Pardon Me While I Totally Unload on You

This one isn't pretty or funny or even easy to read probably. But maybe some of you will identify and I could certainly use some support. Or maybe you should just skip this one, up to you.

I hesitated about whether to write this or not, as I'm sure some of my IRL friends have found their way here. But then, most of my IRL friends are aware of the situation, and if they aren't, it's not like it's really a secret. So, onward.

My parents are alcoholics. They will tell you that they aren't. That they "might indulge a little more than they should" but that they are not in need of any help or harming anyone. They have been for as long as I can remember, if I think back on it, though I didn't really catch on until my first (and only) summer home from college, when I suddenly thought to myself "God, has it always been like this? Or did it get worse after I left?"

The truth is, it had always been like that to varying degress...4 or 5 empty beer cans in the sink by the time dinner was on the table. Entire bottles of wine consumed in one sitting. Bedtime scotch and special occasion tequila shots. Drunken phone calls to my grown sister and midnight ambushes while I was trying to do my homework.

They are both alcoholics, though my father is far less an issue for me than my mother. His general response to drunkeness is to pass out in his recliner in the living room. He doesn't bother me when he's wasted. My mother, on the other hand, reveals all of her very worst qualities when she is hammered. And hammered she is on a regular basis.

Take this scene, for example, on a weeknight last week. Keeping in mind that I have been living there now since mid-March, truly making an effort not to pick fights and to just get along.

Daddy had made steaks and the 3 of us had sat down to dinner at 7:30. Steaks and potatoes and wine. I did not partake of the alcohol. Mom opened a second bottle at about 9pm. She had clearly already had plenty, but suggesting to her that maybe we didn't need another bottle is a battle I no longer try to fight. When we got up from the table shortly thereafter, my father went promptly to bed and I retreated to my bedroom with the door closed for some True Blood before bed.

At 10:45pm I left my room to go out front and retrieve some blankets a friend was returning. I walked back into the house to find my mother sitting in the kitchen floor. I put on my best smile and my perfectly calm and not-at-all-annoyed voice and said,

"Do you need some help?"

"Yes, I suppose I do."

"Did you fall or did you just decide to sit down there?"

"No, I'm just hanging out down here by the [air] vent."

"Are you hot? Would you like me to turn the air down?"

"No, I'm ok now."

"Would you like some help up off the floor?"

"Yes, but I'm afraid I'll just pull you down with me."

She then proceeded to crawl, on her hands and knees, across the kitchen floor, where she reached for the counter top and managed to heave herself, not so steadily, back up to a standing position. I continued to try and be nice:

"Would you like me to help you to bed?"

"I can't go to bed until the kitchen is clean. I need to wake up to a clean kitchen."

"OK, well how about we get you to bed and then I'll take care of it. It will be nice and clean in the morning, I promise."

She ignored me and started hobbling her way around the kitchen, but not before she POURED ANOTHER GLASS OF WINE.

"Can I ask you something?"

"What's that?"
"Why, if you're already so drunk you can barely stand up, are you pouring more wine in your glass?"

"That's a good question. Because the bottle isn't empty, I guess."

I'm not making that up, she actually said that. She refused to leave the kitchen a mess, so I went in to help her and try to speed up the process so that she would GO TO BED before she ended up on the floor again, this time not on purpose. While rinsing dishes she says:

"You think I'm pathetic." (this is a common tactic when she's wasted - guilt)

"No Mama, I don't think you're pathetic." (yes I do)

"Well I AM drunk. And I don't like it either."

"Well Mama, you are the only person who can keep that from happening."

"I know, but that would require self control that I obviously do not have."

"There's help for people who want it, you know."

I should point out here that the subject of AA is not well-received in this house, despite the fact that my mother has a cousin that she adores who has successfully completed the program and is still very active in the community. I do not understand this. I guess it's that whole "the first step is admitting you have a problem" thing. We're not there yet. Anyway, she then says to me, after a few moments pause:

"I know. You're sober and you just have all the answers."

