Of course the one question I get is about the one thing I don’t want to write about. But here goes.
A Little Background
My mother has a generous streak, but her generous streak is often overpowered by her ability to hold a grudge. I live in a tiny, tiny house. When I moved in, my mother had recently moved from an apartment that had 2 bedrooms, 2 baths, as well as an eat in kitchen, living room, dining room, family room, and laundry room. Her new place is a one bedroom with a combination living room, dining room and kitchen. Rather than sell everything that didn’t fit into the new place, she gave me a bunch of furniture.
The Sofa
Big, brown, and scratchy, the sofa took up half of the living room. After a few years I remarked that I’d like to buy a new, smaller couch. My mom’s best friend, Di, owns a furniture store that caters to interior designers. In a fit of generosity my mother bought a couch that Di was trying to get rid of and gave it to me, taking my larger couch for herself.
The Chairs
Yellow, with red flowers, they don’t match my house or my taste but the two chairs are really, really comfortable. They swivel and I love swivel chairs. Unfortunately, the two matching chairs don’t fit in the same room. When Boyfiend moved into his new house, I lent him one of the chairs so I could be comfortable when I visited. Now you can walk around my dining room table without bumping into things
The First Fight
Over the summer my mother rented a house at the shore. I spent Independence Day weekend there with Boyfiend, our friends JJ and T, my mom and her sister. T and JJ are bourbon drinkers. It’s rare to go to their house when they don’t have a handle of Jim Beam. For the holiday weekend they arrived with a half full bottle of Jim. That Saturday night my friends and I drank a bottle of wine. Between the 4 of us, we also drank about 5 beers. After watching the fireworks, we returned to the house to open another bottle of wine. My mother snapped at 39 year-old T, “When is enough enough?” Embarrassed, he came outside and said, “Your mom just yelled at me.” Rather than yell at her for yelling at my friend I ignored it.
The next afternoon, on my way to the bathroom, my mother stopped me. She said, “I need the chair back immediately.” Stupidly, I asked why. “When you have a ring on your finger, maybe, just maybe, will I allow you to give away my furniture to Boyfiend. Until then, get it back.”
“Um, okay. Where do you want me to bring it?”
“To your house.”
“Why my house if you want it?”
“Fine. I’ll have the upholsterer pick it up.”
“Fine. Tell me when he’s coming.”
Of course this was not the entire conversation. Many nasty things were said. But she never called to tell me when the upholsterer was coming, so the chair still sits in Boyfiend’s living room.
Complicated Trades at the Dinner Table
My mother recently purchased and settled on a house at the shore. Her sofa (one of two) is too big to fit in her new place. I offered to trade my newer, smaller sofa and the two swivel chairs for her older much larger sectional sofa. This plan was in effect for about a week until she decided that her sectional would look better in my dad’s house.
Halfway through Sunday’s dinner she mentions that her upholsterer will be coming to pick up the chairs from my house. This was not the plan. If she takes the chairs then I’m left with a two-seater sofa and no chairs for guests. I entertain regularly. I need the chair for guests. I mention this and apparently, she really, really needs that chair, even though I’ve had it for more than 5 years. She offers me one of my dad’s chairs instead. My dad is not pleased with this scenario. Now he has to get rid of his couch, take my mother’s, give her two of his chairs, and give me a chair.
At this point in the conversation I’m confused and frustrated. I ask when the upholsterer is coming. She says Wednesday or Thursday. I ask which day. She says Wednesday or Thursday. I explain that as she knows, only one of the chairs currently resides in my home. If the upholsterer is coming to get them I need to know if he is coming Wednesday or Thursday so I can arrange for both chairs to be there. She tells me he’ll be at my house Wednesday or Thursday. Again, I ask which day, only this time I’ve raised my voice. I explain again, slowly, loudly and rudely that I need to know if he is coming WEDNESDAY or THURSDAY.
The Big Fight
She still doesn’t answer so I leave the table to call Boyfiend and tell him that I’ll need the chair back either Wednesday or Thursday. While we’re chatting I hear my mother take my father into the other room. She starts bitching about me. Loudly. I can hear every word she’s saying, and she’s not being nice. She tells my dad that she bought me a couch three years ago and now because I’m a spoiled bitch I’m asking her to buy me another one. The she launches into a rant about Boyfiend has the chair and who the hell am I to give away her furniture. “When she has a ring on her finger, maybe, just maybe, I’ll allow Boyfiend to use a chair, but until he puts a ring on her finger he doesn’t get shit.”
Infuriated, I hang up with Boyfiend and yell, “I can hear every word you’re saying.” She comes out and says, “Good. I want you to hear what I just told your father.”
“I already heard what you told my father. You are misdirecting your anger. You don’t need the chairs immediately, you just don’t want Boyfiend to have them because you’re mad at me. I’m leaving now. What day is the upholsterer coming?”
“You need to hear it again. You are a spoiled bitch. Who gives you the right to ask me to buy you a new couch when I just spent $4000 on one 3 years ago? What gives you the right to give away my furniture. You don’t even have a ring on your finger and you’re giving my furniture to Boyfiend? I need the chairs immediately.”
Meanwhile, my father’s trying to calm everyone to no avail. I’m about to haul off and slug her, and she’s so mad she’s spitting. After the fifth mention of the lack of a ring on my finger and my refusal to give up the chairs I screamed over her continued rant, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I grabbed my coat, kissed my dad, and stormed through the door, slamming it shut.
My dad opened the door and called to me, “Wait for me, I’ll drive you home,” as my mother continued to spew bile and hatred.
Epilogue
Last night, Wednesday, my mom called. This was the first time we’ve spoken since Sunday. I assumed she was calling me to tell me the upholsterer would pick up the chair today. The whole fight started over when the guy was picking up the stupid chairs. The bitch hasn’t even called the guy yet. After all that, after telling me how she needed the chairs, like yesterday, she hasn’t even made the fucking arrangements for the guy to get them.
And for the record, I am well aware of my mother’s insanity. I never ask her for anything. Ever.