Adventures With Mommie Dearest

I need to start this by saying that my mother is bat-shit crazy.  Seriously, she’s fucking nuts.  And not in that way that everyone’s mom is crazy, but seriously damaged.  My siblings and I have spoken of these things, and the more stories we trade about this woman, the more bizarre she becomes to us.

You know how when you’re in school or something, and you have some sort of function where the parents are involved and everyone says, “Your parents are so cool!” and you respond with, “Yeah, you don’t have to live with them,” and the other person laughs and figures it means just run-of-the-mill crap?  Not that long ago, after sharing a few “childhood” stories with a friend, she marveled at the fact that I’m not a serial killer.  Yes; my mother is that crazy.  My father was no picnic either, but that’s neither here nor there.

Anyway, I have the unfortunate distinction of being thirty years old and living with my mother.  You can imagine how I feel about myself.  As a result, we wind up doing a lot of crap together, which isn’t always bad, but sometimes it feels as if we’re together FAR too much.

At any rate, we went to the nearest town with a Target last night.  In the process, we also hit up one of our favorite restaurants in that area.  All was well at this eatery until just after we ordered; Mommie Dearest turned around and saw that several tables behind her had been pushed together for a birthday party.  Instantly, she was pissed and bitched about how noisy it was about to become (I’d like to point out that it was already quite loud due to ambient noise and the music cranked up).  She said, “Shouldn’t the waitress have asked to move us if they were going to do this?”  Ummm, no, Mom–in all my years waiting tables, I nor anyone else ever asked a nearby table if they wanted to move away from a party.  You go to a chain restaurant, the possibility of a birthday party on a Friday night are fairly significant.  I asked her if she wanted to see if we could be moved, but she said she didn’t want to be “that person.”  (So, better that I should suffer with her attitude) Anyway, the party-goers started to filter in and she’s already rolling her eyes.  Granted, they were lingering around our table with their asses in our faces (people who go to birthday parties at restaurants tend to forget that it’s not a personal party space and the people around them don’t necessarily want people standing next to their table as they eat, but I digress), but she was actually yelling at them to sit down.  Swiftly, our food arrives, and our waitress kindly took my food back to the kitchen to remove the random sauce thrown on my sandwich and to remove the sour cream from my baked potato–our server was actually very nice, and I felt bad that she was dealing with half of that party.  Parties always suck if you’re a waitress.

I’d like to interject here that my mother was already a bit sulky because I ordered a sandwich instead of a big meal–she was going to get some steak & shrimp thing until I ordered, then got a salad instead.  She “didn’t want to eat a big meal” while I sat there with my sandwich.  So immediately, I was supposed to feel guilty for not ordering a big meal so that she “couldn’t” also order a big meal.  See some of the psychosis emerging?

Anyway, I’m happily munching on my sandwich, ignoring the party going on, while Mommie Dearest is huffing and puffing and sighing and making a big production, behaving as if she’s been way put out by this whole situation.  Someone sat in the chair behind her, and this was some sort of crime because now she doesn’t feel as if she is able to get out of her own chair.  Oy.  She asked if I was going to take some of my food home, which I intended to, and when I asked her the same, she pushed her food away, saying she wasn’t paying attention to it so she might as well stop eating.  Seriously.  She did that.  The waitress came over and asked how we were doing, so I asked for a couple of boxes.  Then my mother piped up, telling the waitress to tell the manager that she was pissed and this party was crap and it ruined her meal.  The girl looked horrified and apologized.  I just tried to reassure her that this was not her fault.  Silence ensued until the girl returned with our boxes and apologized again.  Again, I told her that it wasn’t her fault.  After she, returned with the card receipt, she told us that she hoped our next visit would be better, and my mother kindly said that next time, we’d go to the one in such-and-such town.  Seriously, this woman wound up taking out her irritation on this poor girl who had no control over the situation.  There was no need to snap at her and treat her like that.  I will agree that the manager should have at least had the balls to come over to talk to a pissed off customer, but beyond that, it was all over (fortunately, I left the tip for this girl…who knows what my mother would have done).  But not for Mommie Dearest; she sulked for another ten or fifteen minutes, giving me the silent treatment and speaking in one-word sentences.  As if this was somehow my fault.  She took this tiny incident that should have been nothing more than an inconvenience AT BEST and turned it into melodrama.  As if the world was somehow out to get her and her whole life has been ruined.

It’s embarrassing being in public with her sometimes.

Though not much beats the screaming match she and my father had in Lowes while my sister and I were in high school.  About a sink.  While we were standing there.  I think I’ve been in Lowe’s twice since then.




~ by raspychick on March 17, 2012.

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