Sunday Bloody Sunday indeed...
Well, in retrospect I really should have seen it coming. Mum's complaints have been getting worse every week, but I really had no idea it was at this level. The tears. The mutual screaming. The frothing rage and misunderstandings. And all it took to catalyse it was a casual pair of navy-blue trousers...
The first thing you need to know is that members of the Salvation Army who have signed on as 'soldiers' have a uniform - white shirt/bouse with epualets, navy skirt/trousers, nice black shoes and (if you're wearing the skirt) stockings. Now, I find the full uniform very cumbersome and prefer to wear my blouse with a pair of navy trousers instead, and that way I can wear a more practical black shoe and socks. I'm not the only one who wears the uniform this way - in fact, most other women prefer the trousers-and-practical-shoe option, and I'm one of only two people in my general age group who bother to wear the uniform at ALL. And my father wont wear his uniform at all except for formal occasions where he has to (just as I keep the 'full' uniform for such occasions.) This bothers one of the women at church - an elderly lady who is a retired Major (meaning she worked for the Salvation Army) and finds the not-wearing of uniform reprehensible.
When I came home from collecting for the Salvos on Friday, I took off the trousers and put them in the laundry basket. I distinctly recall this. Therefore, I was most perturbed to realise that while my blouse was clean and present, my pants were AWOL. I didn't want to wear my skirt and stockings so instead I opted for a pair of jeans and a shirt with the Salvo emblem clearly visible on it. I thought this would do, since we were late (again.)
It did not.
Major Kath had just finished upbraiding the one other girl who normally wears uniform for wearing the emblem shirt, and in I came wearing the same thing. I got quizzed intently about why I wasn't wearing my uniform. I couldn't find my pants, I replied. I don't know where they are. Well, why don't you?? was the reply.
I lost count of how many times I reiterated that I didn't know, that I put them into the washing and that was the last I'd seen of them. Mum had just come back from being hassled by Val because the Celebrate Recovery group had not washed their dirty dishes and cups - again. Why Val complains to mum instead of the woman who is in CHARGE of the group, I do not know. Given what happened, I may just make it my business to find out.
Then Mum claimed that she hadn't seen it (well given that she doesn't DO the damn laundry, DAD does - she does the ironing part) and Val started in on ME, saying I clearly hadn't put it in to be washed at all, and Mum added that it was probably in 'that rathole of a bedroom'. Which brought Val to tell me, with apparent delight, that her ten year old niece had been forced to learn that her parents wouldn't come fetch her dirty washing from her room, and why couldn't I? I stood there, mouth agape, waiting for mum to say that I dont LET people come into my room and mess with my things, let alone EXPECT it, and that both Nicole and I put our laundry in the basket, thank you! Nope. Mum was standing there with what I can only describe as a smirk on her face, and said "I'm just putting it (the hassle) where it belongs - on you and your father." Well thanks. So of course I had to try and explain to people who weren't interested in listening (because that would stop their über-fun lecture time) that I had put it, and all my other goddamn laundry, in the washing basket where it's supposed to go.
THEN, oh and then, Kath pipes up with why didn't I know where it was, in HER day they had everything all set out carefully on Saturday night, pressed and washed and shining their shoes, and I fought very hard to NOT tell her where to stick her shined shoes and HER day. I did very well. Then she asked me why I couldn't wash and iron my own clothes.
For those of you who do not know - I am not ALLOWED to touch those implements. Dad won't teach me how to use the washing machine, feeling it's easier if he just does it himself since he already knows how, so I'm limited to simply occasionally turning a dial on his instruction, or adding in an extra item of clothing. And Mum is petrified to let me near the iron and the closest I ever get to it is to ensure it's turned off and unplugged.
But if they didn't believe me about the pants, was there any POINT in trying to convince them that I, a 29 year old, am unable to use a washing machine or iron due to parental preference/refusal? No. But Mum would set them straight on THIS, surely? She wouldn't let them think I was a total useless freak, right?
...Yes, I'm sure you've guessed just what she said to clear up the issue. SWEET FUCK ALL is what.
This was all before the service even STARTED. I sat there and held it together during the servce, and after I cornered um and told her that while I didn't mind being dropped in it with Val so much, Kath was a different matter. WELL. You'd think I'd accused her of being Jezebel herself, as she near-shrieked that she was only putting it back where it belonged, and to get lost and leave her alone. I later learned that Val had also scolded Nicole into tears for doing... what she had been asked to do, just quicker than Val wanted her to.
Dad brough Nic and I home early. I tore my rom apart and found nothing, as I'd expected. Then I tried the ironing room one more time, despairing, and would you like to take a guess at what I found, folded and dropped on the floor under the ironing board, nowhere near the pile where our Salvo uniforms are put? Go on, guess. Give it a go.
Downstairs I went with the pants, sitting on the lounge and stewing in utter rage. Wen the parents finally came home, I heard Dad ask "So where's that thing that you wanted me to scan?" Mum's near-screamed response "JOAN wants it scanned! JOAN! Not ME! Stop putting things on ME when they're NOT MINE!" In retrospect that wasn't the best time for me to wave the pants under her nose and snap that I'd found them in the ironing room and just what the hell did Mum think she was playing at?
