I know! Why can’t he type these sagas in Word and then copy and paste without all the commercial breaks? Why must he leave us hanging so?
Actually I must run so it’ll be a while. Take a dinner break or whatever.
Egads! You rotten bastard! We’re going to be going nuts here, yanno. How dare you think you have a right to a life while we’re all chomping at the bit for the next installment of Sampiro goodness.
twitch twitch
PS - I hope you have a good dinner. 
You need to change your user name to Scheherezade, or whatever that 1001 Arabian Nights chick’s name is.
When come back, bring tales.
Oh sure, easy for you to say… this is my escape from two rambunctious kids!
Fine, I’ll make dinner… but I won’t enjoy it…
OK, I’ve finished dinner. Between waiting for dawn in Mafia III and waiting on Sampiro’s return I am spending entirely too much time on the Dope.
The problem with my mother wasn’t that she was a calculating, heartless, cold, cunning, feral, totally selfish, manipulative bitch. The problem with my mother was that she was sometimes a calculating, heartless, cold, cunning, feral, totally selfish, manipulative bitch. And those sometimes were rare.
Okay, submitted for your approval- imagine the following woman:
—the maternal instinct and nurturing of June Cleaver or Donna Reed, but without the “Oh dear, a flat tire, whatever shall I do?” helplessness or “what exactly is a ‘period’?” naivete.
–the resilience, fire, work-ethic, and pragmatism of Scarlett O’Hara, but without the total self-centeredness or coldness
–the humor and realism of Roseanne Connor, but without the classlessness of speech and appearance
–the intelligence and Earth Motherness of Ethel Thayer (Katharine Hepburn from On Golden Pond but without the quakiness and annoying voice
In short, imagine a very strong, powerful, caring, nurturing, ladylike, loving woman whose kids are her world. An almost perfect mother. With only one problem- long ago, probably when FDR was president, she was bitten by a werewolf. BUT, it’s not your run of the mill werewolf- your quotidian lycanthropes will convert once a month at the full of the moon and you can prepare for it. Chain them in a basement, leave town for a few days, and come back to a nice heapin’ helpin’ of fried corn and the best steak’n’gravy you’ll ever eat. This werewolf can walk in daylight and has absolutely no set pattern of conversion whatsoever- as irregular in its cycles as Karen Carpenter on birth control in zero G.
You might be sitting at the table having a pleasant conversation when some sequence of words or looks summons the beast and suddenly there she is: You’ve all met Mama Lupina, si? And while she’s a wolf she’s merciless, immune to logic or blunt force, unstoppable, the best thing to do is get out of her path and hope she doesn’t claw hell out of you before you do. There was a monster, an illogical and thoroughly unpredictable monster inside of her, and the conversion may last five minutes or five days, it may come three times in one week and then only once in the next year, but you always knew it would be back. And the woman- Scarlett June Roseanne Thayer- seemed to have almost no memory of what the monster did. She’d never apologize for it- write that one off as a loss- and she’d never even acknowledge it and IF you were crass enough to bring it up when she was in her maternal state she’d become the most pitiful “what do you expect me to do about it? I can’t help it! I wish I could but I’m powerless” victim you’d ever see- and it was sincere (though she’d certainly not say those words as they’re almost like an apology). 90… alright, 80% of the time she was wonderful, someone I was damned proud to have as a mother and loved and even liked, 15% of the time or so she could cranky and difficult but I still loved her, and that other 5% of the time, LUPINA. I don’t think she had dual personalities, I’m not even sure they exist, but it was one tiny step away from it.
Now, thanks to the peasant killing/scorched earth/war atrocity screaming matches we had when I came out, we cleared a lot of the air. I said things I’d been holding back for more than 20 years, I even forced her to own some of her atrocities, and that helped our relationship immensely. The last few years were the best in our relationship- Lupina still dropped in upon occasion, make no mistake, but Lupina was grey now and the claws were arthritic and the fangs were falling out, it just wasn’t as terrifying, and Lupina came by less frequently. Consequently, over the last few years (7 to be precise- that’s how long I was gone from Montgomery) we mended fences, we were on a far more level footing, the fact that I could leave at any moment and cross state lines and zip codes and area codes gave me considerable wolfbane. We, I think to the degree we were able to, “fixed things”, and by the end (before she got sick) I truly enjoyed her company usually. (Again, she still metamorphasized upon occasion, but not as frequently and not as fiercely.) Most of the time I can honestly say I liked her.
