||[Oct. 20th, 2013|09:55 am]
Some men in masks board an underground train. A woman is tracking them. They carry identical attache cases. Are they suicide bombers? They catch sight of her. She punches the alarm. All hell breaks loose.|
And my mother switches the TV off.
As I expected she would. Anything too fruity; click. Anything unfamiliar: click. Her remote, her rules.
"I don't know what that was," she says in an affronted tone.
"Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D" I say.
"How on earth do you know?"
"Because they just told us."
We've had variants on this conversation many times before. Only now there's a difference. It's not that she won't pay attention, it's that she can't.
I find it hard to accept that we've crossed that line.
Today, on the way home after lunch and a movie with my mom and aunt and uncle, we went by an auction place where they had a line of brightly colored golf carts--painted in sticky-sweet jelly bean colors.
Pointing at the pink one I say, jovially and facetiously, "My birthday is coming up, and that bright pink golf cart would make a lovely gift!"
My mom responded bitterly and hatefully, "Where in the hell do you think you'd keep THAT?"
Me, trying to keep the just-for-fun vibe I started with, "As long as I am fantacizing, I'll just add a large, roomy garage to my fantasy."
I get so sick of her being rude, nasty, and shitty to me all the time.
My parents were never nasty to me. They just ignored me- and sent me off to be expensively educated at a place far from home.