To which I promptely responded "Alright. You can get yourself to bed then." and walked back to my bedroom before I totally lost it. Bitch-slapped her purple teeth out of her purple mouth lost it.

I'm not sure why I even try anymore. There have been many events over the years, total meltdowns and calmer conversations, that have resulted from their complete refusal to acknowledge that they have a problem. It has progressed from both of them vehemently disagreeing with my accusation to each of them telling me separately that they're worried about the other's increasingly ridiculous alcohol habits. It's gone from too many beers before dinner to entire bottles of wine in front of the TV to pouring another scotch at 4am to bosses calling spouses because someone didn't show up for work and no one is answering the phones at home. It is completely and totally out of control. And it angers and saddens me beyond words. Because there have been so many words and not one of them has made a difference.

Sometimes I think I'm getting through to them or we're making progress. Sometimes someone apologizes for how it affects me or one of them says something to the other, supports my cause. But the reality is that they don't want help. They don't want it and they won't get it, whether I use my not-at-all-annoyed voice or my hiccuping-between-sobs voice. I don't know if there's a singular event in the future that might end it or whether it will always be this way. I don't know if it will some day drive us completely apart. Lord knows it's come pretty close in the past.

And you know what the hardest part is? It's not the drunken ambushes, the guilt trips, the face plants in the hallway. It's not the ridiculous dinner conversations or the public embarrassments or the hypocritical statements. It's seeing, almost daily, plain and clear right there in front of me, how much they hate themselves. And the fear that I might someday end up like them.

They are barely functional train wrecks. They have so much practice they can fake it even to themselves. But not to me, (sometimes not-so-)late at night, sitting in the kitchen floor. I know how truly awful it is. How totally out of control. It is a sad, pathetic thing, and it's been going on for 20+ years.

Seriously Woman

If you guys knew the week I've had, you would forgive me my bloggy transgressions. It has been total hell.

And it's not likely to get much better this week because I have decided to try and move next weekend instead of waiting til the end of the month. Because if I don't get the fuck out of here I'm going to bitch slap my mother and I'm not sure relationships recover from that kind of thing.

I shouldn't even be in town next weekend. I should be going to Austin to behave atrociously in honor of Sharky's pending nuptials. But I am a sucker and can't say no so I will be TEACHING SUNDAY SCHOOL for Christ's sake. Actually, it will have nothing to do with Christ, as I'm Jewish. But you get my point. Molding young minds vs. partying my ass off? Clearly I've lost my damn mind.

Things have hit the "honeymoon's over" skids with Babe this week. I know part of it is me being a stressed out B, but it hasn't been helping matters. I don't think we're gonna break up or anything, but the stress of the joblessness combined with the distance from his place to mine is definitely taking it's toll. Another reason to get my bed into my own place ASAP.

Just don't even get me started on work. If this wasn't a 4 day week I'm pretty sure my head would have exploded last week. They do not pay me enough to put up with some of this shit.

So that's the short, random version. I will do better this week because when I don't get my daily dose of ridiculosity (mostly courtesy of Lilu, Maxie and Shine, check those bitches out, they're hilarious!) I go a little bit crazy-nuts. And isn't venting one of the many advantages of this awesome bloggy universe?

I Told You So

or, Why You Should Listen to Your Instincts When Travelling with Your Mother

My mom and I flew to Tucson this weekend to babysit my 14 month old niece while my sister and her husband went to Las Vegas for a vacation. My mom is still there actually, as they won't be back until late tomorrow, but I have a job that, you know, pays, so I figured maybe I'd better come back early.

I would like to preface the following story about our travels with this: I hate traveling with my mom. It consistently proves to be an infuriating/miserable experience. Like the time she nearly made all 4 of us miss our plane to Maine because she wouldn't get out of bed on time and then didn't understand why I was "power walking" through the airport. Or the time we drove to Arkansas to visit her family (just the two of us) and she ended up in the ER on Saturday night and nearly died of sepsis. Yeah, that was fun.