My sister never had that blow-out. Thank God that our mother’s final attack didn’t come while she was still intentionally making hell for our sister or the woman would be still in a fetal position from the guilt. I know some of the things my mother said to her over the years and they were- severe- especially about the time we (my mother and I) were in poverty. That’s a time I can’t say I’ve forgotten, but I have long since forgiven my sister for- there’s vestigial resentment of course, but it’s dead, it can’t be changed, it’s over, and I let the hatred go (because I used to have hatred for both of my siblings, I’ll admit it). Now I realize that my sister is not a bad person, just clueless, usually by choice, and that there was no malignancy in her failure to help us.
My sister swears, and I’ve no doubt she believes, that “I couldn’t have helped you if I wanted to. I had NO idea things were that bad and I was broke myself.” Both of these statements are demonstrably untrue but I have no doubt that my sister believes them. She needs to. It’s true on a level that she didn’t know how bad things were, but it’s because she closed her eyes and faced the wall, and I don’t count willful ignorance the same as I count ignorance. But, since our last real scene over the issue many years ago I’ve accepted it.
My mother would not let the anger and resentment and hurt go. She didn’t even try. I told her repeatedly “Mama, forgiving somebody is not for their benefit, it’s for yours. You will never move forward while you’re holding such strong emotions over what happened and can’t unhappen- let it go”. Her response:
“Then I won’t move forward more than I have to. Consider it a garrison I’m leaving behind on my frontier. I love her and I would give my life for her and I even forgive her mostly- but I don’t forgive her all of it. And God help me I doubt I ever will.” She didn’t feel that my sister’s repentance is sincere or full enough to warrant full forgiveness. (How did she feel about my brother, you ask? Whole other situation but since it has no bearing on this story I’ll leave it alone, other than to say that I’m surprised he was as civil to her as he was when she made no attempts to conceal her dislike of him- I’ve no doubt she loved him, none whatsoever, but my brother’s mere presence could summon Lupina. (Another odd thing about Lupina- she wasn’t indiscriminate- she could attack one sibling or target and retain “Mama, just Mama” to others at the same time, seemingly confused at how unnerved we were watching her feast on a [figurative] severed arm in front of us when it wasn’t ours.)
So my point in all this: my sister and my mother never really settled all scores and it was at least as much my mother’s fault as it was my sister’s. My sister’s sins are mainly of omission: she didn’t want to believe her mother and brother were in poverty and so she didn’t, she didn’t want to believe that her fortune was based on a degree my mother had gone without for and so she didn’t, she didn’t want to believe that the money she was spending on nice cars and trips to Key West and the Grand Canyon and an airplane in the 1980s was being spent while her brother was being kicked out of college for non-payment of tuition [that she had promised to pay] so she didn’t believe it. And later when her eyes were forced open it made her scream, but there was no way she could change the past or change who she was. (She debated many times whether to pay off the mortgage on my mother’s house but ultimately didn’t because my mother never asked her to- I asked her to, and this is moderately important- I even told her “I will sign a waiver and give you any part of that house I inherit from Mama if you’ll pay it off so it’s an investment” (my sister could write a check and not have to beat it to the bank and never feel it), but she wouldn’t- “If Mama wanted me to pay it off she’d ask me to”, to which I’d respond “She’s never going to ask you to, ever, she’s too proud and stubborn”, to which my sister would respond “Then that sounds like something she needs to get the hell over”. I can actually see my sister’s point, but I don’t agree with it.
So anyway, when my mother died my sister was left with a mountain of guilt. I, this sounds horrible, have none- I really did stand with my mother through thick and thin long after I had to, I really did uproot my life several times to be closer to her when she needed me, I said some pretty horrible things to her over the years but I meant them and I don’t revoke them and they needed to be saids and like Mafia Wars they cleaned out the bad blood, I miss her terribly but I have no guilt. My sister has oodles and oodles, and she ain’t taking it too good, and the only person who can absolve her is dead. So she thinks she can somehow fix it by seizing the horcruxes.