The tears started. (And Mum NEVER CRIES. She was brought up in a househld - NOT a home - where she was punished if she cried, ESPECALLY in public. So even now, almost 50 years later, she just doesn't cry and if she does you know it's BIG.) She stormed off after screaming at me to shut up and leave her alone, and I followed her screaming why should I, starting to cry myself because of the memory of that wretched smirk while she watched me tell the truth and not be believed, and everything went downhill from there.
We have come to a minor understanding - Mum didn't realise that her lack of explanations in front of people whose opinions of me I value hurt me as much as it had, and I didn't realise that Mum really hadn't known the pants were there. However Mum is still distant, unavalable for emotional contact. Another legacy of her upbringing is her complete inability to tell people "back off, that's not your business." Rather than saying "well, Val, it isn't my fault the recovery group never cleans up, why don't you talk to Jo, she leads the group," she sits there and takes it, stews, then comes home and waits for one of us to make a mistake, so she has an excuse to pur the second-hand shit she received onto us, making us the recipients of third-hand shit. And, just as she sat there earlier and felt unable to do anything but resentflly take the shit that wasn't hers, we are trapped and unable to get out of hearing it without proving that we 'don't care about her or how she feels'. Le sigh.
Honestly, this can't go on. Because while I'm utterly incapable of telling people to back the fuck off with any sort of tact, at least I'm capable of saying it. And it's getting to the stage where something has to be done. Our family can't keep taking other people's shit because of Mum's inability to say "None of your business". And DAD'S no help - last night I tried talking to him about what we could do to maybe make things easier for mum by getting those other ladies off her back, and the response I got? "Look, love, I'm just really not interested in getting in the middle of this thing etween you and Mum." He wasn't even LISTENING to me or else he'd have known that I wasn't even REFERRING to Mum at that point!
And Val. Now look, I love Val. She's probably what you'd call my mentor and most of the time she is what I want to be - practical, sensible, kind, capable of tough love, able to draw clear boundaries while still utilising tact when needed. But I tell you, I'm not the least bit happy with her right now. She's not the only culprit, but right now she's the main one. And this isn't normal behaviour for her, either.
I'm not looking forward to going back to church this Friday (Good Friday) and Sunday (Easter Sunday). Not only is it a double-dose so soon after the giant blowup, I don't know how well I'll be able to govern my tongue while trying to balance ten masks for the time and occasion. I'm NOT making light of the Crucifixion, but I'm thinking that at least when God was forced to turn away from His Son due to the sin of others that He bore, he didn't do it with a smirk or harrass him out about it.
In the eternal words of Arnold J Rimmer: "I hate everything."
The first thing you need to know is that members of the Salvation Army who have signed on as 'soldiers' have a uniform - white shirt/bouse with epualets, navy skirt/trousers, nice black shoes and (if you're wearing the skirt) stockings. Now, I find the full uniform very cumbersome and prefer to wear my blouse with a pair of navy trousers instead, and that way I can wear a more practical black shoe and socks. I'm not the only one who wears the uniform this way - in fact, most other women prefer the trousers-and-practical-shoe option, and I'm one of only two people in my general age group who bother to wear the uniform at ALL. And my father wont wear his uniform at all except for formal occasions where he has to (just as I keep the 'full' uniform for such occasions.) This bothers one of the women at church - an elderly lady who is a retired Major (meaning she worked for the Salvation Army) and finds the not-wearing of uniform reprehensible.
When I came home from collecting for the Salvos on Friday, I took off the trousers and put them in the laundry basket. I distinctly recall this. Therefore, I was most perturbed to realise that while my blouse was clean and present, my pants were AWOL. I didn't want to wear my skirt and stockings so instead I opted for a pair of jeans and a shirt with the Salvo emblem clearly visible on it. I thought this would do, since we were late (again.)
It did not.
Major Kath had just finished upbraiding the one other girl who normally wears uniform for wearing the emblem shirt, and in I came wearing the same thing. I got quizzed intently about why I wasn't wearing my uniform. I couldn't find my pants, I replied. I don't know where they are. Well, why don't you?? was the reply.
I lost count of how many times I reiterated that I didn't know, that I put them into the washing and that was the last I'd seen of them. Mum had just come back from being hassled by Val because the Celebrate Recovery group had not washed their dirty dishes and cups - again. Why Val complains to mum instead of the woman who is in CHARGE of the group, I do not know. Given what happened, I may just make it my business to find out.
Then Mum claimed that she hadn't seen it (well given that she doesn't DO the damn laundry, DAD does - she does the ironing part) and Val started in on ME, saying I clearly hadn't put it in to be washed at all, and Mum added that it was probably in 'that rathole of a bedroom'. Which brought Val to tell me, with apparent delight, that her ten year old niece had been forced to learn that her parents wouldn't come fetch her dirty washing from her room, and why couldn't I? I stood there, mouth agape, waiting for mum to say that I dont LET people come into my room and mess with my things, let alone EXPECT it, and that both Nicole and I put our laundry in the basket, thank you! Nope. Mum was standing there with what I can only describe as a smirk on her face, and said "I'm just putting it (the hassle) where it belongs - on you and your father." Well thanks. So of course I had to try and explain to people who weren't interested in listening (because that would stop their über-fun lecture time) that I had put it, and all my other goddamn laundry, in the washing basket where it's supposed to go.
