Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Not in the conventional "Hey baby, needa date?" kinda way. More like the "if you hire me, I will be the best nurse this organization has ever seen...and I will blow you on all fours just to prove it" sort of way.
Don't ever think you have never sold your soul or your dignity while at a job interview.
First of all, the constant smiling. Hello? Bad memories of prom queen days! It HURTS, because I am not used to being so fucking happy. I am more a frown to sneer kind of girl. Smiling...it harms my delicate facial muscles. It exposes my radiantly perfect teeth, which by the by, we can thank Esther for...and six grand...and Dr. Merritt of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. However, I don't feel everyone deserves my delicious smile. So I don't like giving it to the masses. Next? All that "tell me about yourself" crap. Do you really think I give a rats ass who YOU are let alone who you think I am???
For serious, yo. I don't care. You don't care. Let's cut through the bullshit, eh?
I don't care about your company. You don't care about my past experience. You just want to know if I can do the fucking job. I just want to know if you are going to pay my fat ass what I'm worth. Let's call a spade a spade here. You don't want to be interviewing me anymore than I want to be interviewed. I don't want to be dressed up. You don't want to talk to me when you should be eating lunch. I don't want to hand you my shiny new resume. You don't want to chit chat with me about what a FABOO place this is to work...mainly because you don't really feel that way anyway. You'd rather be sticking hot pokers in your eyes or a hot curling iron up your ass rather than be at this job. Yet, you sit there, the perfect picture of nursey-nurse, asking me pointless questions that you aren't really listening to the answers for anyway.
Oh, and hey! Public Service Announcement from CP to anyone looking for a job. If you are ever going to fail ANY test in your whole life...let it be your drivers test. Let it be your algebra final. Let it be a test of your will!
Don't let it be your drug test.
Yes, I failed. No, I am not a pothead. What I am is a rapid cycling, highly functional bipolar quasi schizophrenic who ingests hallucinogenics most of the day just to keep me functioning at a much higher level of extraordinary than most of you will ever achieve! True that, babies! And your girl, CP??? She is in MANIC mode, Ladies and Gents. Whippin' around the house like Taz! Buzzin' like a bee full of heroin. Drvin' like Mario Andretti to the birth of his first baby! Whoot. Flippy dippy, y'all! Flippy Dippy! Anyway, boing...there I stand, peeing into a cup. I hand my cup of juicy warm urine. I was checking out my suave "sexy librarian" look in the mirror when the woman who is drug testing me goes "Whuh-Oh!" Um, Whuh oh? Alrighty.
"Came back positive for an opiate of some sort," she says in a 'tsk tsk' sort of way.
"I am going to need a full list of the medications you take."
"That's sort of invasive, don't you think?"
"Nothing official," she assures me, "just off the record kind of stuff. I need to know what you are taking so that we can justify hiring someone who failed a drug test."
"Okay, well," I begin, "I am on Prozac for depression, Lamictal for the rapid cycling bipolar disorder, Geodon for the Schizomania, Percoset from the migraines I get from these other medications...oh, and Ambien and/or Trazadone for when I can't sleep...with a side order of Klonopin, for when I have anxiety issues."
"Hey," I say with a big smile, "you're looking at me like I'm crazy! Wait, of course you are...because I am!"
I start laughing hysterically at my little joke to ease the tension.
She looks like I just bitchslapped her in the face with a salami and started stuttering like she ingested a jackhammer.
"Hehehehhehehehehehheheh," she replied.
"I'm not getting this job, am I?"
"We'll call you," she says.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
CP: "In a minute, Mom."
E: "I'm not going to stand here with this coffee pot all day!"
C: "Then, put it down! I'll be there in a minute."
E: "You are so unappreciative of the things that I do!"
So, I come downstairs. She's standing there with her coffeepot in her hand, rolling her eyes.
E: "I try to make you some breakfast and this is how you act."
C: "Mom, it's just coffee."
E: "Fine! Cook for yourself next time!"
In the supermarket:
"CP, what's the difference between this regular cheese and the lite cheese?"
I look at the package.
"Well, it says the lite cheese is made with skim milk and is half the calories."
"I like skim milk," she says.
"Well then, this cheese is probably good for you then."
"But, I like regular cheese."
"Then get the regular cheese, Ma."