This should complete the build-up and be way past the half-way point. Next time I promise: the actual meat dish. Or at least the fish course.
For the first few couple of months after my mother’s death I didn’t even try to get my sister to take the stuff from the house that I wanted (and lied and said my mother wanted) her to have, because I knew she needed an adjustment period. These items include the corner cabinet and a cedar chest that (our grandfather) Mustang built, the good china (that stayed in hock for years), various decorations and items that I knew my sister knew meant a lot to our mother. But by Halloween or so, I was wanting them out. Among other things I wanted to do some remodelling/renovation to the house.
My sister: What type of stuff do you want to do?
Me: A new floor for one thing. Probably hardwood or laminate.
My sister: What’s wrong with the carpet?
Me: It’s ugly and ruined.
My sister: You do know that flooring costs money don’t you?
Me: I’d rather supposed it did. I have money.
My sister: You’re not using the money Mama left you are you?
Me: Yes.
My sister: You’re going to spend money she worked her ass off for to change her house around?
Me: That’s the plan, yes.
My sister: That makes no sense.
Me: The house is my greatest asset. It makes perfect sense to me to fix it up.
My sister: So you are going to stay there at least?
Me: For now. I told [my boss] I’d stay for a year, that’s up in July, by then I might have decided to stay or I might have decided to look around for other pastures.
My sister: And you’d just abandon Mama’s house?
Me: I’d sell Mama’s house, if that’s your question.
My sister: How? It’s not yours.
Me: When the estate is probated it will be.
My sister: About that…
My sister is executrix of my mother’s estate. Initially she said “I know what Mama wanted, [our brother] knows what she wanted, we’ll honor it. The only money I’m taking is what I’m out from estate debts.” Okey-dokey, that’s only fair, I’m glad she’s being so reasonable.
Because my sister is retired and thus has every day free and has dealt with a complicated estate (her mother-in-law’s) and dealt with real estate many many times and is free to travel and post-bond (required by Alabama law with intestate estates) and all, it was suggested by my brother and the lawyer that she be the executrix. I didn’t realize how long probating an intestate state can take at the time, but I was secure in the knowledge that she said she’d honor my mother’s wishes, so therefore- she’s executrix.
Sister: Here’s what I’m thinking, I’ll pay off 1/3 of that house. [Our brother] can pay off 1/3 of that house, and you pay off the final third. It’ll be tee-totally paid for. We’ll own it share and share alike and you can live in it and when we sell it we’ll split the money three ways.
Me: That’s one way of doing it. Here’s another way: I get it like Mama wanted and when I sell it I keep the equity. Eezy peezy Japaneezy.
Sister: My way it would be paid for.
Me: Your way I would get around [$XX,000] as my ‘third’ by the time you subtract the money I put onto the mortgage. My way I would get (almost 3[$XX,000]) in equity when it sold. And I can handle the payments, they’re less than I paid in rent.
Sister: But how often were you late on your rent?
Me: It’s none of your business, but the answer is never. I have never not one time been late on my rent. Now every other thing, sure, at some point or another I’ve been late on it, but I’ve never been late on rent.
Sister: Well it just seems more family to me to pay it off like I said. Mama’s house should be free of debt.
Me (seething): Odd that you feel so now that she’s dead.
Sister: I offered when she was alive but she wouldn’t let me know if she wanted me to.
Me: Yeah, most people would be furious if a millionaire paid off their house for them.
Sister: Mama wasn’t like most people.
<good point>
Me: I think she’d have let you. But whatever the case, the house is mine now and I want to sell it when I decide to move and keep the equity. I need it.
Sister: Why? What do you need it for?
Me: Well… to invest if I don’t buy another house, to use for a downpayment if I do buy another house. It’s a lot of money, it’ll make a very nice downpayment.
Sister: Well have you got it on the market now?
Me: No. I’m not ready to move yet. And besides, I couldn’t- it’s tied up in the estate at the moment.
Sister: I know. Just remember that. It’ll keep you from doing anything rash. And reconsider letting me and [our brother] pay it off.
Me: Done. Reconsidered. No.
Sister: Why can’t you use what Mama left you to put onto another house when you move?
Me: There’s not as much left of it as there will be in equity. Not near as much.
Sister: How much have you spent.
