Let me go on the record and declare the Summer of 2013 as the Most Fucked Up Summer Since 1999. I noted this a week or two ago in a conversation with Medusa (who weathered the Summer of 1999 with me), and she responded, “What? Were we dealing with lunatics with God complexes and cowards with anxiety disorders in 1999?” In fact, yes we were. But that is neither here nor there. The point is, I haven’t felt so at loose ends and so colossally fucked up since that summer, lo, 14 years ago. And let’s note that the fucked-up-ness of that summer pushed me into a terrible 3-year-long live-in relationship with a guy who was So Fucking Wrong For Me, just because I was in such need for stability.
So what is wrong, as this summer of 2013 draws to a close?
I’m heartbroken, my book project is stalled, I am not speaking to one of my “best” friends, A., the bookstore lost (or just failed to place?) the book orders that I went out of my way to give them IN APRIL for my fall courses and didn’t alert me to the problem until this week, I got my first speeding ticket in my life (after 22 years of driving, and speeding, so probably I was due, and I most certainly deserved it), and I’m about to turn 39 (which isn’t a surprise or anything, and isn’t exactly bad in itself, but with all of the other things that are WRONG, let’s just say that I’m feeling like perhaps I am DOOMED to have a fucked up life, and I will never get my shit together, and I will never find a way to be satisfied and happy). Oh, and my person who cuts my hair overwaxed my eyebrows so they are way too thin and seem like they would be appropriate to 1999, and I have a balance on my credit card for the first time since I dug myself out of credit card debt (and yet, I keep spending), and I fell off the wagon on diet and exercise and so have gained back the weight I lost on WW a couple of years ago, all of my friends who were supposed to visit me this summer bailed, and I am sure there is more, but frankly, I can’t be bothered to list anymore because it’s all just too depressing.
In an attempt to present a silver lining to you, I will note that my hair is looking great these days, for it has finally grown into a passable bob after a year and a half of growing it out from the VERY short pixie cut, and my living room is no longer the dirty-looking green-cream-color-that-makes-everybody-look-bad that it has been since I moved in, and I finally got a bench for a blank space of wall, and in a month I will have a new sectional-sofa to replace my actually dirty and worn out sofa that I’ve had for 9 years, and I did the Great Book Migration so my downstairs is no longer the Sad Place of too many disorganized books. And yes, I have good friends, and I will be an auntie to HS BFF’s coming baby. But you know what? Other than the friends and tiny human news, all of this is kind of superficial shit, whereas much of the bad shit is actually bad.
At any rate, to get to the title of this post. My mom came this weekend, and she helped me paint the living room. I am entirely grateful for her help with that, and I’m grateful for the fact that she helped me mop my floors, and I’m grateful just for the time I got to spend with her. And for the fact that she bought me the bench. But.
From just about the moment that she showed up, it was an exercise in her pointing out my flaws. Let me give you an overview: my clothes aren’t flattering or age-appropriate, I have a zit on my face, my eyebrows look weird, I’m a terrible housekeeper (although my house is just about in the same state as hers is), why isn’t my book written?, I love my cats too much and I will never have a relationship because of my cat-love, I shouldn’t be in contact with The Dude but I also shouldn’t be fraternizing with online dating people who are “weird”, the mop that she made me buy three years ago, because the mop I had was BAD, is BAD, I am a terrible hostess (even though she refused to allow me to plan fun things for us to do), I make her do stuff for me (which I don’t) and then I want her to get out “as soon as the work is done” (which isn’t true), when I tell her that I want us to just spend time together, she says what she wants to do is to reorganize my whole house in the way that she wants to do it, and when I express an opinion I am ungrateful, even though I thanked her profusely for everything she did, and even thought it is MY FUCKING HOUSE and my opinion is what matters!
The bad news is that after three days of this, I finally had a major meltdown (precipitated by the MOP) in which I cried and yelled at her, and she decided to leave early. The good news, I suppose, is that at least she is no longer badgering me and making me feel like shit. Though, of course, I totally feel like shit because she left. Which she knew I would. Because I told her it made me feel bad. Additionally, she was all, “I’m just not going to come visit you anymore.” Which, what the fuck? I want her to come visit. I don’t want her to show up and treat me like shit! The point isn’t that she can’t visit! The point is that I am an adult and that I expect her to treat me with just a tiny teensy bit of respect! And to stop fucking pointing out every fucking thing that is wrong with me and my life!
We have been having a version of this fight since I was about 14 years old. I’m tired of it. And, frankly, the only reprieve I’ve had from this fight was when I lived with that terrible boyfriend from 2000-2003 (one of the few bright spots in that relationship, honestly). It’s like because I am not partnered or a mother I don’t get to be a grown-up for her. And it’s fucking bullshit.
Look, I know I’m not perfect, and I know that my house could be cleaner and I could weigh less and my yard could be more pristine and my book could be written and my life could be less fucked up. But, that’s just it: I know all of that. I really don’t need her to point it out. I need her to fucking accept me as I am and stop trying to fucking fix me. Because the fact of the matter is, I am pretty sure I’m never going to measure up to her ideal of what I should be. And part of the reason I’m sure of that is because I never have.
And so, I am about 16 years old right now, emotionally. And I hate my mom (even though of course I love her), and my life fucking sucks (not only because I think so but because she has asserted that it does).
Note to all y’all bloggy readers who are mothers of daughters: when they get to be 38-going on 39-years old? And when they tell you to stop riding them like they are fucking teenagers? Listen before they burst into tears. Listen before it becomes a big THING. Because you know what? They will be grown ass women then, and this sort of drama sucks balls. And your daughters really want to spend time with you. They just hate it when you act like motherfucking assholes.
In other silver lining on the big dark angry cloud news, the Man-Kitty snores beside me looking very kittenish. Which, of course, means I love him so much that I will die alone.