Jacqui (jacqui) wrote,
Jacqui
jacqui

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This is how nuts my mother is, (and I suppose you can look at this and think I'm bratty and ungrateful but try not to judge me too hard kay), she is beyond wealthy, but she thinks she's poor. She lives in Bel Air, probably one of the wealthiest per capita cities in the world. She has gardeners, three maids, a secretary, lawyers, tax attorneys, and a fleet of doctors and dentists. She has more than enough of everything. I am her only, adopted-late-in-life, long-suffering, puppet, slave-dolly daughter. Granted, I've chosen to accept this role. I'm a whore, I know this.

Nevertheless, she supports me and my son and our household, she has agreed to this.
Some of the money she controls is mine, left to me by my grandmother. Some of the money is my father's, who bedridden in diapers, and suffering from some horrible variation of senility, imagines he sees ghosts. (I'm not ruling out the fact that he may indeed be seeing them.)

So here I am dependent on Mommy, blech, grateful that I don't have to work a nine to five job, but suffering all the same, because I am in essence working for my Mother, who feels that criticizing me and (meterse en mi vida - sometimes there are phrases in Spanish or French that are just so much better than English, argh) trying to control me are her due. I do love and care about my Mom, but not the way I used to when I was a little girl. Not in that same bonded at the hip, adoring way, because I have been hurt way too many times to be able to feel that simply anymore. I like to imagine that another person in my position would have run screaming for the hills long ago.

Anyway, one of the things she likes to worry about is what will she do with my son and my animals if I die of a heart attack because I am so fat. She talks about this all the time. Although I am much more likely to die from the stress from all of her nagging and incessant worrying. Yesterday in the car on our way back from the movies she was going off about it again. Bla bla bla what will I do if you die? I can't raise your son, and God knows I don't want his no good father getting him. You are going to hvae to go on a diet, you're just going to have to do it. I can't raise a little boy. I'm too old. Oh God what will I do?

We were also low on gas and she wanted to tell me where to go to get some. As if I wasn't born here thirty some years ago (notice how as I approach forty I'm saying thirty-some, yeah that'll fool them and hold back the scythe) and had no sense of direction. She of course didn't have a clue where we were and started panicking, insisting I turn the car around, and head for this gas station that was much, much further away. God give me an icy cold coke and a ton of sugar and sodium. I calmly and patiently told her that we were only a few blocks from the closest gas station and that we were going there, "Oh you don't know where you're going. How do you know where we are? Oh Christ!!! Oh Lord!!!! We're going to run out of gas and be stranded, I know we are. I just know we are. Okay, well if we run out you'll just have to walk. Yes, that's what you'll have to do. You'll walk. You can use the exercise, might even lose some weight, pray darling, pray, pray." These are the kinds of things that send my blood pressure skyrocketing through my skull. Which chakra is that, and isn't that a good thing, no that's sex, okay well, anyway if anything is going to kill me, she will.

In a grand and desperate effort to control and force me to spend more time with her, she has changed the numbers to all of her credit cards. The cards she allows me to use to pay doctor and dentist bills, occasional food bills, utilities, vets and pet food bills. I always screw up though by crossing the line and buying cosmetics, magazines, electronics, toys, and running away when I can't stand it anymore. It's okay for us to travel, when we travel with her. A thirty-thousand dollar trip to Tahiti is okay, a two thousand dollar trip to Northern California with my son before school starts is just too darned expensive, because we didn't invite her. That would defeat the purpose. Vacations are supposed to be relaxing, arrrrrrgggghhh. See this is another one of the many reasons why disabling the anonymous feature on livejournal is a super good plan. No one gets to dive bomb me with mean commentary that they don't have to be accountable for. "Who do you think you are Missy? I have to work in a coal-mine/sweat-shop/whore-house slaving/sweating/stripping and sucking for a living, while you, you pearly pampered pet, sit there in your overindulged splendor, complaining because your Mother won't just hand over the cash without contingencies? You're complaining because you have to listen to her bitch a little bit? You baby, you brat, you selfish, monstrous pig-dog you, you, you, thing you!!!" - Anonymous.

So (where does it say that we can't start sentences with so, screw 'em) today I stumble into my office in a post dream state stupor, flop down in my chair and pick up the mail. First piece on top, a letter in Mommy's well scrutinized handwriting. I've got that signature down. It's a bill from the pet store, the one that used to charge everything, the one that made a special concession and agreed to bill her. Oh look she's scribbled something here, "Jacqui, I'm not going to pay this bill. You don't need more pets, (no duh) 1 Chinchilla, 2 ferrets, food for a rat! This is ridiculous! You pay it!"

Never mind that she has been paying the pet bills for three years, or that she promised not to hassle me or the pet store owners, when she changed the card numbers, for the fourth time this year, seriously. She's just not going to pay this five hundred and seventy-nine dollar bill, because twelve dollars of it is inessential. Do you get what's making me crazy here? What is essential? Cats and dogs are essential, but other small creatures aren't? I guess the bunnies are okay, and the fish, birds and lizards, but the ferrets, chinchilla and rats aren't? Oh okay well, then certainly don't pay any of the rest of it. Give me a heart attack over a few dollars. Here call my dentist again and flip them out over the cost of a filling. Yell at my poor gardener for raising his rates so they'll be comparable with what he's charging everyone else in the neighborhood, but pay yours five times as much for killing your plants and ignoring your trees. Buy a Cadillac in one afternoon without negotiating, shop at Neiman Marcus, St. John's, Saks Fifth Avenue and on Rodeo. Pay your mean, manipulative, housekeeper three times what she deserves, and let her go every day at two in the afternoon, when you need her to spend the night, and that's what she was hired for. Make the nurse do all of the housekeepers work so that she can't stand it anymore and quits. Forget to send your medical and prescription receipts in for reimbursement. Run red lights, get tickets for your bad driving, then pay the increased premiums. Be an absentee landlord who lets her tenants tear down walls and smash windows and bill you for it. Let them host Santorian Magic parties in the buildings left to me by my grandmother. Let the bank charge you tens of thousands of dollars to manage your money, and forgive them when they lose thousands more, by purposely ignoring your buy and sell orders. Buy three hundred dollar shoes, five and six hundred dollar purses, gamble your money away on cards, but by all means stress me out over TWELVE DOLLARS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have hardly any money in the bank and Esther's rent is due, Coco (who I've just learned came here to deal drugs, and that arthritis in her hands that i felt so badly about, is actually paralysis that came about when she had a stroke after being shot at by Mexican Mafia foot soldiers for selling on their turf, I'm not kidding here,) continues to harang me in her vicious way, we've got a new gal who needs to be paid, and Beau comes in and wants me to let him give more money to those blood sucking Chrono Cross developers, who've hooked my child into playing a Sony Playstation game that is so complicated you have to call a 1-900 number every day in order to play it. Die you greedy fuckers, die, die, die. Okay off I go to e-bay, heh, or maybe I'll just crawl back into my bed and pull the covers over my head.

Love you guys,
Jacqui
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