For my rotation in Addiction Medicine in Hawaii next spring, I have had to jump through hoops of fire in order to have my application "complete." They have needed letters of good standing, transcripts, board scores, and... proof of immunizations. Flea shots, distemper, ... yadda yadda yadda.
Ordinarily this is no big deal: this is the usual stuff you need to go to pretty much any school in the US. And because I am thorough (OK, a tiny bit OCD), I actually had new titers drawn in June to prove that I was in fact immune to the things I am supposed to be immunized against. (Turns out I had blown through all my HepB antibodies in 3 years -- scary stuff -- so I am restarting that series... but I digress.)
However, for my rotation, the school in Hawaii wanted DATES from when I got my ORIGINAL vaccines. As in, the kind I got when I was 1. Yes, 40-year-old info!
Are they serious??? This is age discrimination! I don't even think paper existed when I was a child!
As you can well imagine, I only mildly flipped out ... where the hell was I supposed to get THAT info?? As it is, I think I blew through 3 pediatricians as a child (all died during my reign of terror - ages 2-4), and was cursing that no way in hell would I ever be able to find that out.
All was lost, I thought. I'm going to be stuck in Pomona for the spring.
Praying that my mother quite possibly could have been OCD enough 40 years ago to have saved that info JUST IN CASE SOMEDAY HER BRILLIANT DAUGHTER WOULD NEED THEM FOR MEDICAL SCHOOL ... I emailed her.
Honestly, I thought there was a higher probability that monkeys would fly out of my ass than my mom having that info. The woman throws out EVERYTHING (except my prom dresses - which is just spiteful, really). I hadn't even been living in my first apartment after college for 15 minutes when she had my old bedroom repainted and refurnished as her own personal walk-in closet and bedroom. Trust me, if it isn't nailed down (in a very linear, orderly fashion), it gets tossed.
Yet, not 30 minutes later, my iPhone chimed -- Marge had sent me a list of my immunization dates!
Astonishing!
Tucked away inside my tattered and dusty baby book (chiseled from stone), which holds such precious items as my first teeth, hair from my first haircut, and other sentimental items, were my immunization records! The very same woman who 2 months ago was rearranging pillows I was napping on at the time because she "needed order" had actually saved something!
All is not lost! I rejoiced. I called my mom immediately to thank her... and in the middle of my tirade about why any school would need 2,000 year old info she said:
"Laura, stop ranting. You have the info. Now shut up. So.. how is school?"
You rock, mom. I love ya! Even if you're freakishly OCD.
Scene: It's 2am on a cold, rainy night in Fairfield CT (unusual.. I know), and one day after the funeral of an old friend. I had just stumbled into my parents' house, bleary eyed (but sober) and desperate for a soft pillow, warm blanket and 3 hours of sleep, as my long flight back to reality would be leaving at 8am.
Background: I had spent the previous 3 days mourning and celebrating the life of an old friend with my oldest and dearest friends - some of whom I have been friends with for more than 30 years. Some are straight, some are lesbian, and to be honest, half the time I can't remember who is what. It's irrelevant. These women are my family. (I often think we are genetically linked as well, as pretty much all of us are, uh, well endowed in the breast department.)
As I tiptoed into my sister's old room (now the guest room), trying desperately to not wake my AGING MOTHER, I suddenly heard the creaking of my old bedroom door (now my mother's room). Fuck. She's awake. Sigh... I just want to SLEEP.
Marge shuffled past me and flopped down, unceremonously, onto the bed, and with here eyes closed and her head half buried in the pillow, she uttered that horrific phrase that for years gave me acute chest pain:
"Can I ask you a personal question?"
[FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK. Jesus Mary and Joseph. Why? WHY? I am so tired and so not in the mood for this kind of conversation. I know the tone -- it usually means she wants to probe into my personal life.]
"What?"
Silence.
"Mom?"
She's asleep. "oh for the love..."
"I'm not asleep. I want to know..."
tick... tick... tick...
Here come the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Here comes the chest tightening, the suffocating.
"Are all of those women your ex-lovers?"
"WHAT!?!? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???"
"Are they?"
"Mother, for the love of god! NO!!!"
"Are you sure?"
"Wha-? Are you SERIOUS? AM I sure." [As if I had somehow forgotten if I had slept with, oh, 16 women.]