I should also probably point out that my mom LOVES Southwest Airlines. Love loves them. Would have tiny airplane babies at the age of 62 if that were biologically possible.

But I digress. I took a half day from work on Friday and was home in plenty of time to unload a bunch of shit out of her car so that Daddy could drive us to the airport in it (did I mention he bought a brand new BMW convertible last week? No, I'm not kidding). She was planning to leave work NO LATER than 2pm because we needed to be at the airport at 3 for our 3:55 flight. They got home right on schedule and we loaded up and headed to the airport.

Now my father, he is not a patient man. So when traffic stacked up for no apparent reason about halfway to the airport he proceeded to pitch a ridiculous fit, slamming on the brakes in my mom's already-hard-to-stop Durango and just generally acting like a total fucking jerk. By the time we arrived at the curb-side check in I was ready to slap him across the back of the head and tell him to chill the fuck out.

In between his ridiculous cursing and squealing breaks and thankGodtheseatbeltslock fun, he and my mom set about trying to convince me that I should check my bag, since my mom had to check hers and I wasn't going to save any time not having to wait at baggage claim. The conversation went something like this:

"How close is our connection?" I asked.

"We have an hour! Plenty of time!" my mom replied.

"No, we have 50 minutes, according to these boarding passes. If we're delayed at all it's going to be really tight." I hesitated.

"It's less than an hour before takeoff and the website says everything's on time!" she continued.

"Alright, fine. But I'm telling you, I've had to literally sprint through an airport to make a connection before. And guess what? My bag didn't make it." I pointed out.

"But this is Southwest!" she assured me.

I consented, grudgingly, and went back to being scared for my life. We got there, checked our bags curb-side, and went in to the airport. Where we discovered, can it be?!, that our flight was delayed. 45 minutes, so far. No joke. At which point I said to my mother, "See? Now the connection is going to be really close if we're really that late! Didn't I tell you?" and etc. She continued to brush me off. We worked a crossword puzzle. I was having an awesome crossword puzzle day and was kicking some serious difficult-clue ass. We boarded the plane 30 minutes behind schedule.

The ride was pleasant, we sat with a 33 year old guy from San Diego. My mom bought all 3 of us drinks with her years-expired drink coupons ("Southwest is so great!"). The flight attendants came over the loud speaker to tell us we were making our descent into Albuqueque and some of us had some pretty tight connections, could everyone else please let them off the plane first. They're holding the planes for us but they'd like us to board as quickly as possible. I looked at my mom and she said "Calm down Mare, I'm sure it will be fine!"

So we power walked through the tiny Albuqueque airport, boarded the plane, and took off. A very short flight later, we were on the ground in Tucson, deplaning and making our way to the baggage claim.

I would say that I don't have to tell you what happened next, but I do. Because it was epic in the I Told You So department. It was an eat-shit-and-die I Told You So. It was a you-had-sure-as-hell-better-listen-to-me-next-time I told you so.

I waited at the carousel while mom went out to see if Brandon was on the curb waiting for us yet. I pulled mom's bag off the carousel (YES. HER BAG MADE IT.) I watched several very similar 20" rolling black suitcases make their way off the conveyor and get snatched up by other people. And then there were no more bags. And my mom walked back up and I said "It's not here. I TOLD YOU SO."

And then we stood in the baggage office where the Southwest employee DID NOT ACKNOWLEDGE OUR PRESENCE for a solid 10 minutes. I'm not even kidding you, that bitch didn't even look up and say "I'll be with you in just a minute." She typed and she answered the phone and she radioed someone and not once did she look up until, after 10 WHOLE MINUTES she looked and me and said "OK, how can I help you?" with a smile that I wanted to slap off her stupid face.

(I should point out here that I am not a hypocrite. I also lack patience, like my father, but I was perfectly calm and nice to her when she finally helped me, unlike my father who would have stuck his hand in her face 2 minutes in and demanded she help him right this instant).

