I’m not going to lie. On more than one occasion, I’ve been tempted to disown my mother. It’s my brilliant solution to legally ridding myself of her ridiculous commentary. Like when she suggests I immediately get on a treadmill to shed some weight before a date. Or she reaches across the dinner table, pulls the ponytail holder loose and says, “there, you look so much better with your hair down.” But just as I’m about to contact an attorney about filing the necessary paperwork, she goes and does something to offset it all.
Last week I announced for the umpteenth time in my life that I was done with my mother. She’d made some horrible comments that were both unfounded and hurtful. As I stewed in my anger and frustration, I concluded that while I’d never be able to stop her from saying silly things, I could sure as fuck stop being within earshot of them.
When I shared the most recent frustration with Leslie, she broke out into a fit of giggles. Once she caught her breath and wiped the tears from her eyes, she realized I wasn’t laughing.
“Paige, are you there? Listen, our mom is our mom,” she argued.
Silence.
“Okay, fine. Sometimes she sucks,” she offered. “But listen, you’re birthday’s coming up. At least keep her around until her check clears.”
“You know, I'd pass on the check if she’d just stop being so judgmental,” I stated.
“Personally, I’d rather have the cash,” Leslie countered.
Not content with my sister’s perspective, I turned to my dad. I waltzed into his office, dropped myself in the chair across from his desk and ranted for ten minutes straight. I recited my mom’s comments verbatim, lifting and arching my voice so it properly mimicked her. When I finished, I let out a breath and turned to my dad for a response. He shrugged and asked me what I was eating for lunch.
“Keep this up and you’ll be eating nada for lunch,” I joked.
“PJ, she isn’t going to change so you might as well find a way to not let it bother you so much,” he suggested.
“Yeah, excuse me for a moment, I need to go buy two one-way tickets,” I said before returning to my desk.
A few days have passed since that last debacle. Today I rolled out of bed, took a shower and patiently rifled through my closet in search of the perfect sexy-classy outfit. Something that would turn heads but in a good way. Something appropriate for a gastronomical tour that will likely include sipping Mojito’s, slurping oysters and washing it all down with some chocolate soufflé. Three skirts, four tops and five pairs of shoes later, I was finally happy with my attire. As I fumbled for a purse, my phone rang. I dashed down the hall in my three inch heels to fetch the handset from the cradle.
“Hello?” I partially gasped.
“Happy Birthday, PJ!” my mom sang.
And there it was. My first birthday wishes of the day. Not from Leslie. Not from Alaska. Not from Allison or Hope or Caralyn or Chicken or Jenny or Joe or Barry or Chad or Samantha or anyone else. Nope. From my mom.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
Just Call Me Jack
One of my favorite scenes in the movie The Jerk is when Steve Martin walks around his estate saying he doesn’t need anything to live. Well, except for a thermos. All he needs to get by is the thermos. Well, and a chair. The thermos and the chair are all he needs to get by. Well, and an ashtray. By the end, he’s toting a ridiculous amount of useless crap. This is exactly the scene as Olivia makes her way to bed.
It starts off innocently enough. Listen, it makes sense a two year old would want her blankie and pacifier to keep her company during the darkness of night. But before long, she’s increased her bedtime necessities to include her favorite book, a sippy cup of water, her hot pink Crocs slipped over her footed jammies and oftentimes on the wrong foot, a purple clad ballerina doll, a fuzzy butterfly, a slide projector and a musical Bug. By the time everything’s in place, there’s no room left for her.
“Mom, I’m going to bed. Can you fetch Bug out of Olivia’s crib before you crash?” Leslie asked in a hushed whisper.
“Uh huh,” my mom responded without looking away from American Idol.
Two hours later, Leslie dropped her magazine pile to the floor, rolled over in our shared bed, said goodnight and settled in for a restful slumber. Not yet ready to put down my book, I shut off the overhead light and curled closer to the gentle glow of my bedside lamp. No more than five minutes passed before muffled but clearly identifiable music echoed from Olivia’s room.
“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Mom didn’t take Bug out of Olivia’s crib,” Leslie said while working her way to an upright position. “Will you go get it?” she pleaded, her heavy lids lingering at the halfway mark.
“Why me?” I asked. I was dead serious. I’ve never been good at reconnaissance work. The one time in high school I snuck out a first floor window in the middle of the night, I tumbled to the ground in a thunderous thud. Which left me exploding in a fit of giggles. Certain my mom knew what had happened, I confessed my guilt the next morning over a bowl of Cheerios.
