Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.*
And to think this afternoon I thought, "All in all, a good day."
Started off somewhat lousy - woke up late, abused the snooze button, so on - but managed to work well in the morning. Then I went off in search of lunch and a postoffice and managed only the first objective. Then I worked pretty solidly for the rest of the afternoon, which was awesome.
Then off home to drop off my things, change and then back on the bike to go to the starting spot for running. I did better time today and ran more often that I walked, so I might need to rethink the length of the run a bit.
Then home, dinner (I actually cooked, for once) and Dollhouse, which was awesome. Lots of things made me squee and clap like a seal, though Alan Tudyk is the top reason. And oh gods, the ending!
And then I called my mother. I'd seen her on Skype earlier, but as I didn't want to say, "Hi mom, can't talk, off to shower/cook/eat/wash, bye!" I didn't poke her.
Let me record the conversation in as much detail as I'm capable, because it stops me from weeping like a little bitch. Well, that's the plan. I may still cry buckets, but at least I won't be shaking and gasping, which is a plus. My defense-mechanism of instant amnesia may raise it's little head at times. Also, please read my mother's dialogue with a bitter, scathing tone to get the full effect.
I think one of the first things my mom said - just after the hellos - was "So you're alive?" I hadn't called her in two weeks, or emailed. (Not that she's done either, neither.) She actually says this twice. I try to brush it off and tell her what I did today.
"Works going well - slow, but well - and hey! I went running!"
"Oh. What, down a canal?" Thoroughly unimpressed, of course.
I try to describe a bit where I bike, but she waves it away with a, "You'll show me when you get here," which echoes her "We can't talk now, we're wasting money!" sentiment, wherein talking for the sake of communication is rather pointless if it can be more economical (literally or figuratively) at a later undisclosed point. The only congenial part of the conversation was when she was describing where I could run in Toronto.
But then the age-old mantra starts up again:
Mom: "You don't have anything else to tell me?"
Sickle: "Well, mom, I don't really do much else. Work, exercise, that's pretty much it."
Then she goes into this whole long ramble - she does those a lot - about how I called her so, so often in October and November about the research proposal, the doctors, the permits, the course that left me working until the wee hours every fuckin' day, all those woes, trials, tribulations a daughter might tell her mother. And then how in January I'd write loads and loads, and in February, and then March it trickled down and then April was lean and then May, nothing. June, nothing. Apparently my being too busy to write her three-page emails every week is a load of hogwash (if you'd believe my mother's tone). I didn't want to go over that again, because godsfuckin'damnit, I was busy and those emails take time and elec-fucking-tricity, neither of which I had. To say nothing of the energy.
After that it's all a bit muddled, but I remember bits and pieces.
"Do you watch Dutch TV?"
"No."
"Why not? You should."
"Because I don't like watching TV in the kitchen in the other house. And besides, I don't want to watch TV." This is quite true. I know what Dutch TV is like - I've watched it at Elisa's - and it's either crap or in English. True, I could work on the subtitles, but come the fuck on, I get home at 8 pm and no one's going to cook me dinner. I am not going to watch TV for the language lessons. Also, I loathe that kitchen and don't want to watch TV just for the sake of watching TV, not matter the language.
Mom: "Oh. Have you thought about what you're going to do?"
Sickle: *deep breath* "Well, I'm going to focus on writing my report."
Mom: "After, or are you going to be working on it all your life?!?"
Sickle: *double-deep breath* "No."
Mom: "You spent two years in Barcelona and never learnt a word of Catalan."
Sickle: "That's not true." It isn't. I could understand it all just fiiiine and could also say a few things. But no, never had a chance to converse with people in that language (or otherwise, really).
Mom: "Oh, right, I don't know anything, is that it? You're going to have to think about what to do later. Have you thought about that? Because, even if you won't have anything to eat, you're still going to have to pay the room's rent."
Sickle: *spasms*
And then we come back to, "Do you have anything else to tell me?" and no, fuck it all, I don't.
Sickle: "What about you? You haven't told me anything."
Mom: "You didn't ask."
Sickle: "You never exactly gave me an opening. You've just been yelling at me."
Mom: "What about the times I asked if you were still there? Huh?"
Said times were after one her diatribes and I was just trying not to choke or scream or cry. A polite, "So, how you doin'?" doesn't exactly slip off the tongue after being verbally ripped apart.
Sickle: "So how are you?"
Mom: "Oh, I'm fine, perfect, peachy. Delighted." Riiiiight.
That went lovely. We said goodbye shortly after that, and I was left thinking, "Why? Why, Sickle, why do you call? If you call, you get shit. If you don't call, you get shit with interest. No one ever says anything anymore that isn't laced with knives and poison." A few minutes later, crumpled in a heap under the sheets, the thought finished with, "And this proves we never learn."
Seriously. If everytime I call it ends badly and I end up crying my heart out and spend the day after in a rut, why should it surprise my mother that I don't want to call? It's like signing up for flagelation. (And yet I do.)
And just this past week I was thinking how I might actually be looking forward to going to visit.
There's just no pleasing some people. And yet we still try. It's like bashing your head against a wall, all the while thinking, knowing that that damn wall is supposed to be squishy and nice. You could turn around, leave the room, but no, head!wall must happen.
ETA: And I wonder why I don't tell her about chronic loneliness, not-exactly-depression or my boyfriend. Gee willikers, why wouldn't I expose myself like a naked little oyster to her lemon-words?
ETA 2: She's just sent me a link to a Yahoo! Hot Jobs Article on The Savvy Networker.
