We didn't win the lottery. . .

Or did We? (You all remember how I show respect with Capitalization, right?)

Literally, we did not win the Florida Powerball. Not on the 31st or the 7th or the 14th. We just recently started religiously buying lottery tickets. I was inspired by a little story within Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. (If you haven't read it. Do. Right now. For real. GO!) It involves a poor man who goes to the cathedral every day for years begging God to let him win the lottery. Finally, an exasperated God bellows back, "Would you please buy a ticket?!!" I giggled at my own folly and bought a fucking ticket and then another and then another. So far I've won more tickets that didn't win. Hey, it's a start.

Roulette (and Craps) of life - I didn't hit SuperMom when I was born or when I gave birth, I'm ashamed to admit. I did manage Survivor when I broke out of her cell and Tough as Nails when my own babies broke from mine. I figure that I'm beating the house odds which has to be remarkable at this old age of mine. (I turned 31 last weekend, and I'm still waiting for the lightning strike of epiphany that I usually get around my birthday. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Oh! Crap! Is that the epiphany? My fucking clock!?!)

On the other hand, a FLUSH! (We couldn't possibly qualify as a straight:) - I crack myself up, I swear I do. Like a flush, there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to our family and then Oh! Right!, they're all wearing the same suit! OK - clearly this has gone on too long.

Look, here it is. My life is great. I've been bitching and moaning and feeling pretty damn sorry for myself. It's total bullshit and I'm a whiny baby and I'm tired of feeling like a charity case that makes excuses after excuses after not doing a damn thing to make anything better.

So there! The lottery draws again on Saturday. What are the chances?

.

Me, Me, Me

I have some terrible news. I have some fabulous news. Cry with me, OK? Sing and Dance with me, will you?

Today, I walked away from mother. I sighed, looked up at the ceiling, took a deep breath, looked at Dawn, put my shoes on and walked away. I rode the elevator down to the ground floor, walked across a parking lot, leaned on my van and smoked a forbidden cigarette. The last 20 years swam in my tears and I made a decision.

Me. Me. Me. I'm going to live for me now. I am all done with her cyclone of misery. I choose to live. I choose to spend my energy and love with Dawn, Storm, Faith, William, Ray, Mimi, our close friends - the family that we have built and nurtured despite never being taught how.

I decided to stop being her daughter - subject to her whims, abuse and even the dictations of her DNA that multiplies in my cells. I decided to be my children's mother, and mommy, and protector. I decided that enough is enough.

Laughter - I've missed it. I'm funny - I had almost forgotten. I am happy - who knew?

Even at this moment, when cobwebs rank with her decaying funk are still clinging to me, I have much love and great hope. I can see Dawn's halo again, and I can feel it's glow on my dried skin. My children are singing, not whining. Dancing with me, not tripping me. I adore them.

Please forgive my nauseating cliches. Please forgive my worn out metaphors. Please forgive my decidedly uncreative stabs at prose tonight. You'll give me a break - I know you will. I know you will because you have stuck with me through this game of family Chinese checkers. You have hugged me and dried my tears. You have been my friends.

I'm sure my writing will pick up. Give me a second, will you?

.

Gray? Grey? I don't care.

Do you ever have a day when it would just be better if you didn't talk? When everything that
comes out of your mouth is just catty? Or hateful? Or just generally unhelpful? That's me today.

There's a children's book called "My Many Colored Days." It's about moods. It's fabulous. "Gray. Gray Day. I watch, but nothing moves today." That's me today.

William parachuted from the top step, relying on a Target bag for his very life. He had a bandana tied around his head - it was pushing his little ears down. I managed a weak smile.

Ray calls pumpkins "Ump Umps." He has a little bitty one that he's been carrying around. Everywhere. I think it's floating in the tub water right now. I noticed this adorableness, but have no exuberance or soul-warmth from it.



Faith had a level 10 breakdown tonight. These come once in a blue moon but when they do, they are something truly fierce, barometric pressure altering and earth-shaking. She worked herself into such a fit that she was baring her teeth, flailing about and assaulting whoever was closest. I took this as just what I deserved. She was acting just like I feel. I was down enough to mistake her discomfort (putting it lightly) for my karma.

Storm is perfect. Thank God, the wildcard is stable.

I don't wear misery well. It's like my mother's suit - itchy and ill-fitting and boxy and hot.

I can't remember to Ham Sa. I can't remember to eat. I can't remember anything, to tell the truth. My days are foggy. You know how when you have a sinus infection, it feels like you have cotton balls stuffed between your ears? I have that confusion without the pain.

Save me, Halloween! Shake me out of this funk. Please.