So I registered my bag and was informed that it would most likely be in on the 10:40 flight from Albuqueque. Since we had to come back to the airport the next morning to drop off Adrianne and Brandon, I told her I'd pick it up (also, we didn't know their address. So that was helpful). She promised me a $50 travel voucher for picking it up instead of having it delivered. My mom was instantly pleased with the outcome of the debacle ("Only Southwest would do that!"). Me, not so much.

I should also mention that when I went back Saturday morning (in the same clothes I'd had on the afternoon before, only now I had nice cheesy baby handprints on my white shirt), there was no one in the baggage office. So I waited for 20 minutes to speak to someone at the ticketing counter who radioed down and found out that there was already someone down there. So that was fun.

Needless to say, I was thoroughly annoyed at this whole thing and made sure to tell my mom many, many times, that I was right and she was wrong. And then when my dad picked me up at the airport last night, I made sure to tell him a few times too. Because that was way more satisfying than the $50 travel voucher, let's be honest.

Crunching Numbers

Alternate post title: Sweet Baby Jesus, I might not have to live at home much longer!

Hi, my name is Mary and I am a spendaholic. I have acquired some (*ahem* a lot) of debt as a result of this addiction. This debt is the main reason that, at 24 years old, with a Bachelor's degree and full-time job, I live with my parents. Don't think I don't kick myself in the ass at least 10x daily for that one, believe me.

However! Due to a combination of factors and some badass luck on my part, I might be able to get out by October 1st. Yes! That's right folks! A measly 4 months after moving in! It's a Chrismukkah in July miracle!

Okay, sorry. Got a little carried away with the exclamation points.

A fabulous friend has offered me her spare bedroom at way cheaper than I could get a place on my own. I have finally consolidated payments and blah blah blah down to one monthly payment, so that I know exactly how much I owe monthly and when. I will be teaching Sunday School in the fall, increasing my income slightly (veeerrrryyyyy slightly). And since I'll be teaching Sunday School, hopefully I won't be spending quite so much money on booze. Right.

So the goal is October 1st. There are a few more things to get in order/check into, but I think it's going to work. And it couldn't come soon enough because, well...there's a boy. And I like him and he likes me and we like having sex. And, well yeah. Refer to the rules.

So do me a favor and send positive thoughts (or donations!) my way. I need out.

Cramping My Style

One of the things I've really been making an effort to do since breaking up with the bf/moving home has been to get out and do new things and meet new people. I was ridiculously anti-social for the duration of my last relationship, and I came out of it feeling very much like I had no friends and no life and a little lost because of it.

Since the kickball season started in mid-May, my social schedule has picked up enormously, thanks in large part to 2 good friends on the team. They're both wonderful about keeping me filled in on the latest plans and prodding me to get out and join them when I'm feeling like just staying in. One of them managed to get me out all weekend this weekend, and he wasn't even in town until Saturday night!

Friday night was the kickball Mid Season Party. Our team had a pretty sad showing, but those of us who were there consumed plenty of free beer and stayed out til about 1:30. I woke up at 8:30 on Saturday (damn you, work schedule) and got up and moving. I met up with some of the same guys from the night before at a pool party around 2 and proceeded to drink all.day.long. In the sun. I showed up at home at about 7pm, still pretty drunk, with the plan to clean up, take a quick nap, and go back out, this time with the addition of my Friendship Broker, who had just returned from out of town.

I showered and then laid down to pass the fuck out. For about twenty minutes. At which point the guys called and said it was time to get moving, we were gearing up for round 2. By the time I got dressed and to their house, I was maybe 90% sober and really not sure who the hell I thought I was, that I was going to keep drinking after the day I'd had. But rally I did, and when 2am rolled around and they were throwing us out of the bar, I was like "Really? It doesn't even seem that late!" So then I went back to my friends' house and proceeded to stay up til 5am talking and watching movies on TV.