Links of the Day:
The Land Before Time - Part 1
dw_slash lists fic recs
Top 100 Movie Quotes
* Gone With the Wind
Started off somewhat lousy - woke up late, abused the snooze button, so on - but managed to work well in the morning. Then I went off in search of lunch and a postoffice and managed only the first objective. Then I worked pretty solidly for the rest of the afternoon, which was awesome.
Then off home to drop off my things, change and then back on the bike to go to the starting spot for running. I did better time today and ran more often that I walked, so I might need to rethink the length of the run a bit.
Then home, dinner (I actually cooked, for once) and Dollhouse, which was awesome. Lots of things made me squee and clap like a seal, though Alan Tudyk is the top reason. And oh gods, the ending!
And then I called my mother. I'd seen her on Skype earlier, but as I didn't want to say, "Hi mom, can't talk, off to shower/cook/eat/wash, bye!" I didn't poke her.
Let me record the conversation in as much detail as I'm capable, because it stops me from weeping like a little bitch. Well, that's the plan. I may still cry buckets, but at least I won't be shaking and gasping, which is a plus. My defense-mechanism of instant amnesia may raise it's little head at times. Also, please read my mother's dialogue with a bitter, scathing tone to get the full effect.
I think one of the first things my mom said - just after the hellos - was "So you're alive?" I hadn't called her in two weeks, or emailed. (Not that she's done either, neither.) She actually says this twice. I try to brush it off and tell her what I did today.
"Works going well - slow, but well - and hey! I went running!"
"Oh. What, down a canal?" Thoroughly unimpressed, of course.
I try to describe a bit where I bike, but she waves it away with a, "You'll show me when you get here," which echoes her "We can't talk now, we're wasting money!" sentiment, wherein talking for the sake of communication is rather pointless if it can be more economical (literally or figuratively) at a later undisclosed point. The only congenial part of the conversation was when she was describing where I could run in Toronto.
But then the age-old mantra starts up again:
Mom: "You don't have anything else to tell me?"
Sickle: "Well, mom, I don't really do much else. Work, exercise, that's pretty much it."
Then she goes into this whole long ramble - she does those a lot - about how I called her so, so often in October and November about the research proposal, the doctors, the permits, the course that left me working until the wee hours every fuckin' day, all those woes, trials, tribulations a daughter might tell her mother. And then how in January I'd write loads and loads, and in February, and then March it trickled down and then April was lean and then May, nothing. June, nothing. Apparently my being too busy to write her three-page emails every week is a load of hogwash (if you'd believe my mother's tone). I didn't want to go over that again, because godsfuckin'damnit, I was busy and those emails take time and elec-fucking-tricity, neither of which I had. To say nothing of the energy.
After that it's all a bit muddled, but I remember bits and pieces.
"Do you watch Dutch TV?"
"No."
"Why not? You should."
"Because I don't like watching TV in the kitchen in the other house. And besides, I don't want to watch TV." This is quite true. I know what Dutch TV is like - I've watched it at Elisa's - and it's either crap or in English. True, I could work on the subtitles, but come the fuck on, I get home at 8 pm and no one's going to cook me dinner. I am not going to watch TV for the language lessons. Also, I loathe that kitchen and don't want to watch TV just for the sake of watching TV, not matter the language.
Mom: "Oh. Have you thought about what you're going to do?"
Sickle: *deep breath* "Well, I'm going to focus on writing my report."
Mom: "After, or are you going to be working on it all your life?!?"
Sickle: *double-deep breath* "No."
Mom: "You spent two years in Barcelona and never learnt a word of Catalan."
Sickle: "That's not true." It isn't. I could understand it all just fiiiine and could also say a few things. But no, never had a chance to converse with people in that language (or otherwise, really).
Mom: "Oh, right, I don't know anything, is that it? You're going to have to think about what to do later. Have you thought about that? Because, even if you won't have anything to eat, you're still going to have to pay the room's rent."
Sickle: *spasms*
And then we come back to, "Do you have anything else to tell me?" and no, fuck it all, I don't.
Sickle: "What about you? You haven't told me anything."
Mom: "You didn't ask."
Sickle: "You never exactly gave me an opening. You've just been yelling at me."
Mom: "What about the times I asked if you were still there? Huh?"
Said times were after one her diatribes and I was just trying not to choke or scream or cry. A polite, "So, how you doin'?" doesn't exactly slip off the tongue after being verbally ripped apart.
Sickle: "So how are you?"
Mom: "Oh, I'm fine, perfect, peachy. Delighted." Riiiiight.
That went lovely. We said goodbye shortly after that, and I was left thinking, "Why? Why, Sickle, why do you call? If you call, you get shit. If you don't call, you get shit with interest. No one ever says anything anymore that isn't laced with knives and poison." A few minutes later, crumpled in a heap under the sheets, the thought finished with, "And this proves we never learn."
Seriously. If everytime I call it ends badly and I end up crying my heart out and spend the day after in a rut, why should it surprise my mother that I don't want to call? It's like signing up for flagelation. (And yet I do.)
And just this past week I was thinking how I might actually be looking forward to going to visit.
There's just no pleasing some people. And yet we still try. It's like bashing your head against a wall, all the while thinking, knowing that that damn wall is supposed to be squishy and nice. You could turn around, leave the room, but no, head!wall must happen.
ETA: And I wonder why I don't tell her about chronic loneliness, not-exactly-depression or my boyfriend. Gee willikers, why wouldn't I expose myself like a naked little oyster to her lemon-words?
ETA 2: She's just sent me a link to a Yahoo! Hot Jobs Article on The Savvy Networker.
Links of the Day:
The Land Before Time - Part 1
dw_slash lists fic recs
Top 100 Movie Quotes
* Gone With the Wind