THEN, oh and then, Kath pipes up with why didn't I know where it was, in HER day they had everything all set out carefully on Saturday night, pressed and washed and shining their shoes, and I fought very hard to NOT tell her where to stick her shined shoes and HER day. I did very well. Then she asked me why I couldn't wash and iron my own clothes.
For those of you who do not know - I am not ALLOWED to touch those implements. Dad won't teach me how to use the washing machine, feeling it's easier if he just does it himself since he already knows how, so I'm limited to simply occasionally turning a dial on his instruction, or adding in an extra item of clothing. And Mum is petrified to let me near the iron and the closest I ever get to it is to ensure it's turned off and unplugged.
But if they didn't believe me about the pants, was there any POINT in trying to convince them that I, a 29 year old, am unable to use a washing machine or iron due to parental preference/refusal? No. But Mum would set them straight on THIS, surely? She wouldn't let them think I was a total useless freak, right?
...Yes, I'm sure you've guessed just what she said to clear up the issue. SWEET FUCK ALL is what.
This was all before the service even STARTED. I sat there and held it together during the servce, and after I cornered um and told her that while I didn't mind being dropped in it with Val so much, Kath was a different matter. WELL. You'd think I'd accused her of being Jezebel herself, as she near-shrieked that she was only putting it back where it belonged, and to get lost and leave her alone. I later learned that Val had also scolded Nicole into tears for doing... what she had been asked to do, just quicker than Val wanted her to.
Dad brough Nic and I home early. I tore my rom apart and found nothing, as I'd expected. Then I tried the ironing room one more time, despairing, and would you like to take a guess at what I found, folded and dropped on the floor under the ironing board, nowhere near the pile where our Salvo uniforms are put? Go on, guess. Give it a go.
Downstairs I went with the pants, sitting on the lounge and stewing in utter rage. Wen the parents finally came home, I heard Dad ask "So where's that thing that you wanted me to scan?" Mum's near-screamed response "JOAN wants it scanned! JOAN! Not ME! Stop putting things on ME when they're NOT MINE!" In retrospect that wasn't the best time for me to wave the pants under her nose and snap that I'd found them in the ironing room and just what the hell did Mum think she was playing at?
The tears started. (And Mum NEVER CRIES. She was brought up in a househld - NOT a home - where she was punished if she cried, ESPECALLY in public. So even now, almost 50 years later, she just doesn't cry and if she does you know it's BIG.) She stormed off after screaming at me to shut up and leave her alone, and I followed her screaming why should I, starting to cry myself because of the memory of that wretched smirk while she watched me tell the truth and not be believed, and everything went downhill from there.
We have come to a minor understanding - Mum didn't realise that her lack of explanations in front of people whose opinions of me I value hurt me as much as it had, and I didn't realise that Mum really hadn't known the pants were there. However Mum is still distant, unavalable for emotional contact. Another legacy of her upbringing is her complete inability to tell people "back off, that's not your business." Rather than saying "well, Val, it isn't my fault the recovery group never cleans up, why don't you talk to Jo, she leads the group," she sits there and takes it, stews, then comes home and waits for one of us to make a mistake, so she has an excuse to pur the second-hand shit she received onto us, making us the recipients of third-hand shit. And, just as she sat there earlier and felt unable to do anything but resentflly take the shit that wasn't hers, we are trapped and unable to get out of hearing it without proving that we 'don't care about her or how she feels'. Le sigh.
Honestly, this can't go on. Because while I'm utterly incapable of telling people to back the fuck off with any sort of tact, at least I'm capable of saying it. And it's getting to the stage where something has to be done. Our family can't keep taking other people's shit because of Mum's inability to say "None of your business". And DAD'S no help - last night I tried talking to him about what we could do to maybe make things easier for mum by getting those other ladies off her back, and the response I got? "Look, love, I'm just really not interested in getting in the middle of this thing etween you and Mum." He wasn't even LISTENING to me or else he'd have known that I wasn't even REFERRING to Mum at that point!
And Val. Now look, I love Val. She's probably what you'd call my mentor and most of the time she is what I want to be - practical, sensible, kind, capable of tough love, able to draw clear boundaries while still utilising tact when needed. But I tell you, I'm not the least bit happy with her right now. She's not the only culprit, but right now she's the main one. And this isn't normal behaviour for her, either.
I'm not looking forward to going back to church this Friday (Good Friday) and Sunday (Easter Sunday). Not only is it a double-dose so soon after the giant blowup, I don't know how well I'll be able to govern my tongue while trying to balance ten masks for the time and occasion. I'm NOT making light of the Crucifixion, but I'm thinking that at least when God was forced to turn away from His Son due to the sin of others that He bore, he didn't do it with a smirk or harrass him out about it.
In the eternal words of Arnold J Rimmer: "I hate everything."