"Why are you encouraging me to gain weight? You should be helping me to lose weight and eat healthier! What, you want me to die early?"
(Hm. I'm thinking...now would be a good time.)
Mom and I in the hospital, talking to the surgeon after Dad's open heart surgery.
"So, he has a cow valve in there now?"
"Yes, Esther, he absolutely does. And it is the best one for this type of surgery. He'll do just fine."
"What kind of cow did it come from?"
Doc looks at me as if to say, is she serious? I shrug my shoulders and nod.
"Well, we don't know what kind of cow it comes from, Esther. All we know is that the valve is working very well at this time."
"It's not possible that the cow could have had mad cow disease, right?"
"And he can still eat meat?"
"Why couldn't he eat meat?"
"Well, because, you know...he has a valve from a cow. I thought there might be like an interaction or something."
Friday, February 23, 2007
Dad is fine so far. Heart is beating again and as it should. That can change, so he is there for 72 hours of observation.
While we wait, I decided to leave you a few "Estherisms" for your viewing pleasure.
Esther: "You know, I don't think I want to visit your dad today."
CP: "Why not?"
E: "I just need a break from the drive."
C: "You haven't been driving. I've been driving."
E: "I know, but sitting there in the car for the whole forty minutes. It's killing my back."
C: "I'm sure the 9 hours of open heart surgery didn't do much for Dad's back either."
E: "Still, I am going to call him and tell him I need a day off. Wanna go to the movies?"
Esther, my brother Brad and myself, at a Jewish deli. Very nice man named "Juan" is our server.
Esther: "I would like a fatty pastrami on rye. VERY fatty. No lean."
Juan: "Yes ma'am, fatty. No lean."
E: "Did. You. Understand. Me? Comprende?" (speaking slowly to him as if he is retarded).
J: "Yes, ma'am. I understood."
E: "Okay, I wasn't sure. You are obviously spanish, so I didn't think you knew what pastrami was."
Brad, Esther and I...in a sushi bar with asian server.
Esther: "Do you have anything in here like steak or chicken or something other than oriental food? Something you can eat with a fork, not a chopstick?"
Esther to CP, telling me more than I ever needed to know about my dad.
Esther: "You know, your father was quite the lover back in the day. He was very wild and adventurous. I wish I was the experimenting whore type...like you...so I could have had a bit more fun with him."
(Uh, yeah. Compliment on the left hand, smack in the face with the right.)
Esther, after seeing the movie "Because I Said So" with CP.
Esther: "So, tell me. How DOES it feel to have an orgasm? I don't think I ever got one from your father. Would I even realize it if I did? I would masturbate but I don't think I would like it as much as shopping on QVC."
If this isn't enough to make me need a place like FindCounseling.com, I don't know what is. So far, in Florida, they have Miami Therapists, which is great for when I am on the other coast with Esther and my Grandmonster, Evelyn, the one who spawned Esther. Hopefully, they will expand to the Tampa market very soon! I like the way you can read about the person who is going to have to listen to my Estherisms at every session. I can't have any old therapist out of the Yellow Pages. No, I need one distinctly to manage my Bipolar Disorder and obvious Esther issues that need caring for. Personally, I am glad services like this exist. I think I shall pick about 40 therapists and let them battle over me. One of them is bound to write a book on my life with Esther.
Maybe I can get a percentage of the profits?
Monday, February 19, 2007
He underwent a nine hour surgery to replace his aortic valve with a bovine (cow) valve. The surgery was very successful. Daddy has good color in his face. He is doing so well that I started calling him "Bessie", asking him if he would like to tie a bell around his neck. When he says he is hungry, I ask him if he would like to graze in a pasture. My mother asked if she could milk him, which I found disturbing on many levels. We told him he could no longer eat steak, out of courtesy to his ancestors. He asked me to help him into bed. I told him I wasn't in the "Moooooo-d".
You get the point.
I went into New York on Tuesday and come home Thursday, after the surgery on Wednesday. Esther begged...no, seriously, BEGGED...for me to stay. I have never seen the beast so vulnerable. I had a class on IV therapy starting on Friday, but I relented and stayed with her until yesterday. Believe it or not, she was relatively nice. For Esther, that is. She did manage to slip in a few jabs.
"Oh, honey. Do you want me to make you an appointment at my hairdresser? You could use some color!"