“I’ll pay you five dollars,” Leslie offered.
“What if I wake her up?” I asked, concerned not about losing the payout but the drama that ensues when a two year old sleeping in an unfamiliar home is unexpectedly awakened in the middle of the night by someone other than her mother.
“Just grab it by the head. Whatever you do, don’t I repeat don’t grab near the feet. Jesus, I feel like I’m on an episode of 24. ‘Jack, it’s Chloe. You must go in and get Bug.’ Please Paige, I'm begging you.”
I let out a sigh, placed my book on the bedside table and announced, “I’m going in.”
I waited in the hallway a few moments to make sure Olivia wasn’t rustling about. Confident she was asleep, I slowly opened the door to her room and snuck through the gap. Now on the inside, I glanced every which way as I inched closer to the snoozing tyke. She was passed out on her back clutching her blankie in one hand and her butterfly in the other. Leaning over the edge of the crib, I carefully evaluated the situation. Bug was on it's side. Meaning there was a good chance a foot or multiple feet were depressed. Translation: I had a live one. I took a deep breath, began repeating a silent mantra of ‘don’t fuck up’ and slowly pulled the plastic creature from the cluttered crib. Then Olivia moved.
I froze. I stopped breathing. I pretended I was a tree. A tree holding a purple plastic centipede with colorful feet and the ability to sing the alphabet song. I remained still for what felt like an hour. My right shoulder started to cramp. My left knee started to ache. Not until I was confident Olivia was truly asleep, did I resume my mission. With Bug in toe, I backed up toward the doorway, slipped out into the hallway, closed the door, turned Bug off and retreated to my bedroom.
“Mission accomplished,” I said tossing Bug in Leslie’s direction. “Holy shit, that was stressful.”
“Well, done,” Leslie said as she placed Bug on the floor. “One day you’ll make a great mom. Or a great Jack Bauer.”
It starts off innocently enough. Listen, it makes sense a two year old would want her blankie and pacifier to keep her company during the darkness of night. But before long, she’s increased her bedtime necessities to include her favorite book, a sippy cup of water, her hot pink Crocs slipped over her footed jammies and oftentimes on the wrong foot, a purple clad ballerina doll, a fuzzy butterfly, a slide projector and a musical Bug. By the time everything’s in place, there’s no room left for her.
“Mom, I’m going to bed. Can you fetch Bug out of Olivia’s crib before you crash?” Leslie asked in a hushed whisper.
“Uh huh,” my mom responded without looking away from American Idol.
Two hours later, Leslie dropped her magazine pile to the floor, rolled over in our shared bed, said goodnight and settled in for a restful slumber. Not yet ready to put down my book, I shut off the overhead light and curled closer to the gentle glow of my bedside lamp. No more than five minutes passed before muffled but clearly identifiable music echoed from Olivia’s room.
“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Mom didn’t take Bug out of Olivia’s crib,” Leslie said while working her way to an upright position. “Will you go get it?” she pleaded, her heavy lids lingering at the halfway mark.
“Why me?” I asked. I was dead serious. I’ve never been good at reconnaissance work. The one time in high school I snuck out a first floor window in the middle of the night, I tumbled to the ground in a thunderous thud. Which left me exploding in a fit of giggles. Certain my mom knew what had happened, I confessed my guilt the next morning over a bowl of Cheerios.
“I’ll pay you five dollars,” Leslie offered.
“What if I wake her up?” I asked, concerned not about losing the payout but the drama that ensues when a two year old sleeping in an unfamiliar home is unexpectedly awakened in the middle of the night by someone other than her mother.
“Just grab it by the head. Whatever you do, don’t I repeat don’t grab near the feet. Jesus, I feel like I’m on an episode of 24. ‘Jack, it’s Chloe. You must go in and get Bug.’ Please Paige, I'm begging you.”
I let out a sigh, placed my book on the bedside table and announced, “I’m going in.”