.

Floodgates, finally

Remember how I said I haven't cried yet? Now I have. McDonald's is what sent me over the edge. Pathetic, I know.

I realized at about 10:30 that I forgot to make Storm a lunch. The little boys and I were out running errands so I zipped into the McDonald's drive-thru. I ordered $12.98 worth of heart-attack-in-a-bag. I pulled around to the first window and gave the lady my credit card. Declined. "Could you try it again, please?" Declined. Fuck.

You see, I never use my credit card. The only reason we have it is to pay off the solar panels. For the last several days, I've had to run it a few times for odds and ends for my mother's move. And I had to do one big purchase on it because her Target card was declined when she sent me there yesterday.

So I hung my head, apologized and got out of line. Then I remembered that I had her other credit card because I had to leave one on file at the "Senior Community." I got back in line, ordered the same $12.98 worth of artery clogging, and pulled around yet again to the first window. The lady looked at me funny and I said, "Different credit card." She smiled and then said, "Declined." I said, "What?" She said, "Declined." That is when I lost it. Hyperventilating sobbing. In the McDonald's drive-thru. With my two baby boys in the back seat. I let go one blood-curdling scream and made my way out of the line. Again.

Total and Complete Humiliation. I have known thee.

.

Horrible

She's 57. She's only 57.
"I'm 57, Rebecca! I still have a life to lead. I'm only 57!"

This is horrible. She is so angry with me. She has resorted to lying and begging and yelling. What am I to do but protect her body from her mind in the best way I know how to? This is horrible.

Forgive me for not returning phone calls. Forgive me for not blogging. Please. I have my thick soul shell up. I can't cry yet, so I can't talk to you Sweet People who love me so, yet. Know that I love you and am grateful for your attention. Don't give up on me.

A Place for Mom

"Senior Community" shopping. For a 57 year-old snob. I'm 31. Here's the rub.

On Tuesday the 13th, I called her at her house. I couldn't understand much of what she was saying. She wasn't completing sentences. She was talking about people that I don't know. She was abrasive and impatient when I questioned her about her state of mind. Then the fire alarm started. She was totally confused, babbling about the burglar alarm and someone named Greg. She hung up on me. Pensacola 911 connected me with her local Police Department. While I was on the phone with them, her fire monitoring system called and requested that units be sent to her house immediately.

She was taken by ambulance to the ER for "general disorientation." She was admitted as procedure dictates for observation following smoke inhalation. She is still there because she's nuts.

My mother has been a headcase for as long as I've been alive. No, I wasn't a trying baby. I'm sure her troubles started long ago; I can only bear witness though, for the last couple of decades. When I say "headcase" I mean that she has psychological and neurological issues with medical records so vast that they could only be transported by a fleet of 18-wheelers, an aircraft carrier or all the pack animals in the world.

She has hydrocephalus (too much fluid on her brain), clinical depression with an extensive history of suicide attempts, intense and unresolved migraine headaches, a degenerative bone condition, morbid obesity, the symptoms of early onset Alzheimer's including memory and balance problems. (For the record, she couldn't remember a series of 3 words for more than 3 minutes but she did know the names of The Real Housewives of New Jersey.) She doesn't eat properly, sleep properly, exercise at all, or treat people with anything resembling respect, kindness or compassion. Did I mention that she herself is a Doctor? As if all of the above isn't enough, she's fucking brilliant.

So tell me, if you can, how in the hell am I going to get her into an assisted living facility that usually only takes people 62 years and older in near perfect health? And if I manage that charade, how am I going to afford to keep her in there when she (wonder of all wonders) lives for another 30 years? And how is she not going to get herself kicked out for being a total bitch (Just this week she asked a poor tech trying to start an IV if he was having an attitude with her because she's a doctor.)

And what sin or as is more probable, sins have I committed to deserve this? I know, I know - This isn't about me. It's about finding a safe place for a smart, savvy and somewhat capable person to thrive.

I feel like my life once again is at the mercy of her every whim. As an only child, what else am I to do but come running most every time she calls? There's NO ONE ELSE - so please, please don't suggest that I call her bluff for attention, or ostracize her for bad behavior. I've tried everything - remember this has been going on my entire life. She is truly ill and truly needs serious help. But that has been true for a very long time.

.

I didn't see that coming . . .

Remember how I stole my Mom's car? That was a month ago. I still had it up until last night at about 10:00. That's when my mother knocked on my front door, totally unannounced. She had her loyal houseman Juan with her. They were here for the car.

She was dressed to the nines, very chipper and acting as though nothing is wrong between us. At some point she threatened to spank me. I don't know what that's about.