(Wow. A swift uppercut to the gut. That had to hurt!)
"CP, I have these weight loss tapes. I never really needed to use them, but perhaps you can use them?"
(Ooooh, and a swift right to the jaw! Esther is sure on her game tonight, Folks!)
"CP, I have these jeans that are too big for me. Do you want them?"
(And she's down! She's down! Esther wins by TKO! Esther wins by KNOCKOUT!!! And the crowd is going wild!)
But, on the upside, she did tell me she loved me several times. She did thank me for staying longer (although, she felt the need to tell my brother that the reason I stayed is because I "lost my ticket". God forbid she admits that she wanted me to stay!)
I have so many more Esther stories to share, but for now, I am so tired from this trip. Emotionally drained, if you will. I wanted to get online as soon as I could to 1) Thank you all for the incredible wishes and good thoughts. You are all so good to me and I can't ask for better friends. I read each and every comment and you all made me cry. It feels so good to know you have friends who genuinely care about me, my family and our welfare. I love you all for that. 2) I wanted to update all of you on how Daddy was doing. He was supposed to be released this Wednesday, but my mother is making him stay until Friday. She told the doctor he "has to be able to walk stairs, pee on his own and be able to pick up the dog poop in the backyard" before he can come home.
She's a bucket of love, isn't she?
This week will probably be solely devoted to Esther stories, so if you are a fan of hers, please make sure to visit often this week. After over a month of not speaking to her, I realize how much I missed her.
If for no other reason, she makes for excellent blog posts.
Thank you all, again and again and again for all your concern, heartfelt wishes and the love you have expressed. You make me feel like I have extended family all over the world...
I am a very lucky girl to have you all.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Prayers, thoughts, good wishes, karma, voodoo, spirtual reach, positive energy.
I will take all of those right now. Please.
You know if I chose to slide back into the belly of the beast (aka Esther) then you surely understand the gravity of our situation.
Please. Hope. I only ask for hope. I need that right now. Tell a friend. Tell ten friends.
I need all the help you all can muster up right now. My daddy is so sick. And, I am ill prepared to say goodbye to him just yet. So please. It's all I ask of you.
Love and so much more.
Friday, February 09, 2007
It may be a weekend. May be a week. I don't know. I just need a break from this computer. I have taken a few blows in my personal life recently. I am not feeling "CP" like right now. You guys don't deserve less than that.
Please be well, happy and healthy. All of you. Love.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
All week long, Sam is panicking.
"Will I get money back? How much will I get back? Do you know when I will get it back? How long does it take to come back? Am I going to end up owing money? How much will it be? How much do you think I'll get back, Mom? How much? How much? How much?"
To the point where I want to kill the girlchild.
I can't take this abuse of my brain any longer. Every single day this week, the questions remained the same. So did my answer.
"Sammi, I cannot possibly know what you are getting back. It is going to depend on how you and Trevor file your taxes. You are either married, or married at a single withholding or just plain single. I have NO CLUE what it will be."
"OMG, are you KIDDING? I have to get Trevor's things too? But he's in England! They don't pay taxes in England!"
I wonder who dropped the girlchild on her brain shortly after I gave birth to her.
"That is why you are going to my accountant, Dan," I tell the girl. "He will let you know what the best filing solution is for you."
"Wait, what," she replies. "I have to do filing? Like, in a filing cabinet or in a box or something?"
*insert Mommy sigh here*
"No, baby. It's called 'filing your taxes' when you go to your accountant and give him all your papers so that he can process your tax return."
"What papers," she asks.
"What do you mean, 'what papers'? All those forms I gave you last week. The two W-2's and the one from your student loan! That stack of papers!"
"Oh, I don't know where they are."
"Sammi," I said, trying to be patient with my ditz of a daughter, "you can't file your taxes without that paperwork."
"But you said I didn't have to DO any filing. You said that DAN does that!"
*another Mommy sigh...and an Advil*
I sat the girl down and explained the entire procedure to her, from beginning to end. Lingo, jargon, terminology...the works. I explained to her that filing is not to literally file, but rather to turn in paperwork for the accountant to process. I let her know that I couldn't possibly tell her how much she is going to get back, if anything or when it will arrive.
She finally got it. She finds her paperwork.
