Since my car blew up on Wednesday, I’ve been at the mercy of my mother in terms of transportation and therefore my sanity. I should also point out that it’s mandatory when referencing my mother to italicize it like that, otherwise you won’t understand the dynamic between us. Then again, you’re reading my blog, so maybe you will. Regardless, the moniker only fits if you say it like there’s another word supposed to come after it, so mother will have to do.
Just in case you should get the idea, my mother is not entirely a bad person. She’s just not the kind of person who should ever have been allowed to have kids, or for that matter, be near them on a regular basis. I remember once my psychiatrist asked me, “Do you know if there is any mental illness in your family?” And then I told him about the time my mother threatened to set the floor on fire because I wouldn’t help her move the TV to the middle of the living room because THERE IS NO PLUG THERE AND IT WILL NOT WORK WITHOUT A PLUG, and how she freaked out when I told her and then accused me of trying to get her nice and confused so I could hide her peanut butter.
I got my prescription doubled that day.
Anyway, my daily routine begins at 4:30 a.m., that way I can get a couple of hours of writing and downtime under my belt before my first class. Or as other people see it, I like to sit around and do nothing for a while. You say tomato, I say tomahto. Either way, having a couple of hours to laze around in the morning is the key to my mental health. Without it, I’m a strung-out ball of nerves, jittering around on the verge of tears all the time because THE SKY IS FALLING AND SO ARE MY PANTS.
So between Wednesday and Friday, I tried to mentally prepare myself not only for an interruption in my beloved routine, the one that keeps me sane, but also in having to deal with my mother, the one who drives me crazy, in the wee hours of the morning.
But how do you prepare for a layover in hell?
From the moment she appeared in my doorway to the time I left her car, I had learned to second-guess every decision I'd made that morning, from what I was wearing to why I was writing to my major and whether or not I should have named my cat Rebecca.
"Are you ready? Why aren't you ready? Take your time but hurry up? Have you had breakfast? Let me make you something. You're not going to spend six dollars for a coffee, that's ridiculous. I won't let you waste money like that. Wait, you're not really going to wear that, are you? And you need a coat. Where is your coat? You should really have the weather on right now so you can plan ahead. Are you going to dry your hair? Where's your hair dryer? You know, you should really keep it in your bedroom; an office is no place to dry your hair. Oh, aren't you cute? She's cute, isn't she? She just looks like a Rebecca, don't you think? Hello, Rebecca! Come here, Rebecca!"
"HER NAME IS DANA!" I shouted, and it just deteriorated from there.
By the time I ambled into my psychology class, I was a good twenty minutes late, my hair was wet, and I'm pretty sure I smelled like the leftover turkey sammich from last week she forgot she had in her glove box. Fortunately, rotten turkey smells a lot like regurgitated gin when mixed with my perfume, so I fit in with all the other hooligans coming to class straight from waking up in their own vomit.
"Rough night?" the guy I'd sat down beside asked me as we were filing out of class.
"Rough morning," I said.
"I hear you," he said. "Can those Sigmas throw a party or what? It was like, suh-weet."