I waited in the hallway a few moments to make sure Olivia wasn’t rustling about. Confident she was asleep, I slowly opened the door to her room and snuck through the gap. Now on the inside, I glanced every which way as I inched closer to the snoozing tyke. She was passed out on her back clutching her blankie in one hand and her butterfly in the other. Leaning over the edge of the crib, I carefully evaluated the situation. Bug was on it's side. Meaning there was a good chance a foot or multiple feet were depressed. Translation: I had a live one. I took a deep breath, began repeating a silent mantra of ‘don’t fuck up’ and slowly pulled the plastic creature from the cluttered crib. Then Olivia moved.
I froze. I stopped breathing. I pretended I was a tree. A tree holding a purple plastic centipede with colorful feet and the ability to sing the alphabet song. I remained still for what felt like an hour. My right shoulder started to cramp. My left knee started to ache. Not until I was confident Olivia was truly asleep, did I resume my mission. With Bug in toe, I backed up toward the doorway, slipped out into the hallway, closed the door, turned Bug off and retreated to my bedroom.
“Mission accomplished,” I said tossing Bug in Leslie’s direction. “Holy shit, that was stressful.”
“Well, done,” Leslie said as she placed Bug on the floor. “One day you’ll make a great mom. Or a great Jack Bauer.”
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
A Pot of Stew: Part II
For the most part, I think complaining is a total waste of time. I agree it’s liberating to vent but in the end nothing is really accomplished. And for the most part, I feel guilty afterwards. Of course the paper cut on my finger hurts. Especially while typing on my keyboard and squeezing lemon into my water. But it isn’t like I was just diagnosed with PLS. Yeah, see the ultimate downside to having a sick parent isn’t the despair of watching a loved one deteriorate but always having the image of said deterioration lingering in the periphery. It’s the ultimate quit-your-bitching reminder.
Fuck it, I’m complaining. A mere Pot of Stew: Part II. Lucky for you guys, I never bothered to master roman numerals above X so at most there are, wait, someone else figure out the math. I have some stewing to do.
Last June, a client screwed something up which left me screwing something up. I’ll own it. An error was made. I relied on ever changing information from the client and it was hard to keep it all straight. Most of the time even he didn’t know which end was up. Anyway, he rang me last month about a 2006 medical bill totaling $1700. I tried to get the insurance company to cover it. I begged. I pleaded. I offered sexual favors. I’m clearly losing my touch because I found out this morning the insurance carrier has formally denied the claim. End of story. Now the $1700 bill is being forwarded to my attention so I can personally submit payment. This is just how I wanted to spend my tax return.
UPS lost a package. A very important overnight package. There’s record of it being retrieved by a driver but that's all that shows in the tracking history. I called Customer No-Service and was told a tracer would be put on the package. Which as far as I’m concerned is about as effective as someone hanging out in the distribution center and saying “here package-package” while making kissy noises. I wouldn’t usually care so much about an envelope disappearing but this one contained time sensitive paperwork that’s already been delayed for months. And while the delay has never been because of anything I’ve done, I’m always the one patching things up with the client. I’ve eaten so much fucking crow these days, I'm officially shitting feathers.
On Monday morning, I learned that my Palm Pilot died. Okay, fine, it still technically works but there’s a curious blob under the glass that strategically blacks out key sections of the screen. So while I can make out the time of an appointment, I don’t know who I’m seeing or where we’re meeting. In light of my PDA problems, I made an impulse purchase off eBay. There were twenty-six seconds left to the auction, the picture looked pretty and I was feeling lost without my Palm. I’m the girl who’s been PDA dependent since before it was hip. Think Casio. Anyway, in light of my current string of unluck, I have a sinking feeling that what I bought and what I’ll receive will be two completely different things.
I pulled on my favorite slacks this morning. They're a stretch cotton that fit flawlessly. I don’t wear them very often, opting instead to keep them clean for important I-wanna-feel-sexy outings. As I darted for the door sporting my slacks, a t-shirt, a colorful blazer and heeled boots, I realized I was stepping on the hem. Because the pants were sitting lower than usual. Because I’ve lost weight. I went to tighten my belt only to realize I was already on the last possible hole. Listen, I know this is a good thing. I’ve been working out 4-5 times a week and have slashed my caloric intake. Getting smaller was the goal. But now my favorite pants are baggy. For the record, sexy is not synonymous with a saggy crotch.
I just want to go home. I want to cancel my evening plans and retreat to my apartment. I want to kick off my too big pants and curl onto my sofa and feel sorry for myself. Actually, I want to curl onto my sofa and rest my head on his lap and wrap my arm around his thigh. I want him to reach up under my shirt, rub my back, tell me everything will be fine and then lean down and kiss me. Oh heck, I just want him to be here instead of there.