"Is Missy your ex lover?"
"Missy? Jesus. Mom, I havent spoken to her in over 20 years! What the hell is the matter with you. Why would you even bring her UP? She was my best friend in high school. Give me a break!"
[A thought bubble suddenly appeared over my head, reading what I SHOULD have said aloud: "The fact that she was sitting on my face every Saturday night notwithstanding... no, of course she wasn't my lover."]
"Well, which of those women are?"
"GOOD NIGHT MOTHER."
I promptly locked myself in the bathroom and refused to come out until Deb texted me on my cell phone from my parent's office asking me if I had fallen in the toilet. As soon as she relayed that the coast was clear, I emerged from the bathroom and ran into the bedroom. Deb was waiting for me, and apparently had only heard some loud mumbling through the walls. When I told her what had transpired she replied, through tears of laughter, "I was wondering what was going on. When I came in here your mother asked me 'How do you DEAL with her?!'"
"Are you serious?? How do you deal with ME?? AAARGH!"
So, now I am blogging, and my loving mother reads this blog religiously (you do, too, Mother, so don't deny it) and now she will have a fit and call me to ask me what I mean about Missy sitting on my face and if I am serious.
Yes. We had wild, crazy monkey sex every weekend. There you have it. The truth is out. I then left her and broke her heart so I could go onto my harem of softball players -- all 16 of them. Thats right -- I took 'em all on! Even the straight ones!
OK, seriously. No. And let's not open Pandora's box again, ok mom? And for the record, I haven't seen Pandora's BOX either, so don't even ask.
You know you're from New York City when:
You say "the city" and expect everyone to know that this means Manhattan.
You have never been to the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building.
You can get into a four-hour argument about how to get from Columbus Circle to Battery Park at 3:30 on the Friday before a long weekend, but can't find Wisconsin on a map.
Hookers and the homeless are invisible.
The subway makes sense.
You believe that being able to swear at people in their own language makes you multi-lingual.
You've considered stabbing someone just for saying "The Big Apple".
The most frequently used part of your car is the horn.
You call an 8' x 10' plot of patchy grass a yard.
You consider Westchester "upstate".
You think Central Park is "nature."
You see nothing odd about the speed of an auctioneer's speaking.
You're paying $1,200 for a studio the size of a walk-in closet and you think it's a "steal."
You've been to New Jersey twice and got hopelessly lost both times.
You pay more each month to park your car than most people in the U.S. pay in rent.
You haven't seen more than twelve stars in the night sky since you went away to camp as a kid.
You go to dinner at 9 and head out to the clubs when most Americans are heading to bed.
Your closet is filled with black clothes.
You haven't heard the sound of true absolute silence since the 80s, and when you did, it terrified you.
You pay $5 without blinking for a beer that cost the bar 28 cents.
You take fashion seriously.
Being truly alone makes you nervous.
You have 27 different menus next to your telephone.
Going to Brooklyn is considered a "road trip."
America west of the Hudson is still theoretical to you.
You've gotten jaywalking down to an art form.
You take a taxi to get to your health club to exercise.
Your idea of personal space is no one actually standing on your toes.
$50 worth of groceries fit in one paper bag.
You have a minimum of five "worst cab ride ever" stories.
You don't notice sirens anymore.
You live in a building with a larger population than most American towns.
Your doorman is Russian, your grocer is Korean your deli man is Israeli, your building super is Italian, your laundry guy is Chinese, your favorite bartender is Irish, your favorite diner owner is Greek, the watchseller on your corner is Senegalese, your last cabbie was Pakistani, your newsstand guy is Indian and your favorite falafel guy is Egyptian.
You're suspicious of strangers who are actually nice to you.
You secretly envy cabbies for their driving skills.
You think $7.00 to cross a bridge is a fair price.
Your door has more than three locks.
Your favorite movie has DeNiro in it.
You consider eye contact an act of overt aggression.
You run when you see a flashing "Do Not Walk" sign at the intersection.
You're 35 years old and don't have a driver's license.
You ride in a subway car with no air conditioning just because there are seats available.
You're willing to take in strange people as roommates simply to help pay the rent.
There is no North and South. It's uptown or downtown.
When you're away from home, you miss "real" pizza and "real" bagels.
You know the differences between all the different Ray's Pizzas.
