Pushing buttons or pushing up daisies

Is there ever a time when someone pushes your buttons to the point that you're tempted to plan that person's murder? Morbid, I know. Psychotic, yes. Punishable by a prison sentence? Most definitely.

Yet that is what I was thinking as I hung up my archnemesis. Yes, Margaret. For those of you in the know, Margaret is Mommy Dearest. She'd been away on a cruise and foray to Florida over the last month so we've had fewer conversations than the every other day we usually end up talking - her choice, not mine. It's her choice because she calls me every other day to see what's new. That in itself is not a bad thing. What is a bad thing is the gentle jabs, the disguised barbs. This time was no different.

She doesn't know I've lost almost 15 lbs. and am well on my way to svelteness. So, when I divulged that I went out for sushi with my cousin and friend on Saturday and uttered the words "All You Can Eat" I should have expected the quick 1-2. Jab, cross and there it was: "Oh, so you pigged out then." Yes, Mother, it was all you can eat but I have restraint. Even I can't eat my weight in sashimi.

I should have expected it, prepared myself, and perhaps I should never say "All you can eat" in front of my mother. Lesson learned, Margaret. Lesson learned. And, I've learned so much from you, some good, some not.

That brings us up to the murder plan. I've discarded it. I actually folded the plan away minutes after I got off the phone - rather quickly, I might add. Thank Darwin that my cell was on its last bar of power and the tell-tale beep signified immediate disconnection. So, I disconnected, away from her, away from that negativity.

I've been doing it all my life and I guess I have to do it some more. While people do change, after almost 75 years of these comments, I don't think they are going to stop. I have taken the high road and even tried to sit her down and tell her how her comments make me feel, to no avail. Defensiveness (hers) popped in and squashed any headway for which I had hoped.

You can't teach an old dog, or in my case, mother, new tricks. I certainly can change the writing on the wall and the dynamics of our relationship. It's up to me to break the cycle.

The song of survival

First I was afraid

I was petrified

Kept thinking I could never live

without you by my side

But I spent so many nights

thinking how you did me wrong

I grew strong

I learned how to carry on

You will have surmised by now that I have parental unit issues. Who really doesn't? But, it's amazing how parents can smother the life out of their children with well-meaning intentions.

Over the past four days - the weekend, plus yesterday and today, my parents have called me exactly seven times. That's more than once a day. Tonight, it was my dad's turn. They're worried. What else is new? If it's not to double-check whether I've changed the filter in my furnace this month or paid all of my bills, it's to enquire whether I've eaten that day, purchased travel insurance for my upcoming trip and today, it was to demand that I provide my location details, telephone numbers and emails of the people I will be visiting on my last leg of my trip.

I'm venturing by train to Bristol to visit friends who I met while on vacation in the Dominican Republic. They are respected members of society, a mom and dad team with two kids in tow. Not exactly the druglords my parents envision.

My response: I will email you when I get there via Hotmail but I am not providing a background check for these people (my mother did ask). I will call you when I arrive and IF there is a problem, you'll be the first on my speed dial.

As I got off the phone, I was bewildered that, at the age of 38 years old, I am still treated like a 15-year-old by the two people who have done their utmost to instill in me a good set of values but also what they consider to be a healthy dose of fear. For years, all I heard was "Be careful." "Watch out for strangers." "Don't drive on the highway because you'll die." "Don't fail." Is that healthy?

What isn't healthy is that they assume I will purposely put myself in danger, by inviting strangers in, not locking my door at night, jumping off of a cliff... you name it, they thought it.

Tonight's request was not my father's doing. It was my mom coaching my dad from the sidelines. Make sure she has enough travel and health insurance, coach her on the importance of keeping your passport and traveler's cheques close, don't talk to strangers on the train, don't get on the wrong train. They think they are preparing me for life. At 38 years old, I had hoped their job was done. What they don't realize is that by constantly pointing out what I should be doing and how I should be doing it, they are chipping away my self confidence.

Eight years ago, my mother uttered eight words that I will never forget: "You'll never survive on your own without me." Those eight words are engraved in my brain, and however I try to erase them, they remain, sometimes in neon lights. While on the job, organizing my home life, choosing a life partner, paying the bills, looking for my next employ. "You will never survive."

