Forced Reconfiguration

It was an ultimatum that had a gentle deadline. She said she was not going to plan the wedding, she was too busy. If I wanted a big wedding, I could start contributing to the work. May the Fourth, was the day. Almost half a year away. In the new year, however, she said, “If I travel with you I can only go on half as many trips.” She was correct. At this moment I was down, down on my luck, and not prospecting for big ideas or big jobs. She said a lot of mean things. Practical things. Chilling things. “Do you think you’re mom is proud of her son and his college degree? Can’t even support himself or his kids?” Again, probably accurate, but not helpful. Hurtful. And she didn’t have to be drunk.

Several months after I moved in with my mom (the second time) she commented on a photo I’d shared on Instagram. I honestly thought I had blocked her on every network, every channel, every device, obviously I missed Instagram.

She had pulled a screenshot off a large display of my home alter. And the offending object was a 5″ picture frame that was empty. I found it in a box as I was unpacking from the move. It had a photo of my two kids on the beach.

It was nine months after my departure from her lovely home. A home she purchased with the express purpose of housing my two teenaged kids and me. An instant family. Except there was a problem. She didn’t really want a family or like kids. And my kids, white, affluent, entitled, irritated the shit out of her. She might’ve had money now, but she worked for every penny from an early age. She was outraged at these rich kids who don’t clean up after themselves, they are loud up in their rooms, and they stay up all hours doing who knows what up there. It was a mistake.

The entire thing was a mistake. A massive escape for me, yes, and a momentary feeling of love and being loved. But love was mixed with poison. Her greater love was wine. Bottles of wine from all over the world would arrive in the Virgin Wines box, once a month. 12 bottles a month. That’s not too much, right? A subscription to wine. Okay. What’s my issue?

I sort of stepped into it at this point, so I need to give you a little more context before I shred things.

I was in fact living with my mom at 50 years old. “I’m sure you’re going to write some great things,” she said. We’d connected again through Facebook. And her post about a lost boyfriend triggered a comment from me. Which led to some DMs. And that’s when she sprung her trap. “How about tennis sometime?” I picked up the phone and called.

Over the course of the next 30 days we conjoined, we moved my shit out of my mom’s house into a new rental I had acquired in the same neighborhood as my children. New job, new income, new ability to rent. And she was fantastic, energetic, multi-orgasmic, fun, witty repartee beyond any previous date. And we “launched.” Or, really, she launched me.

 

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