"Look Mommy," she says, completely delighted with herself, "I found the papers!"
She begins to rip open the envelope to her UNOPENED W-2 forms. I wait. Patiently. I have been dreaming of this moment all week long. I wait. I watch. And then...I pounce.
"OH MY GOD! SAMMI!!!! WHAT DID YOU DO???"
Her eyes open wide, the papers fall from her hands and her mouth is like a big round "O" in the middle of her face.
"What! What's the matter??? What did I do???"
"Did you just take the W-2's out of the envelopes," I ask her, feigning horror.
"Yeah. I did! Why???"
"Great move, Sam," I say to her sarcastically. "Now your forms are no longer valid."
"You can't use them now," I said. "You have to give them to the tax preparer completely sealed or you forfeit any money you are due back!"
"Oh. My. GAWWWWWWWWWD. MOM??? Why didn't you tell me that before??? I so didn't know!!! Can't we just tell the guy I didn't know? Can't we just tell him I never did this before? Oh my God, Mom! What am I going to do? Can I glue them shut?"
"Of course you can't glue them shut," I reply, matter of factly. "That's tampering with government property. You can go to jail for that."
She stares at me with this look of absolute dismay and horror. Suddenly, I see the lightbulb go on over her pretty little (empty) head.
"You're screwing with me, aren't you," she said.
I would have answered her, but I was laughing too hard.
A mother lives for moments like this.
Monday, February 05, 2007
If I hear one more stinkin' ounce of MEOW from anyone, I am going to tear someones head off their neck and literally shit down their throat. I think that women are a little overly sensitive.
Case in point?
The Blog Awards. I cannot believe the way women lose their minds because people don't like their blog. I cannot get over the absolute childish behavior that goes on during these events. I must be one really secure bitch, because not only do I give a rat's ass what people think of my blog, but I don't bother to push for my blog to be awarded anything...ever. Sure, I whored myself out during 25peeps, cause that was fun. That was my picture, not my blog. And, quite frankly, I am superbly stunning and my ass deserves to be plastered from coast to coast as the fat chick you should aspire to looking like.
Please do not call me conceited. It is convinced. I have very, very healthy self esteem. Probably to the point of delusional. That's the great thing about being me, well, that amongst a million other things. Even when I am having a bad hair day, it's always better than most womens great hair days! Yes, I can say that.
And that's my point. This is my blog. I can say whatever the hell I want here. If I want to tell you the sky is purple, then by golly, it's purple. If I want to tell you I am Cindy Crawford, then I am. How the hell do you know what I am or what I'm not? How do you know my sky isn't purple in this corner of the world? I slept with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie...and that baby of theirs? Yeah, she's mine. Tom Cruise once barked on my front lawn all night til I rubbed his belly and sent him home to Katie. Matthew McConaughey once showered in my home.
Okay, that one is hard to believe. I'll grant you that one. Not the "in my home" part. More like the "showered" part.
I have read too many blogs lately talking about the stress the authors are feeling to bring the funny or cowtow to their audience. Many people stop blogging because of it, or suffer blogger burnout. They feel the need to blog daily, almost to a compulsion, for fear of losing their readership.
This is not what I am about.
Scroll through my posts. Some have 60 comments. Some have 11. A few have over 100. Does it matter to me? Not at all. First of all, I know many people read but don't comment. I am not going to have the typical tantrum and beg for people to delurk and prove their love of my blog. I don't need that kind of ego inflation. But, the thing I really want to address are the people who feel that everyone must love them all the time. Newsflash! Not everyone has the same taste in bloggery goodness. One of the best rated blogs on the web, Dooce, makes me cringe. I simply do not see her appeal. Why would I say something like that?
Because I don't believe in mincing words and I surely don't feel the need to cower under my opinions.
When you guys come here to read me, I am hoping that you know you are always going to get CP, the real deal, sometimes shrouded in greatness and othertimes, vulnerable and serious. You will always get honesty. Perhaps too much at times. The people in my sidebar are my genuine daily reads. There are others, and those are in my favorites. Some blogs I find really interesting I don't put in my sidebar, because I think they may be a bit much for a lot of people.
I talk openly about my job, my family, my life situations, my mother and my illness. I have nothing to hide and save for my pseudonym for my husband, I generally use real names in my posts.
