Lola coffee chick: “How’s your Saturday goin’ so far?”

Me: “It’s been interesting…”

Lola coffee chick: “Oh, no. That can be good or bad.”

Me: “Yeah, well, you know. I’ll take a drip coffee with skim.”

Lola coffee chick: “I’ve had those days [giggles]. Sign here.”

Me: “OK. Thanks.”

Lola coffee chick: “Have a great rest of your Saturday.”

Me: “Thanks. You too.”

FOR THE ALTERNATE ENDING, TURN TO PAGE 77.

Lola coffee chick: “How’s your Saturday goin?’”

Me: “You really wanna fuckin’ know? OK. Here goes…..Well, let’s see. The dude I’m dating just met my demented mom. She was you know, OK, but still, it shook me up enough to where after I dropped him off, I called my friend Catherine and nearly had a nervous breakdown on Central Avenue. Came home. Popped a Zantac for my goddamn heartburn and promptly walked over to your place for desert and coffee. Cause that’s how I cope. What? Fuck you. I like coffee and the burn of reflux at the same time. Don’t fucking judge me. Now give me my shortbread. What’s the total? You take cards right? Good.”

Lola coffee chick: “Sign here.”

Me: “OK. Thanks.”

Lola coffee chick: “Have a great rest of your Saturday.”

Me: “You smell and I hate you.”

“Catherine, I feel embarrassed, ashamed and exposed.”

HE met her.He finally met her. Weird. Anxiety. I wish I could take something. I’ll have a beer with my lunch. Dad, are you gonna finish your beer? I don’t like it. Too sweet. Christ, not gonna let a perfectly gorgeous Blue Moon go to waste.

This is the first time anyone new has met my mom. Most of my new friends know of my mom, but not one has met her. I tell them stories about her. They see my face or hear my voice when I have one of those days, but they’ve never met her. Maybe a few have seen her picture, but I don’t introduce her to people just cause. Weird right? Weird that I have entire blog dedicated to her, her disease and how it has affected my life, but few people actually get to meet my mom.

When old friends who’ve known her for years—pre-dementia—pop over, it’s no big deal. They know me, love me and accept that this is what it is. I don’t really give it much thought…. I’ll ask them what they think, if they think she’s a lot worse than what they expected or last remembered, etc, etc, etc. Blah, blah, blah. Muah, muah, muah, muah…………………………….

Mostly I ask because I forget what “normal” looks like sometimes.

But he’s new.

I don’t know what he’s thinking.

I guess it would be a lot to take in. Still, I feel weird. Exposed. Raw. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Not very good adjectives. But this is isn’t a very normal disease. What if he is so grossed out by the situation that he just wants to say, ‘Fuck it’?

My friend Catherine, who was the lucky recipient of my freak out telephone call, said that if he did do that, he’s not worth it. I guess. But if he can’t handle it, who will? Even I don’t even want to play this hand anymore. Game Over.

The freak out. Well, it was weird. As I was driving home, this tsunami of emotion just came over me. I called Cat. I started crying. I started losing my mind. Peripheral vision gone. Why is this happening to me? Why does she have to be like this? My feelings about this situation, HER, her disease, everything just erupted. I could barely catch my breath.

Cat was at birthday party for her son’s friend. There was screaming. It came from a kid, not me.

I don’t often cry about my mom these days……. crying about her gets me nothing, except a headache, so I avoid it.

Catherine says I should tell him exactly how I feel…. I suppose I will. I’m just writing down my thoughts for posterity’s sake. Right here. Now. Or I’ll forget. It’s a blog. You can do that shit.

She spit on the floor. HE saw it. I didn’t look at his face. She laughed I think.

She spit on the floor.

“She does that,” said my dad matter-of-factly.

She spit on the fucking floor.

Christ. Yes. She does do that.

She spit on the floor.

Sometimes I can laugh at shit. But right now, I’m angry. You know what, it is fucking unfair to have a demented mom. I’m 33 and I’m tired. Normal people introduce their friends and boyfriends to smiling happy parents who golf and drink Chardonnay.

My mother spits. A lot. I hate that. It grosses me out.  I cannot, for the life of me, accept it. I try to teach her to spit outside or in the garbage can. She just laughs at me. She fucking laughs at me.

Am I some sort of clown, mother?

Do I amuse you?

Um, that would be a big fat fucking YES.

I know she doesn’t mean it. I know this. I am aware.

STILL…………………

The woman is like the  Terminator, I swear to god. She never stops [spitting]. She cant’ be bargained with [when it comes to spitting]. She can’t be reasoned with [about her spitting behavior]. I have no idea if she feels pity for anyone [who has to clean up her spit or watch her do it], or remorse [like when she spits in public].

Ughhhhhhhhh. It’s been an interesting Saturday to say the least.

Boy Meets Mom…..

February 22, 2010

I wonder……………….. I wonder…………………. I wonder……………………………………………

A new development………. I’ve met a boy. Yes, a real boy who actually doesn’t care that my mom is demented. This has always been one of my greatest fears since leaving NYC: Meeting someone who would happily, openly, lovingly accept me and my family….. my mom. For every boy I’ve met over last year, there’s one thought that immediately consumes me—will he accept her? Will he accept this part of me? Will he still want to be with me after he meets the woman who physically pushed me over so she could get to her crush, the priest?

They’ve all failed….. I simply can’t picture it. I can’t picture these men coming over to my dad’s house, sitting there calmly as she spits on the living room floor.

I think this one can hang. I hope he can hang. He knows. I’ve warned him. Maybe I should have given him a more obvious OUT.

God, will he really accept her, the behaviors?

Would I…. if the roles were reversed? Would I smile sweetly? Pretend it doesn’t bother me?

