Where to begin. I’ll give you the 1-minute version of my life to date: I’m still managing life alone. I’m still managing (or not managing) depression. I’ve got a shit load of credit card debt that I’m carefully managing and I’m getting lazy with my gym routine because I can’t manage the expense of a personal trainer any longer. So that sums it up. Sure, there have been a handful of delicious photo ops scattered into the mix but that’s the public side of my world. Behind my closed door is another matter entirely. With the exception of my EXbf nobody has stepped foot into my apartment in a year and a half. But that’s another story.
Mother phoned last Saturday around 9:00a.m. This happens on occasion but she generally NEVER calls; her children have to call her. Which is a sore point that peeves both my sister and I. Or is it “sister and me?” I dunno. Whatever. So ‘MOM’ pops up on the iPhone just about one minute after my good, nasty wanking; that scene where porn star Adam Killian fucks me hard in the BAKER showroom. I was surfing the post-jackoff endorphin jizz rush; her untimely phone call really harshed my self-managed therapy mandated by Dr. Feel Good. I thought about ignoring it but then envisioned her lying in the bathroom floor with her head split open against the mint green bathtub. That image motivated me to answer as well as momentarily think about how that bathroom is a total gut job when I own the house.
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry this is so early but I’m just sitting here with nothing to do so I called you.”
God how I wished she’d split her head open but I carried forth. “No, NO! I’m up; I’ve been up since 4:00a.m….” Mind you I’d already been to the gym and ran three miles, at incline 8.5, but I wasn’t going to give up that info as mother is the type to turn my quest for wellness into some twisted bullshit of “…so that’s why my birthday gift was less than you spent last year…a gym membership…” Seriously. I kid you not. She is the original PRICE IS RIGHT gift calculator and can determine what something cost by weight, fabric content, store gift box, and country of origin. But I digress.
“Well, nothing new here…” which segued into a 45-minute convo that confirmed, indeed, NOTHING NEW THERE. Her rambling conversations of late are repetitive in nature. She notes who wore what at church, how the cemetery maintenance crew steal the plastic flowers from dad’s gravesite and sell them ‘…along the road for goddamn money’ and the hard fact that everyone she knew is now dead. (present company excluded on some level)
“Hell, there’s nobody out at the damn mall; I can walk around an hour and it’s nothing but fat people with strollers. They’re all these young mothers with kids everywhere…”
Mind you mother birthed me at age 21. At 80-years of age one forgets that trifling detail. She’s also a size 16 which would land her in the ‘plus-size’ slot at FORD MODELS if, like, they had a crazy as a blind bat seniors category.
“So now are you still alone? You still live alone? I never thought I’d wind up like this but here I sit: alone. Well, okay, I didn’t mean to bother you but just wanted to give a call before I figure out what I’m wearing to church.”
And I got that notion. That it would take mother 8-hours to determine what pant suit, scarf, and hat she’d wear to church. Alone. I got out of bed and tossed the damp tissue into the toilet. Alone.