They drank a glass of water and headed out, bound for Jackson, MS which is about 4.5 hours away. Dawn and I got in bed. About 20 minutes later, another knock on the door. She was back. She had lost Juan who was driving the rental car that still had her purse and cell phone in it. She couldn't remember his cell phone number. Dawn had to go handle that one. I was close to combustion.

Dawn called her this morning. She said they made it back at about 4 a.m. No idea what took them so long.

What the Fuck!?

.

Mystery Solved - Part II

This always happens to me when I begin a story in parts - my days are so full of noteworthy happenings that I have a hard time getting back to the the original story. I had intentions of sharing insights gleaned while spending time with my birth family. I had revelations if not epiphanies. But that was days ago and I have stuff to do, so I'm just going to sum up and explain the title. You won't hold it against me, will you?

Why can't I help but believe that Amy has that terrible song, "If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?" going through her mind?!

My folks split up when I was just a little girl. My mother quickly remarried and took me with her. She and her new husband liked to travel and eat at fabulous places. For as long as I can remember, she has asked the band to play "Darktown Strutters' Ball." It's her song. Everyone knows it. I never thought about how it became her song - it just is.

I sat with my dad while he packed up his things this weekend. I told him that I was at Commander's Palace in New Orleans when I found out that my sister was missing. After we get through that, he said, "I bet your mom has told you this a thousand times . . ." Let me say right here that these are some of my favorite stories. There is a group of people on this planet that know me only as the "miracle baby" because there was a big joke when my folks were dating that they were so different, like a cat and dog, that they couldn't possibly breed and produce viable offspring. Hi.

He told me that back when he was "in his prime" he and my mother were at Commander's Palace and he was "cutting up." He said the bandleader said, "Hey Son, if you ever want a job as a jazz band singer, you come and see me." I asked him if he was full of shit. He said, "No! He was being sincere. I had just finished a mean rendition of Darktown Strutters' Ball."

I gasped and said, "Is that why Momma always requests that song?" He threw his head back, laughed and asked me if I was full of shit. I assured him I wasn't.

So there it is. The answer to the mystery of my mother's favorite song - my daddy sang it way back when and caused a ruckus at Commander's Palace. I like that story.


.

Jiggity Jig

I'm home. I know, it's a little sooner than I anticipated. Dawn's going to have to tell you about that. I'm too tired.

I was only there for about 48 hours, but each one hung heavy. Madison, a northern suburb of Jackson where my mother's house is, has grown up a lot since I left there in 97, so I'm not very comfortable with getting around. All of that was to explain how I ended up at the grocery store .25 mile from my Dad's house instead of the one .25 mile from my mom's house. Honestly that one is only about 2.5 miles from my Dad's house, but every inch counts in this relationship.

I imagined myself alternately as a mouse in a maze and some sort of night-vision-goggle bespecled Special Ops recon scout type. I was armed only with my buggy, a hastily compiled list, and the intense desire to survive a.k.a get the hell out of there with everything on the list and without seeing anyone that I know, or knew as the case certainly is.

I did my dead level best to keep my head down, only lifting my eyes at the top of each aisle to check the item sign and make sure the coast was clear of familiar faces.

By the time I got back to the car and had conned a poor passerby into taking the buggy for me, I was sweating, shaking and hyperventalating. After I wove my way back to my mother's house I opened a beer, lit a cigarette and all but cursed her for forcing me back to this hell-hole of a geographic dot.

God, how I hate Mississippi!

Leave it to my Mom to alienate the last person who gives a rat's ass about her. So I got to come home today. Dawn was happy I was coming, of course. When I got here, she was waiting on the porch with a pair of beers, hanging up with Propane. She had a paint brush in her hand.

Pictures of the complete project tomorrow. If you're prone to vomiting brought on by intense sweetness, skip tomorrow's post.

.

Truth, Truth and Nothing But

Here it is. I have to go to Jackson, Mississippi (F*#k!) armed only with a Power of Attorney. I have to take control of my mother's finances, put her house on the market, file her taxes, apply for a mortgage and somehow get her back in the car to bring her back to Florida. I'm doing this because she has just in the last few days revealed that she has been diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer's. Again, F*#k!

Complication: I have to take William and Ray with me because Dawn has been called into work this week. Attorney, Accountant, Banker, Realtor with 2 toddlers in tow.

I sat down with Dawn to try and think of someone that could care for them for a few days.

Options: 1 set of Grandparents live right down the road in the next town. They're out of town until tonight and are somewhat infamous for their lackluster enthusiasm for extended visits from the boys. They're more the get them for the afternoon and bring them home sort. So, moving along.

