Bloody Manchester, What Now?
So, rant warning, just so's you know.
As you're probably aware, it's the first Friday of Lent. And my mother, a rather lapsed Catholic, gets into her head that she wants to go to a fish fry. Now, I told her that I wasn't sure, because I didn't know how late I'd be working. And I called her at 19:30, to say I'd lost track of time, and that I'd be there at least another 20 mins (so, yeah, not leaving work until at least 19:50, which means not home until at least 20:30). I actually ended up being at work for more than another hour - the system was running slow, nothing I could really do about the bloody thing. So, yeah. I finish work, realize I need to print off a couple of things for myself. Get that done. Pack everything up, and head off. Go to the Post Office to get mail, then plan to go home. I call from the Post Office, figuring that, by this time, my mother's already eaten. I mean, at no time did I indicate she should wait for me. I thought I'd made it clear that my attendance at dinner was far from certain. So, rather than starve herself, I figured she's a big girl, she'd have her own dinner. Or, failing that, I figured she'd call if she was getting too hungry. So, yeah, I call from the PO, just to make sure she doesn't need me to stop anywhere or get anything for her. At this point, I realize she never bothered to have dinner. And hooo, boy, I know how this is going to play out. But, it's not like I can skip going home. So, I head home. Explain that I had thought she would have already eaten, but that I'd be happy to go out and get food with her. I just needed to feed the cat. So, feed the cat, dump the rest of the milk (which had gone off because she hadn't closed the refrigerator door this morning when she grabbed out her lunch, so I wake up to nasty milk). I then go back in the living room, and she's watching the news. I wait, as politely as I can manage, for either the story to be over or for her to actually answer whether she wants to go get food. Well, by the time the story is over, she's giving me the pissy "What?!" Rather than blow up, or make things worse, I excuse myself to the computer, where I update one of my accounts to note that I received two books in the mail today. Go back in the living room, wait for the weather forecast to be done, and then try to broach the subject of dinner again, see if she still wants to go out (which I'm still fine with). But oh, no, it's far too late. So, now she's skipped dinner, and it's all my fault. Of course it is. Because the two places we know of that have fish fry, one is already closed, and the other is too far and too slow, and it's too late in the evening. So, I've ruined her night. Yup, that's me, controller of other people's destinies.
To be fair, I should have called when I left work, which would have given her more time to decide what the heck she wanted. And I may have dallied at work, because I thought she wouldn't want to go out, even if I had left work at 19:50, because she's usually not fond of going out that late (she's fine with picking up dinner, but not of going out, since, again, the service would have been slow and she gets to be quite, um, unpleasant when she thinks the service isn't up to her standards). But I obviously didn't make that clear in the message I left her, so we can blame that part on me. But we can't blame me for her skipping dinner. And we can't blame me for her acting like a sodding child and going to her room and slamming the door because she didn't get her bloody way.
And, at this point, I still haven't had dinner either. And I'm not sure I want to go out. Anyway, needed to get that off my chest. Next time I'll try journaling about my theory on the parallels between David Lynch's Mulholland Drive and the Greek folk tale of Eros and Psyche, or something.
As you're probably aware, it's the first Friday of Lent. And my mother, a rather lapsed Catholic, gets into her head that she wants to go to a fish fry. Now, I told her that I wasn't sure, because I didn't know how late I'd be working. And I called her at 19:30, to say I'd lost track of time, and that I'd be there at least another 20 mins (so, yeah, not leaving work until at least 19:50, which means not home until at least 20:30). I actually ended up being at work for more than another hour - the system was running slow, nothing I could really do about the bloody thing. So, yeah. I finish work, realize I need to print off a couple of things for myself. Get that done. Pack everything up, and head off. Go to the Post Office to get mail, then plan to go home. I call from the Post Office, figuring that, by this time, my mother's already eaten. I mean, at no time did I indicate she should wait for me. I thought I'd made it clear that my attendance at dinner was far from certain. So, rather than starve herself, I figured she's a big girl, she'd have her own dinner. Or, failing that, I figured she'd call if she was getting too hungry. So, yeah, I call from the PO, just to make sure she doesn't need me to stop anywhere or get anything for her. At this point, I realize she never bothered to have dinner. And hooo, boy, I know how this is going to play out. But, it's not like I can skip going home. So, I head home. Explain that I had thought she would have already eaten, but that I'd be happy to go out and get food with her. I just needed to feed the cat. So, feed the cat, dump the rest of the milk (which had gone off because she hadn't closed the refrigerator door this morning when she grabbed out her lunch, so I wake up to nasty milk). I then go back in the living room, and she's watching the news. I wait, as politely as I can manage, for either the story to be over or for her to actually answer whether she wants to go get food. Well, by the time the story is over, she's giving me the pissy "What?!" Rather than blow up, or make things worse, I excuse myself to the computer, where I update one of my accounts to note that I received two books in the mail today. Go back in the living room, wait for the weather forecast to be done, and then try to broach the subject of dinner again, see if she still wants to go out (which I'm still fine with). But oh, no, it's far too late. So, now she's skipped dinner, and it's all my fault. Of course it is. Because the two places we know of that have fish fry, one is already closed, and the other is too far and too slow, and it's too late in the evening. So, I've ruined her night. Yup, that's me, controller of other people's destinies.
To be fair, I should have called when I left work, which would have given her more time to decide what the heck she wanted. And I may have dallied at work, because I thought she wouldn't want to go out, even if I had left work at 19:50, because she's usually not fond of going out that late (she's fine with picking up dinner, but not of going out, since, again, the service would have been slow and she gets to be quite, um, unpleasant when she thinks the service isn't up to her standards). But I obviously didn't make that clear in the message I left her, so we can blame that part on me. But we can't blame me for her skipping dinner. And we can't blame me for her acting like a sodding child and going to her room and slamming the door because she didn't get her bloody way.
And, at this point, I still haven't had dinner either. And I'm not sure I want to go out. Anyway, needed to get that off my chest. Next time I'll try journaling about my theory on the parallels between David Lynch's Mulholland Drive and the Greek folk tale of Eros and Psyche, or something.