ...

I again asked her if, now that she doesn't hide her alcohol, I could move my chair downstairs to spend time with her.

No. My chair is ugly. She doesn't want it even if I cover it in any color she likes. The living room is her room because we have our own room to unwind in.  

I stopped listening. I need to stop caring before it eats my soul. Call it "butthurt" or be brutally honest and admit that the rejection isn't anything new; this was my childhood.

Did I have an ulterior motive? Yes. I like the same old shows. Yes. I want to move my large chair out of my office and replace it with an old, smaller chair. Yes. Jeff's mother just died and I want to cherish every minute I can spend with my own mother.

 


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