So I spent 2 nights on friends' couches and drank more beer than I usually consume in, oh I don't know, months. I slept less than 8 hours between the 2 nights and still managed to make it through most of today. My favorite part, though was when I got the lecture about driving home from the pool not entirely sober. Wherein my dad proceeded to tell me, after I pointed out that he was a GINORMOUS hypocrite, that he was allowed to do it because he's had 40 years of practice. Well Daddy, we've all go to start somewhere!

Going out and being a twenty-something is a lot harder when your parents can see the aftermath. I came home twice in what I left in the night before and I didn't even hook up. Because who's going to drive you to your parents' house, drunk, in the middle of the night? All I have to say is, my friends are saints, and I appreciate all the future nights they'll be letting me spend on their couches and the basketball shorts and tshirts they'll be loaning me to sleep in. And this young and single thing? It's fun.

A Cautionary Tale

Welcome! As this is my first post to this blog, I thought it appropriate to provide a bit of background on myself, my life and my current living situation.

The Players:

My name is Mary. I am a 24 year old college graduate who, after 2.5 years of living on my own in the "real" world, moved back in with my parents in April (to quote a favorite blogger of mine "BE YE NOT SO STUPID"). There were a lot of factors that went into this decision, the most pressing of which was the debt I acquired while trying to make it on my own (I am not, apparently, Mary Tyler Moore).

My parents have been married for nearly 26 years. My dad will tell you he married my mom because she's the only one who laughs at his jokes. I laugh at them too because I'm a daddy's girl. My mom and I? We can coexist, but we have to make an effort. Sometimes, it's a lot of effort. Go into my bedroom and scream into a pillow effort. But hey! We're trying!

The addition of my 2 cats brought the household total to 4. Yes, 4 cats. Since our arrival, the oldest cat (but newest addition), Belle, has been sentenced to life outside after proving that she wasn't likely to adjust to the exponential increase in feline residents. Helen is the longest-residing (and also dumbest) cat in the house. My 2 cats are Romeo, a fat orange guy who likes to yowl, and Slim, a grey kitten and the "cattiest" of the bunch.

I also have a nearly 23 year old brother who...well, let's just say we're polar opposites. He lives with his girlfriend and a roommate they can't stand about 20 mins from us. If you put all 4 of us in the same place, things get...interesting.

The Rules:

I am living in my parents' house with the understanding that I am saving money to pay down my debt. This means no rent, but it also means unsolicited commentary on every.penny.I.spend. I must provide proof each month of how much I'm paying toward my debt above what I was paying before moving home. Let me tell ya, figuring out how to do that without giving them total access to my finances required a few extra brain cells.

There are 2 more rules, as dictated to me by my father shortly after my homecoming. They are, and I quote:

1. You don't have to come home every night, but if you aren't coming home, call.
2. There will be no entertaining men in this house.

He said "entertaining men," no lie. Not only will there be no sleepovers, they are not to enjoy themselves in any way, shape or form at any time! Way to cover all your bases, Daddy.

The House:

We have lived in the same 4 bedroom, 3 bath house since I was 2 months old. Shortly (and I do mean shortly) after my brother's and my departures from the nest, my parents rearranged the 3 extra bedrooms in the house. What was once my bedroom is now my mother's office, what was once my brother's bedroom is now my father's office, and what was once the office is now the guest room/my bedroom.

I have pretty much free access to the kitchen and the large television in the living room. I have a small (ancient) television in my bedroom that you can't see when laying in the California king-size bed because the bed is SO.FUCKING.BIG.

The size of the bed lends itself to the stacking and accumulation of laundry and other crap. Which would be ok except every time my mom walks past my open door, she has to comment. Also, there's the fact that the SO.FUCKING.BIG. bed leaves little space in the room for anything else. It's fun in the dark, I promise.

For the most part, if I go in my bedroom and close the door, I am left alone. Unless there's a cat crying outside of it. Or mom is drunk.

This Blog:

My intention in writing here is to chronicle the...insanity? hilarity? hair-pulling frustration? of living at home again. I'm sure it will also involve commentary on other parts of my life as well. Join me, won't you, as I battle in the utimate cage match to the pain? And yes, that was a Princess Bride reference.