The World According To Anne Arky

I’ve just been to visit my mother, and it was, as always, a mixture of enjoyment and teeth gnashing. I spent a week with Mother and the first two days home trying to unclench my teeth. First, let me say that I love my mother very much. But like everyone who is still lucky enough to enjoy it, my mother makes me crazy. On “Providence”, the younger one of Mike Farrell’s character’s two “daughters” asked the older one (before the mother died and was only a recurring phantom), “Why is it that Mom always knows just how to push my buttons?” The older one replied with the obvious answer, “She’s the one who installed them.” Correct.

I’ve heard that when you “go home” or go around your family (those who don’t live near their families, anyway), you revert to a certain age and remain there for the duration. Just what age you revert to is unclear, and who decides what age is the one for reverting to is also unclear. In any case, I seem to revert to age 8, and I’m not sure what is significant about age 8 that that’s the chosen age of reversion, but there it is. My mother certainly goes along with it in a big kind of way. She’s all too happy to treat me like I’m eight years old, including “shushing” me in front of my friends when I swear (like that ever stopped me, even when I was eight years old!) or speak louder than she thinks I should. (What will people THINK???) [Who the hell CARES???] {And that is the crux of our on-going lifelong argument.} The third and final time she did this while I was home this time, I returned the favor and told her -- right there in front of God and everybody -- not to do that any more, because I really hate it. She turned away and pouted the whole rest of that visit with my friend. Should we ever have it out over this issue (and we will, I’m sure), the argument will go, “Mother, please don’t shush me. It embarrasses me.” “Well, you’re embarrassing me.” “Maybe so, but I’m embarrassing you in front of people you are likely never going to see again, and you are embarrassing me in front of my friends, so shut up.” *sigh*

I’ll be the first to admit, “shut up” is not my best thing, but Mom’s not best thing is “back off” or “take no for an answer”. She has no clue how to do either. She figures if she just pushes and pushes, the pushee (usually me) will eventually be worn down and give in and acquiesce to her wishes, and she seems terribly shocked on those occasions when the pushee (usually me) blows up in frustration. Her favorite “don’t take no for an answer” occasion is when she is trying to give me something that I just plain don’t want. Two years ago, after Daddy died, I asked her if I could have a few of his V-neck undershirts – great to sleep in, and kind of like sleeping in a hug from my dad – and she happily obliged, following up by offering me some of his pajamas as well. I couldn’t really think of a good reason to say “no”, so I accepted with a “thanks, Mom”. She then offered me a whole drawer full of his socks, to which I hastily replied, “No, thanks, Mom.” This was met with, “But there’s nothing wrong with them.” “No, thanks, Mom,” I repeated. “They’re perfectly clean,” she insisted. I thanked her again and explained that I just don’t prefer men’s socks or black, brown or blue socks of anybody’s. “But there aren’t any holes in them or anything – they’ve hardly even been worn.” “Mother,” I stated emphatically through clenched, “I do not want the socks. Thank you anyway. Give them to someone else.” I suppose a more reasonable argument might have been, “Mother, I am morally opposed to blue, brown and black socks and refuse to allow them in my house or on my feet.” But since we are of the same religion, she probably wouldn’t have bought off on it.

In recounting this incident to friends, they all hastened to suggest, “Well, you should have just taken them and then given them away or thrown them away later.” Well, I tried that during this trip as a last resort, and now I remember why it doesn’t work.

Mother’s cat recently died, and she told me before I left home that she was going to give me all the cat stuff she had left over – a couple of litter boxes (they’re perfectly clean, she hurriedly assured me), some food dishes, some food, some cat litter, etc. I thanked her and said that I could use some of the stuff, but that my poor cat, O’Malley, has a very weak stomach and is limited to only two or three different foods (one type of dry food and two flavors of the same brand of canned food) that he might not hurl, if I’m lucky. Anything else I give him is almost guaranteed to give him the carpet-ruining happy, hairy, hunky hurls. Mind you, O’Malley is not a finicky eater – he would eat anything I put in front of him that didn’t gobble him down first – but then I get to see it again, and if there’s anything I hate more than recycled cat food, I don’t know what it is. (I only have to clean it up if I get to it before he does, which grosses me out worse than having to clean it up myself.) So Mother, kindly understand when I say this – thanks, but no thanks.

By the time I got up there and got treated to a whole week’s worth of “But it’s perfectly good/clean/sanctified” arguments, with her reacting as if I had accused her offerings (lipstick she can’t use any more, generic greeting cards, etc.) of having three kinds of venereal diseases and cheating on their spouses, I decided that whatever cat stuff she was sending me home with would be received with as much “shut up” as I could muster. I could always give the cat food and litter (hers isn’t the kind I like to use) to someone in my circle of friends or coworkers. So on “going home” day, she loaded up my car with all manner of cat stuff, and I drove home secure in the knowledge that the stuff would go to good use and my mother would be none the wiser. This way, she could save her “But it’s perfectly whatever” argument to use on someone else (although I personally feel she saves them all up for me) to be named later.

Last weekend, the weekend after I got back from Mother’s, she and I were on the phone and she asked conversationally, “What are you going to do this weekend?” I mentioned needing to go to the grocery store sometime, but I wasn’t sure when – I needed to pick up some garbage bags, frozen foods, cat food and cat litter. (Like I said, “shut up” isn’t my best thing, and I’m a lousy liar.) She said, “What about all that cat food and stuff I sent you home with?” Ah, shit – busted! With a long-suffering sigh, I reiterated, “Well, you know O’Malley has a weak stomach and can’t eat any of it, or he’ll throw it up all over hell and half of Georgia.” She then demanded, “Then why did you take it home with you?” Like I mugged her cat food stash, for God’s sake! Shit, I can’t win for losing sometimes! Insert longer-suffering sigh and throwing up of hands. (At least that’s a throwing-up I don’t have to clean up after.)

Labels: Family