Has it hindered me? Yes and no. Any therapist will tell you if you're told you are one way over and over again, it's often difficult to think any different. I am in a constant struggle to keep those voices at bay. "You will never survive." "Be careful." "Don't fail." "Don't fall." "You will always need me to take care of you." How do I break this cycle?

It's highly likely that I will fail at some point. That is life. You jump in and learn from your mistakes. I just need to feel that it's okay to make those mistakes in the first place. Margaret and Joe need to realize that they have prepared me as much as they can. Otherwise, I will be pre-determined to sit on the sidelines and wonder "what if I fail," "what if I get hurt," what if I can't survive on my own without them."

No parent is perfect. No child is perfect. No one is perfect. Scribe is not perfect and neither are her parents. But, I will always love them.

Oh no, not I

I will survive

As long as i know how to love

I know I will stay alive

I've got all my life to live

I've got all my love to give

and I'll survive

I will survive

I'm sure Gloria Gaynor did not have this post in mind when she first sang this song. It is all about survival though, in love and life.

Apron strings around the world untie!

God, if it were only that easy; to break the cycle, release the apron strings and the years of hurt, drama and tears. You see, I just got off the phone with my archnemesis. Mother. Mum. Mummy Dearest, Margaret.

I know, no names. I really shouldn't, but you see I'm pissed. Pissed enough to write something really, really personal on this blog and out into cyber-space. Maybe she'll see it and rethink how she should interact with me.

It's been a really bad day, bloggers. Really bad, and it all started with a telephone call. I called my dad today for his birthday. He had come over on the weekend to spend time with me while Margaret was at a bridal shower in my hometown, but I could not let the day go by without phoning in my congratulations at reaching another milestone: his 77th birthday. That's when she got on the phone, telling me she was worried about me, about my health because apparently I'm so gargantuan size that I'll keel over at any minute. I will take responsibility for this: I am overweight but when you can't say something positive, don't say anything at all. It almost never has a good outcome. Margaret knows this, has been taught this, but Margaret never follows this rule, all under the guise of concern.

My weight is a sore spot with me, not with other people, only with her, because it's been a constant since I was five. And at nine, 10, 11, 12, 13 and 14 (I was a healthy weight throughout). Fast forward to 38. Always under the guise of concern, she has consistently nitpicked all of my faults: my hair, my make-up (she called me a whore at 14 for wearing eyeliner), my choice in friends, my finances, my house and the maintenance on my house, my relationships and especially my weight. At 30, after I had lost my mother-in-law to cancer, left an abusive relationship and lost a house in the subsequent divorce, she told me I would never be able to survive without her, and that included maintaining a healthy weight. Her answer to bringing to my attention to the last 5 lbs. of the 70 I had lost was to grab my belly and squeeze, saying "Oh Scribe, a little thick around the middle still, I see." Okay, she didn't call me Scribe, but she did grab, and I grabbed back. Literally. Painfully. Squeezing until she stopped. It was my only defence and the only way she would stop. At that moment anyway.

It's fodder for psychiatrists everywhere - a mother who loves too much, who is too concerned all of the time . Before my parents moved out of town and into their next phase of retirement, I had gone on a 20-minute walk from my house to theirs. I was not alone and it was not dark (the streetlights hadn't even come on). She was convinced I was kidnapped. Kidnapped at 35. Six phone calls and a drive-by later (remember, it's only a 20-minute walk, oh but I have to cross the street), and she had relaxed because I was now sitting in her kitchen with my cousin sipping tea. But before that, I was dead. She was convinced. And I can't forget about the time she told me I would die if I drove on the highway, insisting I spend two hours on the regular roads to get anywhere.

So what does this have to do with my weight? My weight is just one part. By bringing up my faults, it's her way of telling me that she's unhappy with my state, the way I look, the way I live and my choices - all of my choices. Her worrying is her defence. "I'm only saying for your own good." It was permissable at 8, it's not at 38.

So, it's time for a surgical procedure - the removal of the steel rod up her ass and the snipping of the apron strings. Get ready, Margaret. You're in for a lengthy, painful recovery and I'm not sure if our relationship will ever recover.

I apologize for the rant. Mummy made me do it.