Me: A lot.
Sister: On what?
Me: Debts- mine and Mama’s. I paid off my Mama’s car. I’m going to have to pay a LOT in taxes because it was on untaxed money from her IRA. I spent some on this and some on that.
Sister: So you’re broke and you have nothing to show for it?
Me: I’m not broke, and I have a 2 year old low mileage SUV that’s paid for and I have absolutely no debts. That’s not nothing.
Sister: Well, I want to see an accounting of how you spent it.
Me: No.
Sister: I am asking you for an official accounting. I want to see how you spent it.
Me (in my best Reverend Bubba Flavel from PORKY’S 2): Men in hell want I-th water but they gone have to learn to live with thirth ain’t they?
Sister: I’m executrix of the estate. I can demand one.
Me: Like hell you can. That money was not part of the estate. Ask the lawyer. It’s considered completely separate from the estate- unless… you want the estate to pay the taxes on it and I still keep it, if you’ll put that in writing I’ll give you an accounting.
Sister: You’re being an asshole.
Me: I love you too.
The above is actually a composite conversations of several highly repetetive ones we’ve had over the months. But she has repeatedly suggested the house be paid off and that we each take 1/3 when it sells, and when I told her I honestly don’t have enough money left to pay off 1/3 of the house [and no bank is going to loan you money to buy 1/3 of a house] she’s demanded an accounting again and I’ve had to tell her again, HELL. NO. (I have not pissed away the money I inherited- alright, I pissed away a little, but not much- most went to taxes, bills, the car, etc., and some’s tied up in CDs and it’s not one damned bit of business how much there is, was, or might be.)
And several times I’ve brought up the issue of her taking her things. When I went to her house for Thanksgiving I offered “I can borrow [my friend’s] truck and bring the corner cabinet and this and that and the other down with me if you want.”
Sister: I don’t have any place to put it yet. I’ll need to clean out a place.
Me: Thanksgiving not for over another week, that’s plenty of time.
Sister: My house is cluttered.
Me: You own several houses. That’s dozens of corners. You only have to clean out one.
Sister: I don’t want it yet so don’t bring it. I’ll send it back with you if you do. I’ll get it when I’m ready for it.
As said I took some things down to my brother’s warehouse, two or three trips actually. When the house here was so cluttered from my stuff/my mother’s stuff AND I was planning on doing flooring I finally took my mother’s whole (enormous) sofa down to the storage unit as well as said cedar chest and a wash stand and other items. I told my sister at the time I was doing this and she wasn’t happy. When she dropped in a little while after (uninvited, but she has the key) she flipped.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO MAMA’S HOUSE! WHERE’S ALL HER STUFF!”
“You know damned well where it is, it’s in the warehouse down in Covington.”
“You just HAD to get rid of it! That cedar chest was mine! Mama wanted me to have that! And that washstand’s been in the family since before the Civil War and you just threw it out!”
Me: It was ugly before the Civil War too, and I didn’t throw it out. It’s in Covington County, which is one hell of a lot closer to you than Montgomery is. [Our brother] knows the chest is yours and that xy and z are yours and he’s not going to take them. I think he wants the washstand if you don’t.
Her: Well I want that wash stand! What else have you gotten rid of?
Me: I haven’t gotten rid of anything I’ve just moved it. But while we’re on the topic, I want to have an estate sale. Or at least, a yard sale.
Ooh chile, I may as well have said “I think I’m gonna go dig up Mama, dress her in a clown suit, and set her up at a dunking booth on the interstate”, but I’ll continue later (and even get up to the more recent developments of the present and my mother’s clothes).
A curious thing about the items in this house: looking at them you’d just think “Hey, that’s an empty birdcage” or “Hey, that’s an ornate but cheap vanity set” or “Hey that’s a toothbrush holder” or “Gee, that’s a spatula AUTOLYCUS PUT THAT DOWN!” or “That’s a box of seashell stationary”. But that’s because you’re all mortals. What you don’t understand is this: every item in this house has magick in it.
The ceramic bunny rabbit in the foyer bathroom (which is really non-sequitur: my mother was the least “ceramic bunny rabbit” woman you’d ever want to meet not to have industrial strength chain on her wallet): that ceramic bunny rabbit may look like something that came from DOLLAR TREE (I’m not sure how wide spread they are, but it’s a closeout store where nothing cost more than $1), and it may have, but that ceramic bunny rabbit can heal scrofula.
