mania

Not a moment after a quick stop to Dunkin Donuts for a high-fat blueberry muffin and a breakfast sandwich topped off with a thirsty iced coffee low fat milk and equal; my mother calls.

I refuse the call in my own stubbornly awkward way; I toss it in the backseat.  The backseat of the Honda looks similar to the barge that floated around NY’s harbors filled with trash, unwanted and lonely.  Just like me.

She calls again!  And, again!  And, again!  Then comes the texting.  Again and again.

At wit’s end and coming down off the not as prescribed sedatives, I review the texts in the middle of a panic attack.

“Ambien, this is your mother, don’t forget you have to meet me at the gallery.  I mounted the picture, framed it, picked it out and contacted the curator.”

Long text for such a short minded person, it’s my friggin picture.  Where do I stand in all of this?

When someone finds themselves dirtied by bi-polar/mania/depression/alcoholism/borderline tendencies; you are always feeling one cigarette shy of an empty pack.  What makes matters worse for me is my mother!

Mother Theresa perhaps was not barren when she adopted me.  My father the stunted by beat downs soiled upon him by his wife, must of had at least one sperm in the bank.  Yet, the two decided on adopting a white trash baby, such as me.

The longest relationship I’ve ever been in romantically?  I would have to say, 22 years!  That’s my age and the duration of time spent with Theresa.

Theresa not only sets up picture assignments for me.  She grooms me, feeds me, dresses me and would most likely go into my GYN appointment with me if I asked her to.

The Adopt-A-Dad, Floyd, well, he stays out of the picture, neither a negative or positive charge omits from dear old dad’s mind, body or spirit.  It works best that way for Theresa.

Filth!  That is what I am to Theresa.  She loves me but like is too strong a word for her.  In the mind of my mother the scholar I am the following:

Dirty in a physical sense, I don’t always see the need for a shower.

Soiled by my impure thoughts of women, Theresa is a homophobic politically correct, don’t ask, don’t tell, educated woman.

Filthy to her are my needs to pay subordinates to lie.  Aghast, I think the word is.  I’m not sure of the spelling or the meaning but that is the term Theresa used.  Appalled at the fact that I have for months paid workers at Ma and Pa Kennels to lie about when I have arrived at work, when I have left work and most importantly, what time said, employee, should arrive at work, so as not to upset my routine.

My routine?  Sex at work.  More sex at work.  A nap with my dog at work.  And, the occasional phone sex at work.

I suppose if you took all the times I cried, HARASSMENT!  The table could easily be turned in my direction.

It is filthy to me how unusually sexual our relationship is.  Mother Theresa and I.  It is deplorable how manipulative my legally maternal but not really, Mom can be.

Is it a wonder that I text back in the only way I know how, depressed and sullen, “Got it, Mom.  When should I meet you and what should I wear?”

My insides are not only filled with astronomical amounts of bad calories.  It is overflowing with obscenities.