Yeah, well, at least I have my sofa.
Oh, and a compliment. According to five people, my hair looks amazing today. I’ve also just about kicked the sniffles I had last week so I’m back to breathing without sounding like Darth Vadar. And last night Slade finally broke up with Jo. Though just as I was praising the guy for doing something intelligent, he went and showed up at Vicki's picnic with a tramp. And I just finalized a dinner date for my birthday. Which is great because I was otherwise eating a Lean Cuisine at home alone. And it’s beautiful today. Really beautiful. The kind of day that makes me want to take a deep and peaceful breath while glancing up at the clear blue sky.
Yeah, fine, at least I have my sofa and all of that.
Fuck it, I’m complaining. A mere Pot of Stew: Part II. Lucky for you guys, I never bothered to master roman numerals above X so at most there are, wait, someone else figure out the math. I have some stewing to do.
Last June, a client screwed something up which left me screwing something up. I’ll own it. An error was made. I relied on ever changing information from the client and it was hard to keep it all straight. Most of the time even he didn’t know which end was up. Anyway, he rang me last month about a 2006 medical bill totaling $1700. I tried to get the insurance company to cover it. I begged. I pleaded. I offered sexual favors. I’m clearly losing my touch because I found out this morning the insurance carrier has formally denied the claim. End of story. Now the $1700 bill is being forwarded to my attention so I can personally submit payment. This is just how I wanted to spend my tax return.
UPS lost a package. A very important overnight package. There’s record of it being retrieved by a driver but that's all that shows in the tracking history. I called Customer No-Service and was told a tracer would be put on the package. Which as far as I’m concerned is about as effective as someone hanging out in the distribution center and saying “here package-package” while making kissy noises. I wouldn’t usually care so much about an envelope disappearing but this one contained time sensitive paperwork that’s already been delayed for months. And while the delay has never been because of anything I’ve done, I’m always the one patching things up with the client. I’ve eaten so much fucking crow these days, I'm officially shitting feathers.
On Monday morning, I learned that my Palm Pilot died. Okay, fine, it still technically works but there’s a curious blob under the glass that strategically blacks out key sections of the screen. So while I can make out the time of an appointment, I don’t know who I’m seeing or where we’re meeting. In light of my PDA problems, I made an impulse purchase off eBay. There were twenty-six seconds left to the auction, the picture looked pretty and I was feeling lost without my Palm. I’m the girl who’s been PDA dependent since before it was hip. Think Casio. Anyway, in light of my current string of unluck, I have a sinking feeling that what I bought and what I’ll receive will be two completely different things.
I pulled on my favorite slacks this morning. They're a stretch cotton that fit flawlessly. I don’t wear them very often, opting instead to keep them clean for important I-wanna-feel-sexy outings. As I darted for the door sporting my slacks, a t-shirt, a colorful blazer and heeled boots, I realized I was stepping on the hem. Because the pants were sitting lower than usual. Because I’ve lost weight. I went to tighten my belt only to realize I was already on the last possible hole. Listen, I know this is a good thing. I’ve been working out 4-5 times a week and have slashed my caloric intake. Getting smaller was the goal. But now my favorite pants are baggy. For the record, sexy is not synonymous with a saggy crotch.
I just want to go home. I want to cancel my evening plans and retreat to my apartment. I want to kick off my too big pants and curl onto my sofa and feel sorry for myself. Actually, I want to curl onto my sofa and rest my head on his lap and wrap my arm around his thigh. I want him to reach up under my shirt, rub my back, tell me everything will be fine and then lean down and kiss me. Oh heck, I just want him to be here instead of there.
Yeah, well, at least I have my sofa.
Oh, and a compliment. According to five people, my hair looks amazing today. I’ve also just about kicked the sniffles I had last week so I’m back to breathing without sounding like Darth Vadar. And last night Slade finally broke up with Jo. Though just as I was praising the guy for doing something intelligent, he went and showed up at Vicki's picnic with a tramp. And I just finalized a dinner date for my birthday. Which is great because I was otherwise eating a Lean Cuisine at home alone. And it’s beautiful today. Really beautiful. The kind of day that makes me want to take a deep and peaceful breath while glancing up at the clear blue sky.
Yeah, fine, at least I have my sofa and all of that.
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