Option 2: My dad and his wife and their 3 semi-adult children all live in Jackson. Perfect, right? Not so much. I'm pretty much totally estranged from them. (I'm gay. And I divorced a member of the service to be gay. Oh! And my new love interest has 2 brown children. AND as if all of that isn't scandalous enough, Dawn's ethnicity is also in question. You all know about those black folks that live in the frozen tundra of North Dakota, right?)

I finally just cracked up. Dawn said, "What is so funny?" I said, "You want to hear some real shit? Listen to this."

I reviewed for her the above options. We again came to the conclusion that both were no-gos. I said, "We are all but totally surrounded by blood relatives that should be jumping at the chance to have these boys for a few days, but instead I'm over here wondering how much it would cost to fly in Nanny Lesbo or Jude's R from clear across the country. That's messed up."

And that, my friends, is the truth.


.

Damn it!

My mother asked me if I'm pregnant!

.

My Mother

Where to begin? What to leave out? What tone to take? Why don't I just get my shit together and write a F-ing book? One of my most effective excuses is my mother, who is constantly at odds with at least every other person on the planet, having an only twice before documented reaction to a somewhat (very) addictive substance, wrecking her car for the 7th time this fiscal year and taking her harried insurance company to court, breaking her computer and alienating the computer fix-it people by reminding them that doctors such as herself (though she hasn't practised in 15 years because she "voluntarily relinquished" her license) went to school far longer than they and so shouldn't be talked to like she is a child regarding this machine which is clearly faulty (not plugged in). *Big Cleansing Breath*

Ham Sa. Ham Sa.

Did I mention that she still uses the word "Oriental" to describe people? And when I remind her that that is an adjective to be reserved to describe rugs only, she waves her chunky bejeweled hand and says, "Excuse me, Rebecca. I forget how sensitive you've become."

This is where I lean my head back, stare at the ceiling, take breaths worthy of labor and wonder what I did in my previous life to deserve this. AND how did SHE birth ME? She should have given birth to Paris Hilton. I should have been mothered by wolves. They would have been more forgiving.

She's moving here. Not here, here. But within the county limits. And I'm glad. Mostly. When I'm not thinking of myself. Or of ever doing anything else remotely enjoyable. Ever.

You see, my grandfather (her father) is doing his damnedess to die. Her sisters won't let him. She, with her extensive medical knowledge, thinks he should be in hospice. She doesn't have Medical POA despite the fact that she's the oldest child and has a Medical Degree. Doesn't that tell you something? If one of the 3 sisters doesn't step out of the equation, one of them is going to commit homicide.

So. My mother is coming here. And here's the problem.

She can't actually take care of herself. She has every syndrome, disease, and disorder ever outlined by medical geniuses and failures alike. She doesn't adhere to a regular schedule of sleeping, eating, dressing, medicating or paying her bills. And by "regular" I mean normal and also consistent. She needs help. Daily help. And I don't want it to be me.

The good news is that she divorced well, and has more money than most small churches. (You know. Not a First Baptist Church, but she's not a Second Antioch of Baskersville, either.) Anybody have any ideas how to talk a non-Senior Citizen into an Assisted Living facility? Or hiring live-in or 24 hour call-in care?

It's not that I don't want to help her. But I have 4 kids and I'm pretty busy with them and their joyous things. I don't want to get sucked into her insanity and joy-sucking things.

Oh, crap! I'm not saying this well. I'm sounding heartless and cold. I'm sounding like a petulant child, an ingrate, an asshole. She's my mother, after all. But she makes me crazy. She makes all of humanity crazy. She is crazy.

Dawn has Kicked Down the Closet Door

Waring Ninja Style. Beautiful angular body slicing through the air in slow-motion. For real. She finally told her Mom and her crazy right-wing nut job "friend" about us this week. They probably both already knew, but now she has said it out loud. And I am reminded of this song. And I am sharing it with you.

Her mom did great. The funniest thing she said was, "I hear the words you're saying, but I don't understand any of it." She laughed at herself.

The "friend" saga continues. She is uber-religious and super conservative and scary as hell. So far all she's done is quote scripture and say that she isn't like the other "Bible-throwing" Christians and that she hopes we are able to find the Jesus that eats with sinners. -Sigh-
Oh! And her feelings are hurt because she wasn't the first to know. -Another Sigh-

This should get really good once Dawn starts quoting scripture back to her. I'll keep you abreast (hehehehe) of the situation.

Everyone has seen this, I'm sure, but it bears repeating, doesn't it? Love it!