Someone put some tonic water in my fucking gin. Fucking commies.

Translation: my mother just called, at 9:20 p.m., to tell me she'll be simply devastated if, when my husband and I drive up this Friday to the Bay Area for my cousin's wedding on Saturday, we stay at a hotel.

Approved places to stay: at my aunt's house; at my other cousin's condo.

Has she asked any of them if it's important to them that they put us up? No. She's getting around the imputation that she's "people pleasing" by telling me that it's her feelings, personally, that will be hurt if I "remove myself from the family." (This removal process is normally done by taking time off from work on Thursday to get one of the cars tuned up, and then taking another day off on Friday and loading the husband, his crutches, and his cast into his car, driving 400 miles, attending a wedding [both of us], plus a rehearsal dinner [me], and then turning around on Sunday to drive back to L.A.)

Of course, what she's asking is crazy. I want to check my husband into a hotel on Friday evening, make sure he has a nice pay-per-view to watch, and then attend the rehearsal dinner (which I found out about mere days ago).

But from my point of view, it's not just this craziness: it's every other crazy thing she's made an issue of since I was . . . well, since I was born.

"What do you want to do about it?" asks Attila the Hub.

"I want to sleep on it," I tell him. "I want to have a discussion with you tomorrow, and get your take on it. And then I want to tell her to . . ."

"So then we'll address it tomorrow, after we aren't so tired," he concludes.

"Good plan," I tell him. "Did you think of this yourself?"

Mom. How can such a sweet, wonderful whip-smart woman be such a twisted loon? Do you have to get special credentials?

Readers: you know how it is, right? If you give in on some of these crazier ideas, life turns into the "maximum security prison" experience: you're bringing them cigarettes. You're doing their laundry. (Wait . . . I already do her laundry.)

Time to set limits, I suppose.

Though I've certainly been given to understand that all mothers are somewhat crazy, and it's simply a question of degree.

I also understand that it's important to avoid matricide, because one is often judged by a jury of one's peers—all of whom somehow managed to avoid that same temptation.

I'll be 44 this summer. You'd think I'd have a handle on this by now.

I do not. What I do have is more Tanqueray to dump into my drink, thereby refreshing it and restoring to it the equilibrium I desire in my own psyche.

Policy recommendations: don't answer the phone after 9:00. It is either some friend who wants you to play psychotherapist to him/her, or a parent, who would like you to do something truly self-destructive to prove your love.

Just let the machine pick it up.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 08:51 PM | Comments (13) | Add Comment
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