WitchyBitch

gnaaaaaaaaaaaaa....

I'm going to blather about my personal life, not because everybody gives a flying fuck, but because this is my blog, not the koalafucking "Tonight Show," and I really don't feel like digging up interesting news links and posting them along with witty commentaries for the benefit of people's light reading.

My mom isn't the most, shall we say, emotionally centered person on earth. Neither am I, but you know what they say about how it takes one to know one. She's stressed about taking care of Dad, she's stressed about WelfareBro's continued dependence on her, she's extremely distressed because she sincerely believes that she's found the answer to how the spiritual aspect of the universe works and how people should conduct their lives in order to be in harmony with it, and it doesn't bear much resemblance to modern life, so she's basically worried about everybody's soul. The respiratory illness she's had recently has prompted her to quit smoking. This has had several effects:

~She cries like a goddamn baby.

~Dad has quit smoking also, and is crabby as a result, which makes her more stressed.

~She's upset because she's not getting appreciably better and still has to take Albuterol, without which she can't breathe decently but which jacks her up and makes her more anxious.

~The sicker she is/seems, the more babyish and dependent Dad gets, because he's one of that type of people. She thinks it's cos of his head injury. I think it's because she gives in to him too much, and I also think that even in their 60's, and even with some brain damage [it affects his concentration and some of his attitudes about things, but he's not retarded or amnesiac or anything], people can learn to appreciate what's done for them instead of sulking and grouching because everything isn't just so. If I were taking care of the old codger, he'd have a lot of adjusting to do, and it'd probably be good for him.

~She's upset because the urge to smoke, even with the patch, is driving her so batnads insane that she can't even work on the book about this big important concept that she believes in and has been trying to write about for 3 years or however long it's been [I quit counting].

~Now she's not going to talk about anything at all whatsoever that bothers her, because she and I always end up in disagreements and she bawls all the time, and she doesn't like disagreements. Of course, it can't possibly be that we're having disagreements because she's turned into a nicotine-deprived, husband-and-son-henpecked nervous goddamn wreck. It can only be because I'm making up ludicrous rules about how everything ought to be. And then, of course, when I disprove one of her arguments, she's wrong, wrong, wrong about everything, everybody thinks she's wrong and crazy, sob, sob, sob.

~I can't take this insane hyena shit anymore. Going to her house is like stepping Through The Looking Glass And Into The Crack Vial. I really want to help, because I want her to rest and get better, but this shit is too disturbing for me to handle emotionally. I can't be around her.

There's other stuff, too, that's going on that contributes to the problem, stuff about which nothing can really be done. I hope she doesn't end up having to go to the hospital for her bronchitis/borderline pneumonia/whatever it's mutated into by now.

I lost the thread of what I was saying, and I'm too tired to find it again, so instead I will make a brief commentary on the shameful state of the Vikings, who, midway through the NFL season, decided to stop playing football and start playing Barbies or something. Having flung their last chance at the playoffs haplessly down the commode after losing yesterday to the gaggle of homecoming queens collectively known as the Cardinals, they are now reportedly for sale. My prediction: they will remain for sale until spring, at which time the owner will give up and donate them to the Salvation Army just so he doesn't have to trip over them anymore.

[Normally sports bore me to tears, but when a team sucks this spectacularly, the comic potential is impossible to resist. When said team represents the state you live in, the irony is the special sauce on the sandwich.]

I'm going to go make something to eat, shower, and engage in some involuntary bruxism while I try to forget about the past 15 hours.

same bitch time, same bitch channel...

Random computer desk object for the day: Clothespin.

Posted by Frida Peeple at December 29, 2003 09:46 AM