Another installment from The Codependency Chronicles:

When I left my mother's house yesterday I'd hauled most of the recycleables out to the bin, but left a small pile of them there. With the mom urging me to take off and avoid the rush-hour traffic (it was too late anyway, it turns out), I extracted a promise that she'd do it herself, pronto.

After all, the last thing either of us wanted was to have Mandy tear all the plastic, cardboard and whatnot into itty-bitty pieces and strew them all over the place—necessitating yet one more round of picking up the debris by hand, and then running the vacuum.

And yet, that's exactly what had happened when I got there this afternoon. The dog had also opened an entire bag of potting soil onto the living room carpet, and spread it around. Furthermore, it was a hot day: the place smelled like mouse piss.

(A couple of months ago my mother informed me that there was a mouse in her house. Though was a biology major, and had studied genetics at the graduate level at UCLA, she apparently failed to anticipate what happens when there is a little rodent around, and it manages to find even one friend. And, no: when I showed up with traps a few months ago, she wouldn't allow me to set one of them for her, and come back later for the little mousie corpse. She was going to do it herself. So now I'm doing it, but I need to set many. Unless Cougar Boy takes care of it tomorrow, and gets to rediscover that when mom gets tense, 90% of what one does is wrong. And not just a little bit wrong. Desperately, irrevocably, irretrievably wrong!)

I wasn't particularly happy to see my accomplishments of the previous two days undone, but I got to work cleaning, dusting, straightening, and hauling things around. A few times I asked my mother to get me a beer—which didn't seem unreasonable, in all that heat. (No, I didn't want to turn on the AC. I was trying to air the place out. Did I specify that I'm crazy and codependent?)

But of course the trick with clutterers is that one cannot either (1) touch their things, or (2) ask them to make a decision about the disposition of any of their possessions.

At one point she saw me picking up the second half of a broken chair and taking it toward the garage. "What in the name of God are you doing?" she shrieked.

Ah, my mother. The woman I grew up with, in those bracing pre-Prozac days. How nice to have her back. Really: just like being a teenager again. Without the acne.

"Well," I responded, "due to the fact that it's broken, I was going to take it to the garage. But I won't do that if you want it here in your breakfast nook."

"I want it here," she told me.

"Sure thing. Do you just want this part, or do you want the broken-off seat?"

"I want both parts of it here."

Personally, I think she was confusing me with the dog again, and had just read somewhere about the importance of establishing that one is the "alpha."

A few minutes later I cornered her in the kitchen. "You know," I explained, "I understand that I'm not allowed to throw things away without permission. But not being able to put broken things in the garage without permission is quite a handicap."

"Listen," she replied. "I don't want to discuss this kind of thing with you unless you can get to a better mental place."

I"m working on that right now, eight hours later. The better mental place thing. I took double the normal dosage of Ambien, because the mental place I want to be is unconsciousness. With any luck I'll soon slip away to a happy land in which everyone can be an orphan, with a little hard work and determination . . .

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(Otherwise known as Linguist Guy) relaxes at his house in Santa Monica on a Saturday night . . .

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I wish I were there.

ScanMan writes:

I'm sitting in a colorfully lit tent listening to
guitar music watching ornately costumed people
wandering aimlessly, seeking true purpose.

In the distance, someone's dancing to "Lets do the
Time Warp Again" at the Rocky Horror theme camp.

In the middle of the Nevada desert, there is little
purpose.

I dunno. I think dancing the Time Warp might qualify, in a pinch.

Of course, the name of the song is "The Time Warp." Just in case you're interested. (Hey! How come no one wants to hang around with proofreaders and fact-checkers in his/her spare time? Here's a real-life conversation:

"Would it help you if I were to correct your entries on the household shopping list?"

"No. And it wouldn't help the marriage, either."

No rest for the wicked—or the obsessive-compulsive.)

Have a great time, Mikal and ScanMan. Send lot of larfs & pix.

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"What I really hate is when my husband looks at me while I'm talking and all outward signs point to someone listening. Then I find out a day or two later that he has no recollection of the conversation."

"Hm. I wonder if you could test this by suddenly, in the middle of the conversation—without changing tone at all—talking about your imaginary lover, Alberto. But don't specify "imaginary." Merely switch from a discussion of your son's college prospects to the lovely time you and Alberto had in the sack last week."

I love fireworks in the summer, whether someone is hitting a home run or not.

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It included: (1) more work in the office, which meant coming to terms with The Calculator That Hates Me, and with QuickBooks.

I swear: like learning to drive a clutch again. I felt like I was 17 again. Ick.

(2) Driving across town to take my mother to the chiropractor. I was late in picking her up, so she used the opportunity to give me helpful advice regarding what route to take there, which lanes I should be in on the freeway, and the like. "Okey-dokey," I kept saying. I know she knew I was aggravated, but what can you do? Old habits die hard.

