The Vent

I have sat on this one for a while.  My mother lived with us for 8 long months last year.  She likes to play the victim.  I don't know what she's told people about her time living here, and I really don't care, but I would like to set a few things straight.  I'm sure the people who have heard the horrible stuff about my family and I won't even see this, but, as I said, I need to get this out.

She demanded respect, but refused to show any.  Because of her, we weren't able to put The Youngster on the floor to learn to crawl, walk, etc.  She is incontinent, and pooped on the floor more than once and got angry when we'd ask her to clean up after herself.  Many times, she'd say, "I did!" and we'd have to show her where there was still feces on the floor or toilet.  I would have to bring her a fresh nightgown (she insisted they were dresses, because she'd sew pockets into them), because she would be sitting in the bathroom nude.

While we're on the subject of her nightgowns, she wouldn't wear underwear with them, because she "didn't have any that fit."  That was another reason we wouldn't put The Youngster on the floor, because we didn't want him to look up and see that!  I mean, come on!  She had a couple that barely hit her knees, and she is a large lady, so when she would bend over, you could see everything.  That's how disrespectful she was towards The Squeeze, The Youngster, basically all of us!

I am not a morning person.  I never have been.  She knew/knows this.  I like to have my first couple cups of coffee without having to talk to or deal with anyone.  She would come in while I was making my first cup of coffee and want to hold a conversation with me.  No matter how many times I would tell her which cup it was, she would still try to talk to me, and didn't understand why I was pissy.

The family and I couldn't say anything without her having to put in her two cents.  It didn't matter what I was talking to The Squeeze about, she would have to put in her input.  It got to the point where I would take whoever I wanted to talk to in another room or outside, so I wouldn't have to say it in front of her.

One day, she was sitting at her computer, and her cat wanted to be brushed.  She wanted me to watch as she was brushing her.  I finally looked over, and she was wearing a robe.  Nothing else.  I know this, because when I looked over, EVERYTHING was hanging out, because the robe was open from her belly button down.  I told her she needed to close her robe, because I didn't care to see either of her "cats."  The Squeeze was also in the room.  I think The Milk Machine and The Youngster were napping.

One day, when she didn't know I was home from work yet, she called The Milk Machine a bitch, a c*nt, and numerous other derogatory names.  As said earlier, she enjoyed playing the victim, so when I wasn't home and these fights would happen, she would make it sound as if The Milk Machine had called her names, and when I would confront my daughter about it, I would get a totally different story, which I found was the truth, because I had to sneak around to find out what was really said, and I HATE doing that.

Before she moved in, we discussed it for about a year.  We made sure everything was clear.  We'd asked her if she would buy the groceries for the month, which she agreed to, and she offered to pay half of all the bills, which I told her wasn't necessary.  Then I lost my job, which made it necessary.  She brought home twice what The Squeeze, The Milk Machine, and I brought in in one month.

She would complain that she spent between $250-300 per month in groceries.  What she didn't want to admit was, she would only spend between $100-150 per month on actual groceries.  The rest she spent on junk.  I broke one of The Squeeze's cutting boards.  It was a cheap plastic thing that he'd had for years.  She replaced it with a tiny, purple one.  She would buy hand soap that smelled like dog shit if it was purple.

She would complain how the food was prepared, but wouldn't help unless she could put onions in everything.  The Milk Machine was exclusively breast-feeding (WIC says for the first six months) and she would complain about how much The Milk Machine would eat and what she would eat.

When she moved out, she took ALL of The Squeeze's insulin, except 3 pens of Humalog and left him one of her used vials of Lantus (which was thrown away, because, EWWWW!)  He is on the pens because of his tremors, so even if it weren't a used vial, he wouldn't have been able to use it because he can't put a syringe (which he doesn't have) in it.

When we were moving her here, I'd told her that I wanted to be back home on the 18th or 19th, and we didn't finally leave until the 21st.  She told me she was halfway packed, and wasn't even close when I went over there on the 17th.  Before I got there, she made it sound like it was a done deal, that she was moving in with us.  When I got there, she decided to tell me that her brother had offered to let her move in with him, and that she'd have two bedrooms, and the run of the house.  When she went over to look at what he was offering, he told her what areas she would have, and she insisted he lied to her.  I now believe she made it sound like he'd offered what he showed her, and she was making it sound like he'd offered her more.

This is only what has been on my mind today.  I will try to post sometime about some of the other things that go through my warped mind that aren't such downers at a later date.

About me

Since this is the first time I'm writing on this, I guess I should at least give you a little info.  I'm me.  I will probably write a lot about The Squeeze, who is my other half, The Milk Machine, who is my youngest daughter, The Youngster, who is my grandson, Princess, who is my oldest daughter, The Son-in-law, self-explanatory, and his two children who will be named at a later date.