You're not in the least bit interested in going to Times Square on New Year's Eve.
Your internal clock is permanently set to know when Alternate Side of the Street parking regulations are in effect.
You know what a bodega is.
You know how to fold the New York Times in half, vertically, so that you can read it on the subway or bus without knocking off other passenger's hats.
Someone bumps into you, and you check for your wallet.....
You cringe at hearing people pronounce Houston St. like the city in Texas
Film crews on your block annoy you, not excite you.
You know you're from California if:
1. Your coworker has 8 body piercing's and none are visible.
2. You make over $300,000 and still can't afford a house.
3. You take a bus and are shocked at two people carrying on a conversation in English.
4. Your child's 3rd-grade teacher has purple hair, a nose ring, and is named Flower.
5. You can't remember . is pot illegal?
6. You've been to a baby shower that has two mothers and a sperm donor.
7. You have a very strong opinion about where your coffee beans are grown, and you can taste the difference between Sumatran and Ethiopian.
8. You can't remember . . is pot illegal?
9. A really great parking space can totally move you to tears.
10. Gas costs $1.00 per gallon more than anywhere else in the U.S.
11. Unlike back home, the guy at 8:30 am at Starbucks wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses who looks like George Clooney really IS George Clooney.
12. Your car insurance costs as much as your house payment.
13. You can't remember . .is pot illegal?
14. It's barely sprinkling rain and there's a report on every news station: "STORM WATCH."
15. You pass an elementary school playground and the children are all busy with their cells or pagers.
16. It's barely sprinkling rain outside, so you leave for work an hour early to avoid all the weather-related accidents.
17. HEY!!!! Is pot illegal????
18. Both you AND your dog have therapists.
19. The Terminator is your governor.
20. If you drive illegally, they take your driver's license. If you're here illegally, they want to give you one.
The following dialogue is excerpted from a conversation with my mother, the PhD, this past Friday night:
Me: So, did you hear Arthur Miller (the playwright) died? How sad.
Dad: Yes, I read that.
Mom: I wonder who’s going to leave roses for Marilyn Monroe now?
Me: Is she still dead?
Dad: I’m sure it’s been pre-arranged to have them delivered in perpetuity.
Me: I don’t get it. She had relationships with some very accomplished people, such as Miller, JFK, and Joe DiMaggio. Sure, she was glamorous, but she was as dumb as a box of rocks. I don’t see what the big deal was about her.
Mom: She had big tits!
Me: Oh. ::Blink, blink::
Dad: ::Blink, blink::
Deb: ::Blink, blink::
I think my mother is having some seriously weird empty-nest syndrome reaction due to my sister's move across the country. Last week, she sprung the news on me that she bought Cody a very special Christmas present ... and just can't wait to give it to her.
[The scene: Karen's apartment, 3 days before her move to LA, and 12 hours before some fuck stole my car.]
Mom: Oh, Laura ... Debbie, I bought Cody her Christmas present! I can't wait for her to use it.
Me: [mumbling] Oh jesus. What did you buy her now - or should I not ask?
Mom: [laughing] Oh, you're going to love it!
Me: Well, I sincerely doubt that. I'm still picking up fuzz from the 923 stuffed groundhogs you bought her. What fresh hell can I expect now?
Mom: Well .... [Aha! A clear sign that she's wants to stall, and is avoiding telling me something that will surely annoy me] Because the entire family will be in LA over the holidays, I don't want to wait until December 27th (when we return) to give it to her. So... I want to give it to her on your birthday.
[I glance over at my father, who has begun to fidget and smirk. A cold bead of sweat forms on my forhead.]
Me: Mom, as if the dog even remotely understands the concept of a) time passing and b) the holiday season. It can wait until we get back.
Mom: No it can't. Besides, I want to hear what she thinks of it.
Me: Huh?
Mom: [giggling uncontrollably] You're going to be able to really carry on coversations with Cody now! [more sinister laughing]
Me: Are you off your pills? What the hell are you talking abo--. Mom. No.
Mom: Hee hee hee hee!
Me: Please don't tell me you bought her that!
Mom: Hee Hee Hee Hee!
Me: [looking frantically at Deb and Karen for help] Please. So help me god. Mom, if you bought that dog a bark translator, you're going to the home.
Mom: Just think, she'll be able to tell you what she's thinking!