I wish people would remember that everything you say on your blog is not going to be the perfect fit for everyone. Tommy Lee may slide real easily into the cavernous Pamela Anderson...but would cause me some serious pain, ya know? Sue me for libel? They can't. It's the truth. I've seen the tape and my gynocologist would testify to the virginal tightness that is the royal golden cooze of mine!
Don't reach for the funny. Don't beg for it. Don't try to presume that everyone is going to like your blog. They won't. Maybe people just don't get you. Maybe a younger reader won't quite understand the trials and tribulations of the older writer. Maybe a younger writer won't appeal to the older reader. Or, maybe your shit is simply trash and no one likes it or you for that matter.
Why does it matter? Why do you care?
When you started this blog, you started it for you. Don't lie, bitches. You said to yourself "I am going to start a blog as my own personal outlet for my feeeeeeelings." Then, some asshole read your shit. They commented. You were like...wow! People like me! Then you wrote something else. Now three people commented. Maybe even some dumb schmuck put you on their sidebar. Holy crap! Ego Boost! Straight to your head! Now you are trying to think of every single funny thing that ever happened in your life. You stick your blog into 23492387 search engines. You add a counter, a stat meter and some cool hyperlinks. You create a header and then, a template! You find yourself answering every single comment...and now, your blog no longer belongs to you.
It belongs to your readers.
Eventually, you create another blog. A more secretive one, because you realize that the blog you intended to be your creative outlet is now an utter attention whore.
Go ahead. Tell me that's not you. Lie to me. See where that gets you.
Some of you spend more time commenting on others blogs than you do posting on your own. Nothing wrong with that. You like to see what your friends are up to or perhaps their lives are more interesting than yours. You are living vicariously through them. Whatever.
The point is, no need to get catty. No need to toss out insipid and ridiculous remarks at people who don't get you...or who you don't get. If you feel that you would rather shove a hot curling iron up your own ass, sans lube, instead of reading someones blog...that's YOUR opinion. You are entitled to it. Don't send your minions out to attack the person whose opinion doesn't mesh with yours. And seriously, don't go to that persons blog and start a little petty war in the comment section.
How utterly silly. Seriously. I have an 11 year old and a 19 year old who wouldn't even stoop to those kind of lows. (Although, I might...if provoked)
I don't see this going on with men as much as I do with women. Men whose blogs are criticized tend to shrug it off. Oh well. Can't please everyone. Women? Nah. Women take that shit very personally. You call their blog shitty, you might as well be calling their kids fucking nose picking trolls. Truthfully, you can call my kids nose picking trolls. I don't care what y'all think of my kids. My children are beautiful. I know that in my heart. You can call my husband a bald stupid fuck. And that may be...but he's MY stupid, bald fuck.
Of course, you could always call me a fat, ugly bitch.
But, then...you'd be lying to both me and yourself. Why bother?
All I am saying is that there are a lot more important things to get worked up over than who likes your blog and who doesn't. Take that energy and focus it on charitable issues. Or better yet, take your fat ass out for a run. Get your flatchested self some implants. Cut your long straggly nappy hair or get your ghetto nails trimmed up! You might want to clear that acne up or do something about that snaggletoothed lookin' mouth you got going on there. Shave that hairy back or please, do something about that ear wax pouring out of your shit. Try working on your heart, your mind and your attitude before you spend every single waking moment worrying about who does and doesn't like your piece of shit blog. WHO THE HELL CARES???
In ten years from now...are people going to remember you for your blog?
Probably not, but they will remember your snaggly ass yellow toenails for decades to come.
Throw some Lamisil on those bitches.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
In Florida, we have had a recent problem with our police department and their use of tasers.
For those of you who are not familiar with what a Taser is (click link to view one), it is a piece of equipment, commonly referred to as a "stun gun", that can fire a bolt of electricity into an offender from a distance (as opposed to the stun guns of old, where you had to make contact with the perpetrator) and shock them with up to 50,000 volts of electricity.
Want to see one in action?
Lately, we have had a rash of Taser mishaps in Florida, ranging from serious injury to death.
The most recent of these events took place in Fort Pierce, Florida, where there has been two stun gun deaths in the course of less than a year.
