|Current mood:|| irritated|
|Current music:||Lonely Boy, The Black Keys|
Mom, Larry, Drama
That funeral seemed too easy. And, so it was.
Apparently, Larry accosted my mother and sister outside the mortuary. They were at the mortuary because my mother was signing forms to have my grandmother's ashes released to Larry, who plans to scatter them at Tahoe, which is...lame. I mean, at least she can gamble there, but she asked to be scattered with my mother and Elvis's ashes, on the mountain where I was married, and where she couldn't attend--already, in 1997--because of the oxygen problems posed for her at 10,000 feet.
My mom has spent her whole life, she claims, waiting for her mother to tell her she loved her. She (apparently) did not say the words. But she asked to spend eternity with my mom, in a peaceful place, together. Not the boys. Not my grandfather. Belinda. And she refused it. Why, when a loved but difficult parent reaches out with affection from the grave, would you reject it? Why, if you spent a lifetime wanting their love, would you choose to look away?
I don't understand this at all. It hurts me, in a few ways. I'm sad that my grandmother's wishes won't be honored, and that their reconciliation will thus never be truly complete. I'm angry that my mother is so short-sighted and petty, full of spite. I'm frustrated that literal years of coaching both of them, but especially my mom, yielded such limited results. I'm extremely irritated that only one day could pass before the in-fighting and money squabbles set in, stealing the true focus from what should be a time of grief and remembrance.
My family is exhausting.
I guess they all are, but mine are particularly crazy, violent, and alienating.
So, Larry followed them out of the mortuary and to Mel's car, where he yelled at them how much he hated my mother, and me, and what a cunt I am, and David is, and blah blah blah. I mean, one of the things she caught was that my calling FOX News the funniest show on Earth was "the most disrespectful thing [he'd] ever heard," which is just ridiculous. Talk about a drama queen. Get a grip, psycho. But, the guy's a nutbar. He's hated me for fifteen years for telling him that his mother's stroke (in Vegas, at my 21st birthday celebration) wasn't all about him, so maybe he should just focus and give me the basic medical information I called him for. Really, his tirade is no surprise.
There are some mysteries here, though:
1) Why be fine at the house, and then blow it all over my mother and sister, when we (David and I) weren't even there to hear the insults? Seems like wasted vitriol.
2) How can a man who fancies himself a creative writer of profound and moving songs have no better nouns or adjectives than "cunt"? I mean, he even called a man that. It not only lacks imagination, it's just dumb.
3) Why would my mother bother to tell me--not that he'd flipped out, which it makes sense to relate, even just as an upsetting thing that happened--but the blow by blow of his vitriol as it related to me and D?
4) What could Larry have possibly hoped to accomplish with this? He told my mom to tell me he was dead, which...? As if I was going to call him, looking to hang out or something? I mean, we hadn't spoken in fifteen years, and I already anticipated never seeing or hearing from him again. He's an arrogant redneck who's never managed to support himself and freeloaded off his parents, as well as ripping them off when he didn't get as much as he felt he deserved. We have no ties; he's a scumbag. Maybe he just needed the final word...?
And the real kicker...
5) Why am I still thinking about it? ...although the answer to this one probably gives me the answer to 3 & 4.
I mean to let it go, but it's hard. It's the same problem I used to have as a kid, actually, although the comparison would give my mother an aneurysm. He was mean to me. Unprovoked. Wildly out of proportion to any perceived slight I could have offered him. I didn't deserve it, and David certainly didn't. Yet, it hurts. Yet, I find myself searching myself and my actions for blameworthy moments, faults he could have seen. I, to some extent, still blame myself. I think the unprovoked nature of psychotic attacks leaves a lingering desire to create reason where there is none.
And on some other day, when I'm not theoretically teaching a class, I will get into my mother's retelling of her "stand up to Mean Mommy" story, and how it has entirely morphed in MY STANDING UP TO HER, with the details nearly the same, except that she's the hero in BOTH STORIES--despite occupying opposite roles in the same tale. That's a cool trick.
Anthony was right. The woman is a freakin' ninja.