Slowly Scraping Off the Mud

I had my first panic attack in more than a year and a half last night and spent an hour in the shower, vomiting into a pot. I did not miss that joyous experience, nor did Roomie, who had to hover just outside the shower curtain and listen to the dulcet sounds of a contortionist swallowing her feet. I'm not surprised it happened, though, as my mother has been needling and hectoring me since her return in August. On-again-off-again garage sales that stretch from one day to two, second, unannounced garage sales, unannounced visits to "borrow" my storage tubs, appointments she never keeps(just this weekend, she's blown off three). The constant uncertainty is too much, and I end up expressing my stress and anxiety by suffering pectoral spasms and upchucking from the toes up.

She was supposed to have moved back to Florida by now, but Roomie thinks she's going to postpone it until after my birthday so that she can horn in on it and salve her maternal conscience. He and I have had quiet plans for weeks, and neither of us want her there, but we have no doubt that she's going to call us the day before and announce that she wants to take us to place X for my birthday because it's cheap so nice. If we compromise and offer to let her join us at the restaurant we have chosen, then she'll bitch and whine and nag us for daring to spend more than she deems worthy of my birthday(never mind that just a few weeks ago, she was trying to talk me into buying a 3D television I neither want nor need), and if we tell her to sit down and shut up, then she'll get butthurt and pissy and accuse me of selfishness and ingratitude, can't I see she was just trying to help? I just don't want to spend my birthday like that, and Roomie doesn't want to see me retreating inside myself just to escape her relentless picking and criticism.

At least there's the mysterious box to look forward to. It arrived a week ago from across the sea with stern instructions not to open until my birthday, and I've been eyeballing it with salivary anticipation ever since. In fact, my eyeballs have been tempted to detach from their sockets and scale the cupboard in which it resides in order to take a peek. But I don't dare. The sender has superpowers, and their wrath is terrible to behold. Besides, it's fun to have at least one surprise on your special day. But you can bet your ass that I'm counting down the hours.

I will give my mother an iota of credit. She did, in fact, order my new seat back and is waiting for a call from the vendor to confirm shipping. If I'm lucky, it will arrive by the end of next week or early the week after. If I'm not lucky, my mother will promptly squander her newly-earned credit by demanding I pay her for the seat back even though it's my birthday present from her. If she does that, then she can put it right back in the mail and get a refund, because no one should have to pay for their own birthday present from their mother.

Slowly Scraping Off the Mud

I had my first panic attack in more than a year and a half last night and spent an hour in the shower, vomiting into a pot. I did not miss that joyous experience, nor did Roomie, who had to hover just outside the shower curtain and listen to the dulcet sounds of a contortionist swallowing her feet. I'm not surprised it happened, though, as my mother has been needling and hectoring me since her return in August. On-again-off-again garage sales that stretch from one day to two, second, unannounced garage sales, unannounced visits to "borrow" my storage tubs, appointments she never keeps(just this weekend, she's blown off three). The constant uncertainty is too much, and I end up expressing my stress and anxiety by suffering pectoral spasms and upchucking from the toes up.

She was supposed to have moved back to Florida by now, but Roomie thinks she's going to postpone it until after my birthday so that she can horn in on it and salve her maternal conscience. He and I have had quiet plans for weeks, and neither of us want her there, but we have no doubt that she's going to call us the day before and announce that she wants to take us to place X for my birthday because it's cheap so nice. If we compromise and offer to let her join us at the restaurant we have chosen, then she'll bitch and whine and nag us for daring to spend more than she deems worthy of my birthday(never mind that just a few weeks ago, she was trying to talk me into buying a 3D television I neither want nor need), and if we tell her to sit down and shut up, then she'll get butthurt and pissy and accuse me of selfishness and ingratitude, can't I see she was just trying to help? I just don't want to spend my birthday like that, and Roomie doesn't want to see me retreating inside myself just to escape her relentless picking and criticism.

At least there's the mysterious box to look forward to. It arrived a week ago from across the sea with stern instructions not to open until my birthday, and I've been eyeballing it with salivary anticipation ever since. In fact, my eyeballs have been tempted to detach from their sockets and scale the cupboard in which it resides in order to take a peek. But I don't dare. The sender has superpowers, and their wrath is terrible to behold. Besides, it's fun to have at least one surprise on your special day. But you can bet your ass that I'm counting down the hours.

I will give my mother an iota of credit. She did, in fact, order my new seat back and is waiting for a call from the vendor to confirm shipping. If I'm lucky, it will arrive by the end of next week or early the week after. If I'm not lucky, my mother will promptly squander her newly-earned credit by demanding I pay her for the seat back even though it's my birthday present from her. If she does that, then she can put it right back in the mail and get a refund, because no one should have to pay for their own birthday present from their mother.