At a certain point I did say, "I think I'll navigate for a while, here."

(3) Dinner back on this side of town with my father, my stepmother, and my husband. Lovely meal, but it made it a long day. Dad, of course, was at his quirky best.

Did I tell you what my best friend in the 80s used to say about my parents? "Five minutes in the same room with either one of them explains sooo much."

I'm not sure she meant that in a good way.

So I'm sorry I'm so dull lately, but I do (sort of) have money in the bank, which is nice. I hate to make it sound like I prefer money to traffic, but . . . well, except for Darrell and a few other Bright Stars out there, the denizens of the blogosphere can't compete with Paying Clients. Not right now.

I'm halfway through re-reading The Half-Blood Prince, in preparation for You-Know-What. And I must get a move on: the husband is line right behind me . . .

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1 Did I tell you what my best friend in the 80s used to say about my parents? "Five minutes in the same room with either one of them explains sooo much." You know, I like stopping by here, and I don't think I want to be banned, so we'll just leave it alone. Yep, thats it, leave it alone. (P.S, Princess, I cleared out Firefox's passwords here, and I used to sign on here as RWB. I for some stupid reason put my first name in the other day, and repeated it. Just wanted you to know that you didn't have ANOTHER idiot lurking. Kinda like the same idiot twice.)

Posted by: RWB at August 02, 2007 03:43 PM (4j8Ry)

2 I have a handful of die-hard "idiots." I like to think my idiots are smarter than anyone else's, too. Nice to have people stopping by, even when I'm not writing. At least, not online

Posted by: Attila Girl at August 02, 2007 03:48 PM (VgDLl)

3 Any reader do Chinese characters? I wonder if "China rocks!" or some-such could get a billion web-hits with a little word-of-mouth on China sites. Imagine AG's ad rates skyrocketing! Imagine LMA cracking the "top-ten" websites! Imagine! Just think how much premium gin that could mean!

Posted by: Darrell at August 02, 2007 08:29 PM (1qZqZ)

4 Darrell, spoken like a true capitalist! I'm proud of you!

Posted by: RWB at August 03, 2007 12:28 PM (4j8Ry)

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And I can hear the couple at the next table talking. They are talking low, but my hearing is good.

"When you do that," he says, "I feel ike it's a giant 'fuck you.'"

"We've got to work on our communication," she replies. "I didn't mean it as a big 'fuck you' at all. Just a little one."

I hope they work it out: it's more art than science, no?

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It's a long story, involving some blogging business, a respectable amount of housework that probably should have been put off a few more days, an interesting twist in my mother's condition, a lesson on QuickBooks for my Tuesday night job that went on until 10:45, late-night shopping for two households (separately, but in the same two-hour span, and on two different sides of town), and juggling clients.

But I've been up for 22 hours at this point, and that will probably do for now. Unless, you know—I'm about to see the face of G-d.

(Never fear, Jer—I'll still meet my deadlines. What a nasty business, though, when clients read one's blog.

Hm. Of course, it could be worse. Though not by much. Hi, Dad.)

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They get to see penises?

h/t: Professor Purkinje

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What if you were mildly allergic to your own sweat, and it was over 95 degrees in the shade outside?

That would be annoying, no?

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Darrell—my very favoritest stalker—send me his final birthday shipment. It contained a lovely gin pen that LIGHTS UP! And a mini-martini shaker, and a few bottle openers (though these actually featured vodka and rum brands on them).

All in all, quite a lovely birthday haul. I wore the big scary wraparound Tanqueray shades to work today: it turns out that although the Terminator look doesn't do too much for me, these were very useful sunglasses.

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Now, as a former hard-core liberal, I find this rather difficult to accept.

After all, didn't Linda Ronstadt's Livin' in the USA persuade us that Governor Moonbean was, um, sort of—part of—the zeitgeist? I mean, I didn't really go to high school, but I remember them both being discussed in rather hallowed tones in the coffee shop across the street, and "Blue Bayou" getting rather heavy play on the jukebox, along with the Bowie version of "Knock on Wood, and "Fight the Power," by the Isley Brothers.

How about we lay it on the line: no urban denizen has the right to tell us what the capabilities of our fireplaces ought to be—particularly here in California, wherein we are subject to rather extreme seismic activity, and may want to stay warm when a Big One—or even a medium-size one—hits?

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It used to be that if I were late in making a grilled meal, we might resort to dining by candlelight, or end up dodging moths and various insects—some of them larger than I am.

But I was late with dinner a week ago, when my mom was over to enjoy grilled kabobs, and we lingered well into the dusk. As a matter of fact, A the H turned on the patio lights (all of them white—he hadn't gotten around to switching them to yelllow/bug-rsistant) for the summer.

