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I have long known my mother is a raging hypocrite, but today, I received yet another small proof. While she is away, Roomie and I have been collecting her mail. Today, she called and asked him to open it for her and read out the contents over the phone. Among the post was a bill for her share of the electric bill for the water pump. The total was $XX. When was it due? May 26th. This was her second notice. Had she received the first? Yes. She just hadn't bothered to pay it because she was busy renovating her ninetieth "dream house".
Fortunately for us, they can't shut off our water without cutting the water to the other homes on the pump, and she's promised to pay it this week, but this infuriates me. The bill is in her name, and she was given ample notice of payment due. She is not broke; she makes two and a half times what I live on, and she is not the sole breadwinner, as PC recently returned to work after his nearly-crippling injury. There is no excuse for the non-payment other than a gross lack of give a damn.
Hypocrite. This is the woman who has spent her life pounding me over the head with the ideas of financial management and responsibility. She berates me for every penny spent that isn't on rice and Hot Pockets and raggedy clothes from thrift shops and Walmart, and when I was a child under her roof, she refused to let me flush the toilet because she wanted to save on the water bill. She bragged about her perfect credit and spotless credit history and insisted that people who didn't pay their bills promptly were worthless, shiftless deadbeats.
But now that she's maxing out her credit cards renovating this pile she bought for a steal, suddenly she gets to pick and choose which bills are worthy of payment, and conveniently, one of the bills she let lapse is one that directly affects me. Who cares if the water gets turned off because the pump is disconnected? It's not like she's living there.
The good news is that she and PC are officially moving to Florida in October. Happy birthday to me. Ding dong, the bitch is gone. When that car pulls onto the interstate, I'm going to do a fucking jig in the driveway to celebrate the return of my life to my hands. No more constant meddling, hectoring, and esteem-crushing criticism. I'll be free to make decisions without fear that word will trickle back to her. I can plan my next Rammstein odyssey and my Berlin trip in peace. No daughter should ever feel this way about her mother, but our relationship is so damaging to each other that we're better, happier people when we lead completely separate lives.
Fortunately for us, they can't shut off our water without cutting the water to the other homes on the pump, and she's promised to pay it this week, but this infuriates me. The bill is in her name, and she was given ample notice of payment due. She is not broke; she makes two and a half times what I live on, and she is not the sole breadwinner, as PC recently returned to work after his nearly-crippling injury. There is no excuse for the non-payment other than a gross lack of give a damn.
Hypocrite. This is the woman who has spent her life pounding me over the head with the ideas of financial management and responsibility. She berates me for every penny spent that isn't on rice and Hot Pockets and raggedy clothes from thrift shops and Walmart, and when I was a child under her roof, she refused to let me flush the toilet because she wanted to save on the water bill. She bragged about her perfect credit and spotless credit history and insisted that people who didn't pay their bills promptly were worthless, shiftless deadbeats.
But now that she's maxing out her credit cards renovating this pile she bought for a steal, suddenly she gets to pick and choose which bills are worthy of payment, and conveniently, one of the bills she let lapse is one that directly affects me. Who cares if the water gets turned off because the pump is disconnected? It's not like she's living there.
The good news is that she and PC are officially moving to Florida in October. Happy birthday to me. Ding dong, the bitch is gone. When that car pulls onto the interstate, I'm going to do a fucking jig in the driveway to celebrate the return of my life to my hands. No more constant meddling, hectoring, and esteem-crushing criticism. I'll be free to make decisions without fear that word will trickle back to her. I can plan my next Rammstein odyssey and my Berlin trip in peace. No daughter should ever feel this way about her mother, but our relationship is so damaging to each other that we're better, happier people when we lead completely separate lives.