Me: What if her first words are "Institutionalize grandma, please!" Then what, smart ass?? Hmm??
Mom: Very funny. I think it's cute.
Me: So give it to dad.
Mom: Maybe I already bought him a collar.
Me: [vomiting]
Mom: Oh please.
Me: Does the collar work in reverse? Will it turn your voice into a high-pitched frequency that I can no longer hear?
Mom: I'm giving it to her. Too bad.
**This is what I can expect to find around Cody's neck in 3 weeks. I'll be implementing voice-activated dialing straight to my parents house on my phone shortly thereafter.**
For reasons known only to her, my mother has been calling me constantly to discuss The Wedding. I'm not that insensitive -- I mean, I do get it. She's very excited for my sister. As am I. I couldn't be happier.
But.
Lately I have been tempted to stab myself in the ears after every conversation with her. Take for example, yesterday. Here's the transcript of call #24. I had just returned home from picking up my tux and my dad's tux.
Her: Hi it's mom.
Me: Hi, tell your husband I have his tux.
Her: You do? Good. Do you have everything?
Me: Yes, the tux, the shirt (which has been a source of confusion because we had to switch from white to ivory), his tie and vest (also a source of confusion because we had to switch colors of these as well).
Her: Do you have his ivory shirt?
Me: Yes, I just said that.
Her: How about his vest and tie?
Me: Mom. Did you listen to me or not. I said EVERYTHING.
Her: Well, is it the right color vest and tie?
Me: No, mom. I intentionally picked up the wrong stuff so I can make another drive across town tomorrow. YES. It’s all there and it’s correct.
Her: Well, what about the suit – do you have that?
Me: [mumbling several curses] AM I SPEAKING IN TONGUES??? WHAT PART ABOUT I GOT EVERYTHING’ DID YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?
Her: Oh, OK, good. [She starts speaking to my dad] Michael, Laura’s on the phone. She says she got … [now talking to me] well, here, you speak to him and tell him what the problem is.
Him: Hi.
Me: I am going to maim her before the week is over.
Him: [Laughing] What’s up?
Me: I have your stuff. Come get it.
Him: OK, bye.
Me: Bye.
2 minutes later the phone rings again.
Her: Hi, it’s me.
Me: What.
Her: Are you on the other line?
Me: Noooo. What’s up?
Her: Who is this?
Me: Mom. Please.
Her: Oh! I thought it was Debbie.
Me: No, actually one of us has to work to pay for my extensive therapy bills.
Her: Are you in therapy?
Me: What do you WANT?
Her: Oh. Well I made you an appointment for a manicure and a pedicure for Thursday afternoon. Are you having your hair done as well?
Me: You have got to be kidding me. No. Mom. My hair is fine. Why do I need a pedicure? I am wearing a tux with shoes – which I shouldn’t have to point out, are not open-toed.
Her: Well, you have horrible feet just like your father, I figured you could use one. Anyway, your appointment is at 3, and Karen’s is at 4. Can you take her there?
Me: [ignoring her comment] Yes, I suppose I can. Anything else?
Her: [entirely too chipper] OK, well I’ll see you tomorrow!! I can’t wait to go play in the sand!!!
Me: You just reminded me to call my doc for a prescription for horse tranquilizers.
Her: OK, Bye!
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?”
When I moved out of my parents’ house 12 years ago, I left behind my cat, Socrates. I tried to take him with me to the new condo Deb and I had moved into, but he refused to use the litter box, he wanted desperately to be outside, and I lived in a busy neighborhood. (My parents live on several acres of wooded property.) So, it didn’t work out and I returned him to the Rush Compound, where he has lived happily for the past 15 years.
Since he was about 2, Socs has had several issues with food allergies. For years, he could only eat lamb and rice, or his face would fall off. Literally. He would develop sores all over his head from manic, intense scratching, which earned him the nickname “The Cat Without a Face.”
People would come over and upon seeing him for the first time would back up and scream “What is that horryfing, bloody pulp?” and we’d answer, “Oh that’s just the cat,” as if it was completely normal to have a walking scab jump into your lap.
Several hundred dollars and vet visits later, that was resolved with prescription (read: $$$) cat food. As expected, that issue was immediately followed by a brand new one: vomiting his cat treats: Pounce. I don’t know what they put in those little nuggets, but he would patrol the kitchen all day long, and stand next to the cabinet where they were stored, screaming. We’d give him a small handful every so often, to shut him up, and 10 minutes later they’d be on the good rug, in a warm, squishy pile of cat puke.