The chipped coffee mug under the kitchen counter and towards the wall that has the picture of a depressed frog on a toilet with a speech balloon reading
on one side and
on the reverse can, when you use it to dissolve one of the blessed bouillon cubes in the pantry, restore erectile function to men many times better than Viagra, and the Kleenex dispenser in the upstairs hallway bathroom can restore fertility to women as old as 57. One of the downstairs curio cabinets contains some rocks from a streambed that when alligned in just exactly such a position (I can’t tell you the exact shape) can let you talk to the dead (but only males 45-65 with names starting with C, J, K, or P- if you want a woman with a name that started with a vowel who’s been dead more than 30 years you have to speak through the neck of the log cabin shaped Booz bottle (a replica, not an original) with the bamboo shoot on the back porch ledge. And while some say the reason people aren’t succombing to polio anymore is because of Dr. Salk’s vaccine, I know for a fact that in at least four or five cases it’s becaused they bathed three times with water first left out overnight in Green-Glass-Vase-of-the-sort-that-come-with-delivered-Flowers-Number-13 in the third set of shelves to catch the overflowing plates and glassware between the empty bird cage that a person can only tell the truth when touching and the Pillsbury dough boy cookie jar that if you hold it to your ear like a sea shell will give you the answer to any one question you ask it (but you can only ask it one question, so use it wisely).
The way I know these things is simple: any item that my mother ever touched, bought, looked at, or touched during her 70+ years on Earth is a holy and sacred relic and each performs a particular miracle. Unfortunately none of them cure greedy, irrational, or downright fucking nuts that I’ve found yet, but then I’m only halfway through the egg-nog mugs (last one neutered my dogs without surgery though so I’m not complaining). As such, they cannot possibly be moved or touched and GOD FORBID they cannot fall into the hands of strangers, because my mother blessed them all, and if bad people were to have hold of her relics then the Earth itself might spin into the sun and the Forces of Darkness will rise from the fissures and all original programming will cease save for MY TWO GRANDDADS, the return updated vehicle for Paul Reiser and Greg Evigan.
Yep, my mother converted thousands of things and thousands of pounds worth of things into relics. That can sort of suck when
1- You live in the relicry
2- While you may be the resident high priest, your crazy sister is the executrix
I told her I wanted to have an estate sale or a yard sale. I told her this, in fact, more than once. The first couple of times she asked for time: “Wait until I have a chance to go through the stuff.”
Fair enough. When?
But of course she never did.
Finally I told her “I am having a yard sale on the first Saturday in April.”
“You can’t do that! I haven’t had a chance to look through that stuff! I don’t want you selling a damned thing until I look through it!”
“You’ve had months and months…”
“If you try to sell that stuff I’ll get a restraining order if I have too! MAMA HATED ESTATE SALES!”
“Well she sure as hell went to enough of them…”
“But she hated them! She thought they were eeries! People assembling stuff their entire lives and people coming in and haggling will you take a dime instead of a quarter for it! YOU ARE NOT SELLING THINGS LIKE AUNT REED’S FLAPPER STUFF…”
“No I’m not, I’m not selling anything that’s an heirloom or has sentimental value or anything major, just junk with neither sentimental nor real value.”
“And if you even think of selling Ma’s butter churn, it’s been in the family since before the Civil War…”
“Hear my words: I’m not selling anything that’s an heirloom or has sentimental value or anything major, just junk with neither sentimental nor real value.”
“Or those Capodimonte flowers… Mama was crazy about those…”
“Can I get a big ol’ “I’m not selling anything that’s an heirloom or has sentimental value or anything major, just junk with neither sentimental nor real value” and a Amen?! Thank you Jesus.”
“And all of Mama’s pretty little glass shoes with that melted down glass, oh and those antique marbles, I don’t want…”
“[SISTER!] Listen and tell me if I do it right when I try to sing this to the tune of Billy Joel’s DOWNEASTER ALEXA: No I’m not not sel-ling any-thing that is/an heir-loom or has sentimental value/OR anything major just junk/with neither sentimental nor real val-al-ue…”
“WELL WHAT KINDS OF THINGS ARE YOU WANTING TO SELL?” she demands. “And STOP THAT FUCKING SINGING!”
