So She's Been In a Telephone "Time Out" Since...

I do not remember the exact date! But it's nearing three months (at current writing). 

This post is pretty much the entire comment I posted over at my friend's blog. And I felt it exhibited a sufficient amount of mom's narcissism to be the "maiden post" of this blog. I plan on digging up old blog posts elsewhere, and slapping it here so I have all the related what-the-fuckery isolated in one spot.  So here goes...

One day she was playing a rousing game of Telephone Roulette, calling the house, the cell and my work #, 5 calls in total, leaving identical messages on all three voicemails in her pitiful voice, but not alluding to what the call was about. 

I waited it out about an hour before my conscience kicked in, “What if she’s actually in crisis?” So I broke down and called, and of course my work # is veiled so it comes up as “unknown,” so she knew I was at work. 

“What was so urgent? Are you in crisis?” “Uh, no. I needed help buying a book off Amazon.” Now mind you, I had told her how they monitor my web and phone use, and here I am on the phone and on the Amazon site, thinking this is going to be a quick thing. No. She’s doped up on vicodin, slurring her speech and moving at a snail’s pace. I'm constantly minimizing my computer screen as people pass my cubicle.

I harumphfed, and she got assy and said, “Don’t get huffy with me.” And I said, “I’m at fucking work.” Turns out that book in question? It is not even available yet, and she was too stupid to figure out what PRE-ORDER means. 

I blasted her, “Yanno, this could have waited until I came home. I called because you sounded like you were in crisis.” “I didn’t know you were at work! I thought you were still on furlough.” “Uh, no, you don’t listen to me. I haven’t had a Friday furlough in over a year.” And with that, I had her in a “telephone time out” for about 9 weeks before my trip to Turkey. And knowing I had her in a time out, she thinks she’s so essential to my existence, she’s spiting me (LOL!) by putting ME in a time out and refuses to call me, which, as you might imagine, just makes me blissfully happy.

I’ve actually lost track of how many weeks it’s been since I’ve called her. I’m sure it’s now bordering on close to 3 months. HEAVEN!

So the day before we leave for Istanbul, I zap her an email informing her, "just to REMIND YOU, I will be out of the country from 5/9 until 5/21. And oh by the way, Happy Mother's Day, I sent you something. It should arrive in 2 days."  The only acknowledgement I got was an email reply consisting of two letters. "Ok."

While we are away, Jeanne Cooper (she of Young and the Restless fame, a soap mom used to watch EVERY SINGLE DAY for about 25 years) died. The Mother's Day gift I sent her? Jeanne Cooper's latest book. I emailed the link from NYTimes to mom saying, "Isn't this weirdly coincidental?" Yet no email responding to that or a thank you for the book. 

I come home. No calls nor emails were received. Not even a "hey, how was your trip." Want to know who sent me a lovely email welcoming me home? My saintly mother-in-law. So I wait it out. Mom had it in black and white when I'd be home. Yet no call, and the subtext is that the onus is on ME to call, despite the fact that phones work both ways. No sense in calling Pitiful Pearl only to have her bukkake her misery all over the post-vacation afterglow. So I held off as long as I could. And of course, the suspense was killing me.

I decided one of us needed to be the adult, so I broke down and called about 13 days after returning. As predicted she was cold and distant and wholesale UNINTERESTED. I did not offer up any extra information regarding my trip. I haven't even so much as emailed her a link to my photo album. Why should I? She's jealous of me and the life I have, and jealous of the friendships and relationships I cultivate with others. So of course here comes the first attempt at misery bukkake: 

Her:  "So, when did you get home?" 
Me:  "You know very well when we got home." 
Her:  "You never told me."
Me: "I most certainly did. I emailed you. AND YOU REPLIED."

Not one word was mentioned to me about the state of her big, bloated, haggisy-bear-claw bloated fucked up lymphedema feet and legs or the cellulitis that never goes away. And I didn't bother to ask, because really, I'm not interested. And I do not have any more empathy for someone who is incapable of caring about me. I've reached the point of this relationship of The Law of Diminishing Returns has kicked into hyperdrive. No more fucks shall be given. I'm all outta give a fuck. 

So here it is, roughly 24 days since the dreaded phone call. She's still not calling me. And I'm still giddy about it. I was at Sam's Club the other day and noticed the latest Janet Evanovich book is out, so I snapped it up in a moment glistening of a NORMAL, GOOD INTENT, yet remembering this NORMAL impulse is for an ABNORMAL mother. Why should I reward her shitty behavior? It's not the $15 or whatever the book costs, but I'm talking about my CARING, my THOUGHTFULNESS being the reward. In the end, I mailed off the book to a friend who I know will appreciate it. 

Dealing with a narcissistic, destructive parent takes constant vigilance in maintaining boundaries. It grinds on me. It's tedious, but it's proactive (for me at least) and it beats the alternative, which is to have my self esteem, self worth and self image be ground down by someone who has been jealous of me my entire life. Fuck her.