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Remember that swanky, new tin roof I was getting? Well, maybe not. My mother came over yesterday to drop off Roomie's belated birthday cake, and while here, she surveyed the water damage in the bathroom. I thought the sight of the ominous brown stain on the ceiling would spur her into faster action. Ha. Instead, it prompted her to revisit her treasured campaign to have me buy a house. I can't spend $7,000 to re-roof a house that's been rendered serviceable for me, but I should drop $84,000 on a newer trailer home.
Bear in mind that, as my mother has pointed out ad infinitum, this money would come from the trust that's supposed to serve me in my dotage, when rampant government overspending has throttled a teetering Social Security to death in its bed. I'm supposed to blithely use a large portion of that safety net to buy a house that likely won't retain its initial value so that I don't spend $7,000 on a new roof.
What hurts the most about this is that it was they who offered to replace the new roof at their expense. They didn't say, "We'll look into it and see if we can afford it." No. According to the neighbor, they'd already spoken to the red-necked angels about starting the project as soon as the neighbor's roof was finished. The angels had already measured the roof. They had planned to start this week. As soon as my mother heard the quoted price, she backed out.
If she had said they were only exploring possibilities and then backed out, I would have understood. Sometimes, you can't afford things, even if you need them. But the start date was set. I was getting a tin roof. By backing out after the project was set, it feels like my mother is saying I'm not worth $7,000, that it's not worth $7,000 to her to ensure that I'm safe and dry and not in danger of breathing in toxic mold or waking up to a water drip on the forehead in the middle of the night, that I'm unworthy of comfort or security. She's spent the thirteen years of my absence hectoring me about my need to "live better" and take better care of myself and lecturing me about my "right" to be "comfortable" and my need to be closer to family so that I can be "taken care of", but now that she's realized that those needs can't be achieved by platitudes alone, she's no longer so keen to be my great champion.
The worst part? As she was leaving, she leaned over and said, "You can just throw an old, blue tarp over it. No one'll care. It's just a trailer." Then she laughed and went home to her 4,000 square-foot home with two kitchens and granite countertops and hardwood floors and wall-mounted flatscreens. She wastes so much breath preaching the gospel of having nice things and "living nice" and "being comfortable", but she thinks I'm worth nothing but a thin, blue tarp to keep the raindrops from falling on my head.
Bitch.
Bear in mind that, as my mother has pointed out ad infinitum, this money would come from the trust that's supposed to serve me in my dotage, when rampant government overspending has throttled a teetering Social Security to death in its bed. I'm supposed to blithely use a large portion of that safety net to buy a house that likely won't retain its initial value so that I don't spend $7,000 on a new roof.
What hurts the most about this is that it was they who offered to replace the new roof at their expense. They didn't say, "We'll look into it and see if we can afford it." No. According to the neighbor, they'd already spoken to the red-necked angels about starting the project as soon as the neighbor's roof was finished. The angels had already measured the roof. They had planned to start this week. As soon as my mother heard the quoted price, she backed out.
If she had said they were only exploring possibilities and then backed out, I would have understood. Sometimes, you can't afford things, even if you need them. But the start date was set. I was getting a tin roof. By backing out after the project was set, it feels like my mother is saying I'm not worth $7,000, that it's not worth $7,000 to her to ensure that I'm safe and dry and not in danger of breathing in toxic mold or waking up to a water drip on the forehead in the middle of the night, that I'm unworthy of comfort or security. She's spent the thirteen years of my absence hectoring me about my need to "live better" and take better care of myself and lecturing me about my "right" to be "comfortable" and my need to be closer to family so that I can be "taken care of", but now that she's realized that those needs can't be achieved by platitudes alone, she's no longer so keen to be my great champion.
The worst part? As she was leaving, she leaned over and said, "You can just throw an old, blue tarp over it. No one'll care. It's just a trailer." Then she laughed and went home to her 4,000 square-foot home with two kitchens and granite countertops and hardwood floors and wall-mounted flatscreens. She wastes so much breath preaching the gospel of having nice things and "living nice" and "being comfortable", but she thinks I'm worth nothing but a thin, blue tarp to keep the raindrops from falling on my head.
Bitch.
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