Now, bear in mind that what this normally would have resulted in would have been gun violence. The man was obviously unstable and the police would have only had their weapons at their disposal to take care of this individual. However, you do see how someone with cardiac history would be in a great deal of trouble if they were to be tasered, right?
Just before 11 a.m., Douglas John Ilten, 45, pulled into the
Pilot Travel Center at 7150 Okeechobee Road in a Budget rental truck filled with musical instruments. He began ranting and tossing items from the truck, Baldwin said.
A witness flagged down officer Hall Solomon, who briefly
struggled with Ilten before handcuffing him and placing him
in the back of a patrol car. Because department policy dictates that
suspects be searched for weapons before being taken to jail, Solomon waited for officer Scott Ceckanowicz to arrive as backup before removing Ilten from the car and searching his clothing.
At that point, Baldwin said, Ilten's tirade intensified and the
6-foot, 200-pound man began violently resisting officers' attempts to search him and restrain his legs.
Ceckanowicz fired his Taser gun in "drive stun" mode at least
twice, meaning an electrical shock was issued without the accompanying darts, Baldwin said.
Moments after the discharges, the officers rolled Ilten over and
noticed he was not breathing, Baldwin said. They performed CPR until
paramedics arrived, but Ilten died at Lawnwood Regional Medical Center & Heart Institute.
Some of you may say, "Well, good! If the person had been cooperative with the police, they wouldn't have gotten tasered!" Some of you may think this is inhumane.
I can share my own personal experience with a taser. Back in 1993, I was having a seizure. It was a very severe grand mal seizure which afterward, left me confused and disoriented. I was enraged, screaming, hurling things around and becoming dangerous to myself and others. My ex husband called the police, not to have me arrested, but to subdue me until I could be transported to the hospital. The police came and, instead of assessing the situation of an ill person, they proceeded to use pepper spray to blind me. This only served to enrage me further and now, I was running around blindly, still shrieking and almost ran into oncoming traffic.
That is when the police utilized their taser on me.
Bet your ass it stopped me dead in my tracks. However, it also induced another seizure, due to the electrical currents. The seizure nearly killed me, caused calcium deposits on my brain and left me seriously damaged afterward. So much so, that I could not use my right hand for a time.
Am I angry about it?
Not at all.
Truth be known, I feel that the police did the only thing they could in this situation. I was out of control and they needed to subdue me. Before tasers, their only choice would have been to shoot at me. It is more than likely that I would have been killed had that been their only alternative. In fact, I believe that they probably saved my life by tasering me, because I ran into oncoming traffic on a very busy four lane street. Had they not pulled a preventative measure, I would have been hit by a car.
I am a big fan of tasers as both a measure of self-defense and as an option to our police departments. The interesting thing is, you are more likely to be able to purchase a gun in the state you live in before you could ever purchase a stun gun or taser for your own personal use. In some states, the use of pepper spray (MACE) is illegal as well.
It brings a mixed message from the government. Is it alright to shoot a person who is commiting a crime against you, but not alright to stun them until the police arrives?
What's your take on this? Any personal experiences...or am I the only sociopath out here?
Friday, February 02, 2007
Esther and I haven't uttered a word to one another since the Christmastime debacle of 2006. I have been a better person for it. I stay out of her life, she stays out of mine. It's been grand, if only for the lack of blog fodder.
Esther does not disappoint.
My father is still in the hospital. I hear, via third party, that he will be going in for open heart surgery. This devastates my 19 year old daughter. She is very close to her grandfather and she is positively frightened out of her mind that something is going to happen to him. Truth be known, I feel the same way. He is very weak and his heart is in serious trouble. His cardiologist told my mother for years that if he doesn't get on a different lifestyle routine of diet and exercise, his heart was going to give out.
My mothers idea of diet and exercise is sending my father out for an Entenmann's chocolate fudge cake at 1am.
Hotband and I are on the couch, watching television when all of a sudden I heard hysterical crying and screaming coming from my daughters bedroom. I jump up and run into her room. She is holding her cellphone, sobbing heavily. I thought she was about to tell me my father died.
"I want you two to talk again," she wails between sobs. "You two need to be there for one another right now."
I hear Esthers gaping maw yelling, "I won't talk to her. She's a nasty fuck. I feel very bad that you're crying, Sam, but I won't talk to that cunt."
That cunt? Moi? Surely she gests.