We were kind of wondering why everything was going so swimmingly, and then I remembered (or maybe my husband did) that over the past two years we've been acquiring a lot of bats. Even the painting of the exterior didn't really unseat them: they merely went away, and then came back.

Bats are much better than lizards, for a whole bunch of reason, including (1) the fact that lizards don't fly. They just don't. They sort of whirl around on the pavement, suddenly, as if trying to induce cardiac arrest in human beings, but to no good avail, and (2) bats are great. Sure: they do sort of fly by at dusk, in a manner vaguely reminiscent of mice with wings. But they aren't startling in the way that lizards are, and they make balcony dining about a gaziliion times more pleasant.

So: Lizard are inept. Bats rawk. And owls positively rule, but that's a story for another day.

By the way, Baby—whose idea was this Green Acres lifestyle, anyway? It must have been yours: "Darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue."

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Posted by: Attila Girl at July 12, 2007 11:51 PM (VgDLl)

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. . . on the eve of Independence Day. Especially when part of the deal is an involuntary suspension for 30 days.

And since we're a nonprofit corporation directly linked to a 12-step group, the people I had there as witnesses saw it more as an intervention than an HR issue. But that was part of the point, too: it was a good cop, bad cop routine.

I was the bad cop.

I do not like being the bad cop. On the way home I wished that I could cry; I was sure I would feel better if I could only do that. But my eyes were dry, and there was no release to be found.

On the other hand, every advisor I had—personal, spiritual, and business-related—told me I was doing the right thing.

"Wow," one person remarked as we left the interview. "That was a tough intervention. I could really use a drink."

"Yeah, me too," I told her. I'm having it now.

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My boobs ache, so I figure I'm in for a week or so of being super-bitchy, followed by a week of being super-inconvenienced. Until some week or months in the future, when it happens all over again.

Faster, please.

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"Whatup, mah shiksa homey?"

"Not much. How's it hangin', Heeb?"

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I found the courthouse today, and parked nearby, adjacent to the Queen of Angels Cathedral. I walked over, and was told that, no, it wasn't the correct place at all, but Hill Street was only a few blocks away.

Once I got onto Hill Street I realized that the security guard had spoken the truth, but failed to mention that Courthouse #2 was actually at the far end of downtown—beyond the jewelry district, beyond Staples Center. So I ended up walking miles to get where I needed to go; there was a point beyond which I figured it would take just as long to go retreive the car, and then I'd have to pay twice to park it.

Yeah. I was tempted to take a cab back the thirty blocks or whatever, but we don't really have cabs in L.A. So that saved me money, too. And I got a terrific workout, some fabulous pics of Los Angeles landmarks, a few story ideas, a large blister, and a slight sunburn.

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"Cool," he responded. "Are they artistic? Are they gay? Are they high-tech?"

The questions came in a quick rapid-fire, and I answered, just as swiftly, "yes, yes, and no."

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You'll never see this. But if I make a note of it now, I might remember it next year.

If I write it down on a piece of paper? Not a chance.

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It was not a happy discovery.

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"You're being careful with it, aren't you, Honey? That stuff is speed."

"Just the tiny doses you suggested: much less than you take. Really, a very marginal amount, and I'll get a shrink to sign off on it in July when my insurance kicks in. I'm not snorting it or anything."

"It's funny, because you're such a classic case of ADD."

"Say what?"

"Even as a child."

"Mom, I specifically asked you a year ago whether you thought I'd had ADD as a kid, and you told me I didn't fit the profile, but my brother did."

"Oh, yes. Well, apparently there are two types of ADD personalities. My psychiatrist explained it to me: you were the other type: dreamy, seemingly out of it. You know."

"Okay. I guess I do know. Thanks for the drugz. Looks like the guys in the family are sticking with Prozac, so far."

"So far. Though I really think your brother should try Ritalin."

Parents. Can't live with 'em, and can't ship 'em off to Mars. Can't get 'em away from the "better living through chemistry" idea.

My mom raised me not to even take an aspirin when I had a headache: there was tremendous emphasis on the virtue of suffering and whatnot. We got extra moral points for going to school when we were sick. So much for that Anglo-Saxon stoicism.

I've decided there's little virtue in suffering, and even less in being an insufferable bitch. Still, The Mom could have said something: most people in Debtor's Anonymous do have some form of ADD—it makes us allergic to paperwork, you know.

This autumn my mother turns the age at which her own mother died. I anticipate that my mom will be around into her nineties, though, as long as she maintains a good attitude and keeps her blood pressure down. (Yes, her internist signed off on the Ritalin: do you think we're idiots?)

And my grandmother could well reach 100. That's the new 30, isn't it?

I plan to hang out as long as I have internet access, or at least my books and the ability to write; after that's gone, I'll ask the Lord to take me.

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