More Conversations With My Mother

For the past year, any remnants or reminders of my sister’s or my existence have been gradually removed from my parents’ house. As if this is some sort of cathartic cleansing ritual, every time my mother comes for a visit, she is carrying an armload of shit that she claims is mine and insists I should have it back.

My plaid Catholic high school uniform, for example, found it’s way into my living room a few months ago. Why I needed to have that back is beyond me. Maybe she thought I could get into a little role-playing with the crotchless panties she bought Deb and I last year. However, the patent leather saddle shoes were missing, and I just didn’t feel I could pull it off sans the shoes.

Then my diary from when I was 12 years old appeared from the depths of my 8th grade school bag, which also found its way over one Sunday morning.

At first I was slightly offended that my parents wanted no remnants of me lying about. When I indignantly asked what the hell was going on, my mother replied that my father decided to clean out the attic “Because he has nothing else better to do! Jesus Christ. Don’t ask me! The man is driving me crazy! By the way, it was cute how you had a crush on that David boy in 6th grade. We read your diary.”

“You what!” For about 3 seconds I felt myself getting flushed and began feeling violated. I poured through the musty pages and the quick realization that I was a lesbian waiting to happen at that prepubescent age made me laugh and forget any embarrassment. I was obsessed with basketball, softball, and, not David but my sister’s best friend Amy. If only my parents had found the diary 20 years ago – it would have saved them a ton in therapy bills.

When my sister’s stuff started appearing on my doorstep, I began to seriously protest. “Now wait a god damn minute! This is Karen’s!” I yelled as a box of record albums landed in my front hallway.

“Your father says there’s no room for them in the house.”

“First of all, your house is 4 times the size of mine and second of all, it’s been sitting there, completely unobtrusive, for the past 20 years. Now it’s in the way?”

“When you see your sister, you can give it to her.”

“Mom, she lives in an apartment half the size of my house. She has no room. And why can’t you give it to her?? Don’t involve me in your passive-aggressive games. And, I am telling you right now, I do NOT want my prom dresses appearing next week.”

“Well, I want to keep those so I can remember the last time you wore a dress.”

“Very funny. If you like I can squeeze my ass into it and cut the lawn in it. Will that make you happy?”

“Yes. If you can squeeze your behind into it.”

Clearly this was a losing battle. So, I did the only thing left for me to do in a situation like this. I called Karen.

“They did what? Well, did they bring over my horse models? Because I want those.”

“No, I think they’re stuffed in the closet with my assorted prom dresses. What do you suppose that means?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Posted by LA at June 12, 2003 07:44 AM | TrackBack