This only makes my daughter cry harder. I grab the phone out of her hand, pass it over to my husband and say "talk to her for a minute". "NO," my daughter screams at me. "I want YOU to talk to her!!!" I go to hug her to calm her down. She pushes me off of her and tells me not to hug her and if I loved her, I would talk to her grandmother.
"If something happens to grandpa," she cried, "you need to be there for each other."
I walk out into the living room to find my husband. After all, I did stick him within the belly of the beast. If nothing else, I should relieve him of this. I follow my mothers caw to the garage where I see my husband holding his head in his hands while she trumpets in his ear like an angry elephant.
"She told me I'm crazy," screams my mother about me, "I am not fucking crazy. I am as normal as normal can be. I am as normal as any other crazy person out there!"
You said it, Esther. Not me.
"I have PLENTY of people who LOVE me, that I should NOT have to bother with someone who doesn't," she says with the aloof tone of a self-centered Jew broad. At least she's consistent.
I grab the phone out of my husbands hands.
"Look, Mom, " I begin, "you can't pull this shit. He is MY father and if something is wrong with him, I shouldn't have to find out through my brother, my uncle or my daughter. You tell ME. Would you like it if your grandchildren were in the hospital and I didn't tell you...???"
"Hello??? Would you like it if I didn't tell you???"
"OH YEAH, the silent treatment. THAT'S really fucking mature, Esther."
"No, you know what's mature," she barked, "what's mature is that letter you wrote me, telling me that I am sick!!"
"Right, I agree. It was mature."
"That is NOT what I meant!"
"Whatever, Mom. I am just telling you that I have a right to be told, by you, if something is going on with my father."
"Fine. If anything changes, I will call your HUSBAND, not you."
"Alrighty then. Fine."
She hangs up on me. It's about 3 minutes before Grey's Anatomy starts and I know she wouldn't compromise that show for a conversation with me...even when we were talking.
"I tried," I said to Sam.
"I know," she said. "Thank you."
"Sammi, I just don't have the relationship with her that you and I have. She and I never got along. She hated me from birth. From conception, because she never wanted to be pregnant. We can't choose our parents, Sam. I mean, I feel the obligation to love her, because she is my mother, but I don't like her. She doesn't like me. She's abused me mentally and physically since I am a little girl. I made the decision to stop talking to her because it is better for me. I would never interfere with your relationship with her...but it's just in my best interest to stay away from her. "
"S'okay, Mom," she mumbles and goes back to her room.
My heart breaks. She shouldn't have to be in the middle of this, and yet, there she is...stuck in between a relationship that is more sick and twisted than anything else. I don't look at my mother with love. I can't, because she is so petty, so ignorant, so manipulative and condescending. We are very different people and if she weren't my mother, she would be a person I would blog about under the title of "complete asshole".
Two days ago, my son tried to call my mother. She has never called him of her own volition. He is the absent grandchild, the one who was born and raised down here in Florida, so she is barely aware of his existance. But, his grandpa is sick, so he wanted to talk to his grandma. I let him call her.
"Gramma," he says.
"Yes, who is this please," she replies. She knows damn fucking well who it is.
"This is Nicholas."
"Hello Nicholas." Her tone is dry, distant and without love.
"How are you," he says. He is looking at me quizzically. He doesn't understand that, because he is my son, he is now officially the spawn of Satan in her eyes.
"Why are you asking," she answers.
"Um, because you're my grandmother and I wanted to know."
"Did your mother put you up to this," she spits.
"Gramma, you and mom have nothing to do with you and me, okay? Are you going to talk to me or what?"
Ah. My son. As brilliant as he is beautiful. He gets that from me, you know.
Her voice changes and she is now talking with him candidly, sweetly and with affection as a grandmother should. That's all I care about. That she treats my children well and with the respect due them. They are good kids. They don't deserve anything less than that.
He hangs up the phone with her and looks at me for a long time.
"What," I say to him, half laughing, because the look on his face is adorable.
"She's a real pain in the butt, isn't she, Mom?"
I burst out laughing.
"Nick, don't talk that way. She is still your grandmother."
"I know," he says as he walks over to give me a hug. "I just wish you had a better mommy, like I do."
I hug my baby boy tightly, secure in the knowledge that one day, my children will be blogging about me with nothing but love.