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I need Prozac. And Lithium. And maybe a fistful of 'ludes.
My mother arrived for her visit, and as expected, grandma was in tow. Before I say anything else, let me say that I love them both. They did the best they could with the means and knowledge they had at the time. They pulled themselves from the dirt by their boots and their bra straps, and they've made comfortable lives for themselves. However, they have no idea how the other half lives.
We were supposed to go shopping for household sundries and maybe see a movie over the visit, but when they found out that my long-awaited graduation from college was looming, that plan was scrapped in favor of house-hunting. Fine. I'd like a place of my own.
When I was young, I lived on the ragged edge of diddly squat. I had hand-me-down clothes and home haircuts and Goodwill toys, and my mother moved us four times in a year because she liked to buy homes, remodel, and resell for a profit. I hated it because we were never settled; there was never a sense of home. It was always just a house until she found the next big thing.
Mom assured me that it was for my own good, that the money she made was being put away for my future care, and that I would want for nothing when I grew up.
With that in mind, we went house-hunting. Finding a house that is or can be made wheelchair-accessible is not easy. Most of the houses were in inaccessible areas without sidewalks or access to bus stops. We finally found a villa close to the mall that was within walking distance of the grocery store.
It wasn't very big-800 sq. feet-but I wasn't looking for the Playboy mansion. I just wanted-and still do-a safe, cozy place to call mine. We wandered around and found it could be easily remodeled to expand the bedroom and make a large, roll-in shower. Whee!
The asking price was $125,000. I don't have this, of course. If I did, my teeth wouldn't be rotting out of my skull. Here was where the fun started.
You see, since it was my mother's idea to go house-hunting, I assumed it meant she was willing to help with the cost and the endless banking hurdles becoming a homeowner would entail. After all, I have the financial savvy of a turnip and no capital.
Nay. My mother is under the delusion that my father left me a vast fortune, and that I should have more than enough to buy a home. I assure you he didn't, or if he did, he buried the loot in coffee cans on his property. It's certainly not in the bank.
My mother refuses to believe this. She swears there is $500,000 waiting for me. Frankly, I'd like a hit of what she's having. If I were that well-off, I'd've bought a house eons ago, and I wouldn't be taking college classes one at a time because that was all I could afford. I pointed this out with varying degrees of politeness, but to no avail.
These women, who between them are worth ten million dollars on the low end, and who assured me throughout my youth that the three meals of soup a day and weighing 89 at 18 because "I was easier to handle that way" would pay off when I was an adult, refused to help in any way. "Get a loan," they said breezily, as if it were as simple as going to the gas station.
If only it were that easy. I have no credit and a low, subsistence income. No bank is going to give me a loan I could afford. I asked if one of them could buy the house, and then I would pay them a "mortgage" of $350/month until it was paid. Essentially, they'd be my landlord. That way, it could hardly be called a freebie. Well, that was kiboshed forthwith.
Why am I so pissed about this? Because of what happened after they brought me home. After refusing to help me buy a home, my mother offered to to place me in a home for $4000 a month for the rest of my life. In two years, the price of a facility would have met or exceeded the cost of a home, but she was happily willing to pay to put me in an eight by ten room until my death.
Fuck you. Fuck you, you stupid, crazy, heartless, spineless whore. You won't pay for my teeth or my eyes or my wheelchair when the bolts are falling out as I roll, but you'll pony up to put me in a room where I can be out of sight and out of mind and you don't have to be reminded of the mistake you made when you were twenty.
Oh, and grandma? What difference does it make if the owners of the villa are gay? Why did you feel the need to whisper your supposition in my ear three times? Did you think I was going to catch the dreaded Gay by wandering through the bedroom, and if so, what will happen when I try on the underwear my openly and proudly gay friend sent me for Christmas last year?
I think I'll go try them on. I ought to be picking pubes out of my teeth for weeks.
My mother arrived for her visit, and as expected, grandma was in tow. Before I say anything else, let me say that I love them both. They did the best they could with the means and knowledge they had at the time. They pulled themselves from the dirt by their boots and their bra straps, and they've made comfortable lives for themselves. However, they have no idea how the other half lives.
We were supposed to go shopping for household sundries and maybe see a movie over the visit, but when they found out that my long-awaited graduation from college was looming, that plan was scrapped in favor of house-hunting. Fine. I'd like a place of my own.
When I was young, I lived on the ragged edge of diddly squat. I had hand-me-down clothes and home haircuts and Goodwill toys, and my mother moved us four times in a year because she liked to buy homes, remodel, and resell for a profit. I hated it because we were never settled; there was never a sense of home. It was always just a house until she found the next big thing.
Mom assured me that it was for my own good, that the money she made was being put away for my future care, and that I would want for nothing when I grew up.
With that in mind, we went house-hunting. Finding a house that is or can be made wheelchair-accessible is not easy. Most of the houses were in inaccessible areas without sidewalks or access to bus stops. We finally found a villa close to the mall that was within walking distance of the grocery store.
It wasn't very big-800 sq. feet-but I wasn't looking for the Playboy mansion. I just wanted-and still do-a safe, cozy place to call mine. We wandered around and found it could be easily remodeled to expand the bedroom and make a large, roll-in shower. Whee!
The asking price was $125,000. I don't have this, of course. If I did, my teeth wouldn't be rotting out of my skull. Here was where the fun started.
You see, since it was my mother's idea to go house-hunting, I assumed it meant she was willing to help with the cost and the endless banking hurdles becoming a homeowner would entail. After all, I have the financial savvy of a turnip and no capital.
Nay. My mother is under the delusion that my father left me a vast fortune, and that I should have more than enough to buy a home. I assure you he didn't, or if he did, he buried the loot in coffee cans on his property. It's certainly not in the bank.
My mother refuses to believe this. She swears there is $500,000 waiting for me. Frankly, I'd like a hit of what she's having. If I were that well-off, I'd've bought a house eons ago, and I wouldn't be taking college classes one at a time because that was all I could afford. I pointed this out with varying degrees of politeness, but to no avail.
These women, who between them are worth ten million dollars on the low end, and who assured me throughout my youth that the three meals of soup a day and weighing 89 at 18 because "I was easier to handle that way" would pay off when I was an adult, refused to help in any way. "Get a loan," they said breezily, as if it were as simple as going to the gas station.
If only it were that easy. I have no credit and a low, subsistence income. No bank is going to give me a loan I could afford. I asked if one of them could buy the house, and then I would pay them a "mortgage" of $350/month until it was paid. Essentially, they'd be my landlord. That way, it could hardly be called a freebie. Well, that was kiboshed forthwith.
Why am I so pissed about this? Because of what happened after they brought me home. After refusing to help me buy a home, my mother offered to to place me in a home for $4000 a month for the rest of my life. In two years, the price of a facility would have met or exceeded the cost of a home, but she was happily willing to pay to put me in an eight by ten room until my death.
Fuck you. Fuck you, you stupid, crazy, heartless, spineless whore. You won't pay for my teeth or my eyes or my wheelchair when the bolts are falling out as I roll, but you'll pony up to put me in a room where I can be out of sight and out of mind and you don't have to be reminded of the mistake you made when you were twenty.
Oh, and grandma? What difference does it make if the owners of the villa are gay? Why did you feel the need to whisper your supposition in my ear three times? Did you think I was going to catch the dreaded Gay by wandering through the bedroom, and if so, what will happen when I try on the underwear my openly and proudly gay friend sent me for Christmas last year?
I think I'll go try them on. I ought to be picking pubes out of my teeth for weeks.
