I am eating Doritos at 1 am, after another whirlwind day of, “oh, but I never knew that that was gonna happen.”
…It’s becoming a norm for me, which is really unsettling for a person who clings to habits and planning like one of those suction-cup window Garfields, from the 80′s.
I am growing, as a human, they tell me.
…After changing plans with J, because of a Mr. Cuteness illness, I was swooshed into Greek eats with Ma, then recruited to theater viewings with Marty with about 40 minutes warning, secured a ticket via JM, met up and saw the show wearing the same fleece get-up from 10 this morning, and had after-drinks, while solving all the artistic problems in the Universe, with The Fella and Marty.
…Then there was this whole brush with the law, and Shop 101 class, discussion of why you need a penis on your side when talking about anything having to do with motor vehicle repairs, and finally made it home in time to send out another late blog, which I view as “technically” the correct day it needs to be done in, even though it is actually “tomorrow,” on account that I haven’t been to bed yet, so it is “technically” still “today”
This is getting way complicated, I know, but one tends to reach when attempting to justify oneself.
…Also, these Doritos are from yesterday’s lunch. And they are gone now. There were only about 4 left…slightly stale.
…Listen: I’m tired (big surprise), and still haven’t finished all the stuff I needed to do today. Namely stocking stuffers, and the ever insufferable wrapping.
God, I hate wrapping.
…It is the job that is just never completed.
Presents seem to breed, even in tight pocketbook circumstances, and here I sit to eternity, paying for the consequences. And now I have this huge turn-of-the-century framed picture to wrap as well. It’s Ma’s gift, and she already knows about it, as she pointed at it in an antique store and said, “I want that.” So I obligingly purchased it for her. And it was then placed in a garbage bag to keep the rain off it in transference to the car. A garbage bag. On a $210 Bronte-esq print with original Kensington Hyde Street framing from London. With a stamped label.
This is the world of irony I live in.
…And now it sits in my room…in the same garbage bag, waiting for me to return its dignity by wrapping it in paper with sleighs and Christmas trees slobbered all over it, so Ma can open it in two days, while pretending the whole time to be totally surprised by its very existence. And she will go on about it, just like she did in the antique store, as if she has never seen it before this moment…including the highly unsavory moment she likes to always include in matters of collectables in reminding me that, “this will, after all, belong to you one day.”
…As if plotting for my inheritance upon my mother’s death is something that I always consider in my present-purchasing.
Me: Why the hell would you say that, even? It’s Christmas and this is your gift. Every time you say things like this it feels like you have my name on a little sticky dot placed on the back, just waiting so when you drop off the twig someday, this will all be mine.
She: Well, it will.
Me: But I don’t wanna think about it! For god’s sake, you’re my mother!
She: But it’s a really good picture. And it would look nice in your bedroom and all.
Me: Stop it! Stop it! I’m buying you a Christmas gift, for shit’s sake! I don’t wanna think of how it may look on my wall when you are dead!
She: …I’m just saying…
Me: Look: Do. You. Like. The. Picture?
She: I do.
Me: Does it make you happy?
She: It does.
Me: Do you have a place to put it?
She: Yes.
Me: Then can I please buy it for you without death being in the same sentence?
She: Sure.
Me: Alright then.
She: …But, just for future reference–
…This is the kind of Christmas conversations I have with my mother. Sober or not. In joy or sorrow. Death and inheritance are apparently very huge to her, even though I am an only child, who has a habit of keeping absolutely everything but gum wrappers…because of some sentimental link or another. Which tells me, I have been FED this disease from childhood (one suspects), and have been programmed to accept it. And I adore it. But not when talking about a picture I’m about to buy you, whose exsistance in your home you are only justifying as a weird kind of savings account placeholder for when you kick the bucket.
…So, let it be known.
…And now I’m off to wrap some more…
~D