“Plates. Do you know how many plates Mama had? HUNDREDS! That’s no exaggeration. Do you know where most of them came from? Stores that were going out of business, yard sales… she had at least three sets of cookware and God knows how many loose ends- I’ve counted two dozen coffee mugs, there are things that have never been taken out of the packages like toothbrush holders and alarm clocks…”
WELL I WANT THOSE THINGS IF YOU DON’T CARE ANYTHING ABOUT THEM! AND YOU HAVEN’T EVEN ASKED [OUR BROTHER]!
Yes, I have, and he told me to have at. The only things he wants are some furnishings he mentioned. There is flatware out the ass, there’s more towels than there is closet space for them…"
“I’LL TAKE THE TOWELS AND THE FLATWARE!”
“You have PLENTY of both! I’ve seen them!”
“Are you that hard up for cash? You finally pissed it all away?”
“It’s not about the money. I’ll give you 2/3 of the money to distribute for yourself and [brother], I’m doing this to get rid of stuff. I AM OUT OF ROOM HERE!”
And it doesn’t bother you that Mama hated estate sales?"
"MAMA IS DEAD! That’s what the funeral thing was about with Charles Durning and Miz Beebee and the polystyrene ballgag! And I am TIRED OF LIVING SURROUNDED ON ALL SIDES BY HER STUFF!!!
“Personally I LIKE seeing her stuff! It makes me feel her around me again!”
“Then Comeeeeeee annndddd gittttt itttt!!! It’s all here! But I want it gone! I’m not talking anything antique, anything heirloom, anything personal, I am talking about this acre of CRAP that’s here!”
“Well if Mama didn’t mean anything to you more than that then I guess you should sell it but I loved her!”
I politely said “FUCK YOU YOU MISERABLE HALF CRAZY STINGY CLINGING…” and in interest of being a sweet kid brother slammed the phone down before I screamed “CUNT!” And the phone rang back almost immediately.
“I mean it- I don’t want you selling one thing, I don’t want you letting your friends have it, I don’t want you letting that crazy ass Luna have it” (our cousin Luna, who my sister hates with a 45+ year old passion, lives in New Hampshire) “and I don’t want it moved from where it is til I get a chance to go through every bit of it! Do you hear me? I am the executrix of the estate and I will get a judgment against you if I have to! BYE!”“”“”“”"
But otherwise it went well. The bye sounded sincere and all.
When both tempers cooled down a bit I told her, “Look, I am going to have a yard sale, period. If I can’t get rid of Mama’s stuff until you come go through it then I’ll sell some of my stuff. I have stuff here. I have plates here even. I have rooms full of stuff down at [our brother’s]. I will sell that and I will put some of this in there and you can go through it at your leisure.”
“What type of stuff are you selling?”
“My stuff.”
“Such as?”
“It’s all mine.”
“LIKE WHAT! YOU’RE USED TOILET PAPER OR YOUR FABERGE EGGS OR WHAT?!”
I have a little bit of everything. My china, my glasses, my sheets, one of my sofas…
“That green sofa I gave you?”
“No, the futon like sofa I already had. I know you want the green one back when I don’t. I am selling my stuff. Between what’s here and what’s there I’ve got double everything- I have two microwaves…”
“I’ll take one of the microwaves”
“I gave you one for Christmas the year before last and you’ve got one in at least each of three of your houses…”
“Then this’ll be a spare”
“my pillows”
“The ones Mama made?”
“No. My lesser linens, my clothes I haven’t worn in forever…”
“I’ll take those clothes…”
“They’re mine, they’re a mile too big for you.”
“I love oversized men’s shirts. And I want to look through your linens and towels and things too.”
“OH HOLY CHRIST WOMAN!”
“DON’T TAKE GOD’S NAME IN VAIN!”