After spending hundreds of dollars getting the rugs shampooed, my parents finally switched him to some organic, non-allergenic, hard, crunchy treats. And, for some reason that makes perfect sense in only their minds, my parents scatter these little pellets about the kitchen floor. It makes walking to the frig while barefoot a risky proposition, but it stopped him from puking. Plus, now he spends hours patrolling the kitchen for that one lost nugget instead of howling for more.
So, Tuesday night my mother called me. Apparently, one night last week she ran out of Socs’ prescription cat food, and had to run out to the grocery store to get him something else to eat. She found a new brand that she claimed had all the same ingredients as his prescription stuff. It looked innocuous, so she fed it to him, closed her eyes, crossed her fingers and prayed that he wouldn’t suddenly peal off his whiskers and projectile vomit in her direction.
Nothing happened.
She decided that perhaps, after all these years he had finally outgrown his allergies. In her infinite wisdom, she decided to feed him the new stuff for a few more days “to see what happened.” Generally playing Jekyll and Hyde with animals is not advised, but she was curious. And apparently bored.
She noticed that, after a few days he started to seem livelier than he had in the past few years. He seemed friskier, had a bounce in his step. Usually, Socs is a very mellow, sweet tempered cat that just wants to be loved and hugged. He’s only 7 lbs, but has the demeanor of a fat, lazy lap dog. The only things Socs had ever hunted were chipmunks, and then he would only play with them and let them go after a few minutes of mindless torture.
Until this past Tuesday.
My mother opened the front door to let him in the house after his daily jaunt, and there he was, on the porch, blood dripping from his fangs.
Here’s how the details were relayed to me:
Mom: Do you know what your cat just did?!
Me: What cat?
Mom: Socrates!
Me: Let me guess… vomit?
Mom: No.
Me: Scratch his face off?
Mom: No. He chewed the head off a rabbit.
Me: Excuse me?
Mom: He killed a rabbit and he’s out front right now chewing its head off.
Me: Stop.
Mom: I’m serious!
Me: Are you sure he didn’t find a dead one in the woods?
Mom: No. I watched him bring it home. It still had its head. But now he’s chewing it off.
Me: For chrissakes! Get it away from him!
Mom: Your father’s trying to get the headless body right now. OK, I got him in the house. Ugh. I don’t want this cat with rabbit breath near me.
Me: What the hell is wrong with him??
Mom: Well, I ran out of his food and bought him that new stuff…
Me: Sweet mother of god. Mom. Please. Do me a favor. Go to the vet and buy his normal food before I come over and find you or dad headless.
Mom: That’s probably a good idea. Oh, Sydney (the other cat) is hiding in the basement wall. She won’t come out. I’m worried.
Me: Whatever you do, do NOT feed her that food!
Mom: I already did.
She’s not even 59 yet, and already my mother’s hearing is starting to irk the shit out of me.
Last night at precisely 8:58pm the phone rings. Deb answers it and hands it to me.
“It’s your mother.”
Me: "Heeeeello."
Mom: "You’ve been conspicuous by your silence." (I just talked to her Tuesday). "What have you been doing?"
Me: "Oh really? I didn’t tell you?"
Mom: "Tell me what?"
Me: "Come on. Seriously, I didn’t tell you about this?"
Mom: "Tell me what?!
Me: "I can't believe I didn't tell you this before."
Now her interest is really piqued.
Mom: "What!? Tell me!"
Me: "I AM STUDYING FOR THE GOD DAMN MCAT. THE SAME THING I HAVE BEEN DOING FOR 3 MONTHS!!!!"
Mom: "The 'uncat'? What the hell is the uncat? Don’t tell me you people got another animal in that house! Don’t you have enough already!?"
Me: "Are you kidding me? You did not just say uncat… Mom, the MCAT!! M. C. A T. MCAT!!"
Mom: "Oh!" [laughing] "I was going to say, you have enough fur floating around in that house. I told you my hearing is going. I hear the damnedest things. Oh look, CSI is on, I have to go."
Click.
And like that, she hangs up on me. Apparently, her hearing is not all that’s going.