You know, I don’t know what I would do. If this had never happened to her…………….. what would I be like today?

It is what it is I guess…

So when he meets her……………………………………………………………..

Will he smile when spits on the floor? Will he be patient when she points and laughs at someone because they’re overweight? Will he pat me on the back when she looks in the mirror and starts laughing uncontrollably? Will he accept that, unlike maybe his past relationships, I don’t have a typical relationship with my parents.

I, with my dad, am her keeper.

So,the new man in life is going to meet mom next week. He knows the idea of this big meeting is making incredibly nervous, mostly because I know what she’s going to say………..

Translated for those who can’t read dementia (otherwise insert the word fruita, gatos, pajaritos for every other word)………

“Do you speak Spanish?” Fair question.

“I don’t speak English.” She will likely say this in English as she always does.

“Are you going to get married?” Woman cuts to the chase fucking pronto!

“Are you going to have babies?” Jesus, mom!! Really?

“Are you going to take care of her?” I’m 32 for Christ’s sake. Minus the fact that I can’t figure out my budget and I’m over $40+ in my checking account, I’ve made it thus far just fine!

“Do you speak Spanish because I don’t speak English” Again, spoken in English.

My manfriend is very sweet and compassionate. I think he’ll do OK. I keep saying that. I can’t help it. The spitting for me is the worst part. Every single time she does it, it kills me…….. He knows she might hack one right next to him, but he says he understands, that it’s part of the disease and her behaviors are not who she is……… who are you, dude?

Still, there’s a part of me that’s scared. Not because my mom keeps pictures of my ex-husband (not my ex husband, but she can’t remember his name and that’s how she refers to my ex boyfriend) in the house—I’ve told dad to remove. ASAP—but because what if he decides it’s just too much. Too grotesque. The never-ending burden. She’ll only get worse. There is no happy ending. What if he says, listen…….. I just want a normal girl in my life…….

Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Pretty. Sweet. Docile. A mom. A dad. Normal. Happy. Smiling. Laughing. Lunches. Pedicures. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Scottsdale. Normal. Normal. Normal. Healthy. Normal. Normal.

I feel like damaged goods. Damaged in the sense that I know that my load is a heavy one. I don’t come with one piece of carry-on, I come with several pieces of luggage that are clearly way over the weight-limit.

I don’t know how this is going to unfold. I think he’ll be OK. I think I’ve met someone really great. Kind. Patient. Understanding. I’ll post an update. Meeting is slated for next week.

Turning the BIG 33 on Thursday. It’s been 5 years since we’ve known something was wrong. Here we are. Another chapter: Boy Meets Mom.

>>Photo from Flickr’s Creative Commons ECATONCHEIRES


I suspect not.

My time with mom, no matter how brief (or how long), is a time for me to think about my role as her daughter — successes, failures, unmitigated disasters and the like. This past Sunday, as she yelled at the two women in the pew to move because she is Margarita Ritchie and this is HER pew (move bitches — she did not say that, I inserted that for effect) and threw someone’s purse so she could place her purse down — it’s how us Latina Queens mark our territory and secure our seat in overly crowded church — I felt guilty. Not about the two women.

Please, you better move when my mom comes barreling into the house of our Lord and Savior.

Just kidding. Not really. Please move. You will make my life easier, so fucking move. Now. Or I will devein you in front of the manger. No, I jest. OK. Not really. Move please.

I think about if my role in trying to make her life semi-better…. and the words an old Spanish woman uttered many months ago…… God will reward you with a place in heaven.

God will reward me.

ME? A spot in the kingdom of heaven?

Will it be on his left or right-hand side?

And for what, might I ask? For placing my mom in a nursing home on Mother’s Day?

For walking away from her ever single morning as she screamed and cried for me to take her home?

For that one time…………that one strangely lucid moment when she looked at me through her tears and said, YOU DID THIS TO ME. WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?

For telling her no every single time she wants to buy birdseed?

For not being able to clip her toe nails because, in truth, it grosses ME out.

For not moving home sooner?

For not taking her to Banner Alzheimer’s sooner?

For prolonging my dad’s suffering and leaving him alone with her? Willingly (sometimes eagerly) boarding that flight back to New York, knowing he would not be able to cope………….. the act of a good Catholic girl, no doubt.

For making my former love suffer? Nothing like shacking up with a grotesquely, tragic girl

For making all of my friends suffer along with me? Nothing like making them hear the same story over a dozen times (in a single week).

For hating my mother more than loving her?

For sometimes resenting both my parents never cutting the cord?

A confession: Not even I can sever the rotting cord.

I can’t always say no to my dad and yes, I give my mom dollar bills here and there because they make her happy. She loves money. Boundaries? Ha. The curse of the only child.

My most reckless act, going to Vietnam, caused me so much anxiety becuase……… if something actually happened to me……………………………. they wouldn’t be able to cope without me.

He would be destroyed.

She would never understand.

And I fear a place in heaven will keep me by mother’s side FOREVER — because her ticket is booked. She is destined for heaven….. and if she isn’t, then there really is no God.

ETERNITY with my mom.

Still, I can’t help but laugh at the idea of God surrounded by the demented…………… imagine my mom spitting in heaven. Classic. Better get out your wipes God… and read my one blog about your demented Must Haves.

So, my place in heaven. I don’t know what this woman sees. Her vision is narrow because I’m no saint. I’m a realist and very much into self-preservation. I question the very existence of God. If there is a God, I don’t believe he is of the loving/kind variety — I think he or she is sick. Demented.

I have fallen asleep in church — more than once. How many Hail Mary’s is that one worth?

Talk about a view askew.

>>Flickr photo by Darwin Bell