“I’M NOT TAKING IT IN VAIN IT SERVES A PURPOSE! IT SHOWS I’M PISSED! YOU WON’T LET ME SELL MAMA’S STUFF AND NOW YOU’RE TELLING ME I CAN’T SELL MY STUFF EITHER? YOU CAN’T STOP ME FROM SELLING MY STUFF! I’ve got an almost new washer and dryer gathering dust in a storage house 100 miles away… I have got two bigass warehouse rooms filled with my stuff that I can’t bring up here because there’s no room because it’s filled with Mama’s stuff that you won’t let me get rid of and in almost 9 months you won’t come and get!”
Her response was logical and shot holes in my argument:
“I have three WAREHOUSES… not warehouse rooms… WAREHOUSES full of stuff! I have a 64 1/2 Mustang in a warehouse! I have the entire contents of my mother-in-law’s dress shop that closed in 1992 in a warehouse! Don’t tell me about warehouses I’ve got three of the motherfuckers!”
“Miss! Oh Miss! We’re leaving, can we please have a coffee to go and our relevance check?” I ask.
“What? And when’s that job interview you were going on.”
“This coming Thursday.”
“I’ll come up then and go through some stuff since you’re so damned eager to get rid of it.”
“Fine. I’ll be back on Saturday from the interview. Are you coming up that day?”
“I said I’m coming up for your interview.”
“You dissolved the baby in WHAT?”
“I’ll come on the interview and we’ll come back together and go over some stuff.”
"Darling, sweetie, baby… how to put this delicately… are you fucking nuts? You can’t come on an interview with me. "
“I won’t be going on the interview itself with you give me some credit! I’ll just go up there with you. I happen to like that town and I feel like taking a road trip.”
“Take a road trip anytime you like, this isn’t a vacation, this is a job interview. Academic job interviews take all day.”
“Then I’ll sight-see and stay at the hotel and we’ll ride home together and I’ll go through that stuff that seems to have you rubbing shit in your hair and tell you what I want. We’ll put an end to this. Then we’ll talk about paying off the house.”
“There is no fucking way you are going with me on a job interview! PERIOD!”
The next week the presence of a crazy Fundamentalist sister who loathes academia accompanying her gay atheist brother and her stroke victim 6’4 retired dress salesman turned millionaire soda jerk husband all riding in their dead lady wrestler werewolf’s mother’s mini SUV like vehicle gave the engine enough power from the Infinite Improbability Jump to propel it into the hills of Georgia but actually took a side trip through 29th century Spain and a pee break at a welcome center in Reformation Era Germany (Martin Luther smells like ass, incidentally). But both before and after that trip, the shit would hit the fan.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT.
Guess who just walked in my door.
Back at some point.
OHMIGOD AM I ON PINPRICKS HERE??!!
I’m thinking about you, good luck. Do you need some holy water? A cross? Silver bullet? Buffy and Zander and Giles all in one?
So, Mama’s back, and asking why you’ve desecrated the Mamaleum, and you want us to wait patiently?
(Though if Mama must return, the eve of Mother’s Day does seem appropriate.)
Great! Put her on, we can hear her side of the story…
Keep this up for 200 more pages and we may be talking book deal here.
I feel like I’m trying to radio Papa Bear for instructions on whether to blow up the bridge into Lorraine before or after the Gestapo escorts cross.
This is the first one of these stories ever to have a major plot twist while being told. Though oddly I think it’s, at least so far, in my favor and her drop-in is due to what was supposed to be a two sentence email I sent her the other night that ended up being several pages of odd sentiments about what I do and don’t miss about our mother. Weird.
Probably won’t have a chance to write until tomorrow. Ciao, J
PS- It’s my sister who came by, actually, not my mother. My mother always does me the courtesy of sending three ghosts to announce her first. And as for her side, it would begin with I realized from a very early age that God did not mean me to ever know happiness… and end with and that’s why I love my baby all the way to the back of my neck. Though that cocksucking little friend of his can burn in Hell and I think probably will. You look like you could use some cubed steak and gravy. And how about a Jim Beam and Coke?
Rest well and post soon. I’m sending glasses of wine your way with my thoughts…
Goldilocks, this tale can end on a note of triumph or disaster, just so long as it swings.
Good luck with your sister, and condolences for all you’ve been through.
Oh lord I hope not, because I really like this Capodimonte magnolia.
And this just paid for my subscription and then some.
Good god he stopped again. I hate it when he stops like that. Anybody mind if we briefly swing this thread by the Pit so that I can express my sentiments more freely?