After some internal (and external; I tend to run all my life decisions by Twitter) debate, I decided not to tell my mother that I lost my job. Unfortunately, the decision was ultimately out of my hands – my mother returned my call today, and opted for the first time in her life to call my work number instead of my cell number. My phone has evidently been forwarded to someone else, and that person told my mother I was no longer with the company. Oops. She called my cell to find out what happened, so I spilled the beans: I am a jobless bum; a drain on society (not really, but I was hoping for Guilt Shoes).
Someone asked me why I cared what my mother thought about my employment situation, so I thought about it – and I really don’t. Whether or not I have something to keep me occupied each day and gives me money every once in a while is of no concern of hers, and since she’s grown out of her trademark rage her reaction isn’t really more than “well that’s too bad”. It’s never been fear that keeps me quiet, though – it’s what comes next: the helpful advice. I have an extremely hard time listening to my mother’s advice without my head exploding, because it always comes down to the same two things over and over again: lottery tickets and blasphemy.
When faced with the cold hard truth of a restructured company with No Room for Kimli, my mother offered up some sage wisdom: “you should buy lottery tickets!”. She went on to try to convince me that spending $6 a week for surefire winnings was the smartest thing I could possibly do, what with my temporarily halted cash flow. That $6 became $12, then $20, as the conversation went on – I could hit THE BIG ONE! Then all my problems would be SOLVED! Why bother buying knickknacks and paddywhacks to give a dog a bone when that money could be used to buy lottery tickets instead? You never know!
I’m going to have that engraved on my mother’s tombstone: “You Never Know”. It’s her favourite saying, and the only justification she ever needs for spending ridiculous amounts of money on lottery tickets. It grates on my teeth to no end, and makes me want to scream obscenities in a desperate attempt to force logic through the phone and into her head. Still, I smiled and nodded (and said “uh huh” because she couldn’t hear me nod through the phone) and quietly seethed as she moved onto her next bit of motherly advice: pray to dad!
I’m not religious in any way, comfortably straddling the line between atheism and some sort of otherworldly -ism (that allows bacon burgers, the owning of many things, and group sex) – but my mother constantly tells me I need to “pray to dad” to ask him to allow me to win the lottery, or something. This is just fucking weird to me, and – if I were one of those wacky religious types – seems really blasphemousy, what with thinking my dad is some kind of lottery-rigging deity and all. Sure, sometimes I have conversations at dad in my head, but those are mostly along the lines of “I miss you” “How’s it going out there” “you would have really appreciated all these presents wrapped in porn” – not “my heavenly father who art in the skies above pulling numbered balls out of a machine; hallowed by thy name”. I get the feeling my mother actually prays to dad, and definitely routinely asks him for help in “hitting the big one” so she can .. I don’t know what. Buy more toilet paper? Stock up on laundry soap? She often says she wants to “help out the kids” (meaning Ed and I), which I wouldn’t turn down – but honestly, we’re okay without the help. I’m not going to fall to my knees and throw my hands to the sky in melodramatic supplication so my dad will haunt some guy so I can win money – I’m weird, but not THAT weird. Seriously, even I draw the line at some things. This is one of them.
So, until I find a new job, my weekly calls to my mother will consist of her telling me to spend my precious remaining dollars on a one in 13,983,816 chance of that mythical “big one” because “you never know”, and I should “pray to daddy” to make this happen.
This entire thing gives me both the heebies AND the jeebies.
Couldn’t I just have a puppy instead?