Chapter 169: Anger Management

So I’m going to vent about something I haven’t vocalized in here for a long time. That is my mom’s younger sister, Thorn, who from this point forward will be referred to as ‘The Mold’. As some of you might know or remember, The Mold moved herself into my parent’s house one weekend when she broke her foot. She took a key from the key rack and hasn’t left since. One time she didn’t come home on a Thursday night, was gone all day Friday and all day Saturday so my dad changed the locks. She was gone most of the day Sunday and then returned to my parent’s house and when her key didn’t work she didn’t get the hint, instead she knocked. I would have pretended not to hear her, but my mom and sister, Beans, don’t possess the empty shell of a heart that I do.

The Mold had been told (okay Dr. Seuss) that she could not stay in the house past the end of May. But when the end of May rolled around she was still there and my parent’s, bless their hearts, hadn’t grown the back bone to force her out. Rather they stayed prisoners in their own home, with an ever growing mold infestation. My sisters and I tried to help our parent’s. We gave them pep talks to help them find the strength necessary to tell The Mold to get out of their home. It became more important to us to get her out when my aunt became sick, and then a short time later died. My dad had enough stress in his life, and then his brother-in-law became sick. The last thing my parent’s needed was an immature 50 year old who has a workout while she’s eating and feels the need to wash a load of laundry every freaking day. It makes me think of this woman at work (the second job) who moves and moves and moves but yet…I can’t tell if she’s done any work. In fact, I doubt she has. So it’s as if The Mold scrounges up dirty clothes, or who knows, takes clean ones, and drags them down to the washing machine every day to emit the appearance of doing something productive.

I need to focus on today, not let the past several months out. So The Mold’s new date of departure is set for September 30…the day can not arrive soon enough. Sisters are excited, but I am skeptical. All I know is what experience has given me and it’s shown me that The Mold gets to stay past her expiration date…festering. So I will believe it when I see it.

In an attempt to move the process of elimination along we decided to redecorate the kids rooms. You may ask why this would help the process. Oh, is that because I forgot to mention that the walking cesspool finds in no inconvenience to her 10 year old daughter to share a bed with her. This woman is a freaking moron. She’s 50 years old and thinks it’s okay to force her ten year old daughter to share a bed with her. So many foul words running through my head right now. The process started two weeks ago, when we painted one of the rooms, and it was to end today when we had the bedding. We switched Spam and Burrito, so we moved furniture and threw out three garbage bags of crap that they won’t even notice is gone. My mom’s job for the day (aside from the obvious one of decorating) was to tell The Mold that she is now to sleep on the couch, and no longer able to torture her biologicals.

I got to the house around 10 to find that my mom and my dad were not there, but The Mold was. So I pull over to the side of the road and call my mom and ask her where she is. She’s at the store and will be home in a couple of minutes. So I keep driving around the block. Setting up mile markers for me should I ever decide to go for a run in my parent’s neighborhood. I have four miles mapped out and saw one heck of spider’s web, could trap a soccer ball no joke. Then I go back to my parent’s house, and The Mold is sitting on the back step. She jumps up quickly when I get there, she’s talking on her cell phone to who knows and apparently doesn’t want me to hear about it. I go through the front door, ignoring the fact that she even exist, and wait for my mom.

Mom gets there and we go upstairs and start cleaning. Mom tells The Mold that she’s got to get her stuff out of Spam’s room because we are going to be moving furniture around between the two rooms. Mold says, “I’m just going to put it on the bed.”
Mom says, “No because we are going to change the sheets.”
“These sheets?” the one celled membrane asks.
“Yeah, those sheets.”
“I just changed them.” She says…not mentioning the fact that she is in fact a walking infestation and she has some form of infection on her back (we’re just lucky Spam hasn’t taken ill).
I just rolled my eyes and again, pretended she didn’t exist.

This pretending thing I was doing wasn’t going to be able to last for long because apparently The Mold is also a freaking hoverer. She comes in to check out what we are doing and so help me I just wanted to punch her in the face and would have if I wasn’t such a germ-a-phobe and scared of getting hepatitis or something. If her standing there wasn’t enough, she would open her mouth and tell how us to do something. To refrain from cursing in front of my mom, I stayed completely silent and with my back turned to her, because if I dared open my mouth I knew something horrible would slip out. I grit my teeth, I fisted my hands until the knuckles were white, I shoved furniture and dropped books harshly on the floor, all in an attempt to be well behaved for my mom.

We were moving the books from Spam’s bookshelf in her old room to the bookshelf in her new room and I found something, I can’t remember what but it was something about weight and I said to my mom, “We don’t want her getting a complex.” She’s ten years old for crying out loud. And the bitch, and I apologize for using that word, but honestly I think you’ll agree after I write what she said, says, “Well, she could probably use a complex.” Spam is a little chunky that’s true, but a complex? Seriously? So I say, with a very stressed voice because I’m trying hard not to even look at her, “I think we could all use a complex,” and my face was leaning in her direction, but again, I can not look at her, I find that I am incapable of doing so. I was referring to her weight at that moment, and when she picked up on it she said something about her weight and I didn’t disagree. I have never ever said something to someone about their weight (this would be a first). You could 300 pounds and I’m not going to bring it up to you because heaven knows you of all people know you’re 300 pounds! Spam knows she’s chubby! She doesn’t need a 50 year old waste of existence…who herself is larger than three of us combined, giving her a complex about her weight. I have never wanted to hurt someone so badly as I did The Mold in that moment…that is until the day progress.

At one point she was trying to put one of those things that babies sit in, they can spin around and play with the toys and mirrors, in the attic. The thing is round, the entrance to the attic (through the ceiling with a ladder) is a rectangle. Math wasn’t my greatest subject in school, but any idiot knows enough geometry (the one with shapes) to know that a circle may have some difficulty fitting into a rectangle. Especially since that circle doesn’t seem to have a thin side, so you can’t turn it and get it to fit in. She’s standing on the ladder, struggling to put it in and not getting anywhere. I call out to her that she may have to take the legs off to get it in there. She says, “If I could just get one of the legs up I think I’ll be okay.” My dad, standing not too far away from me shares much of the same opinions about The Mold with me. We understand each other, because we are both have some degree of intelligence, and can’t help but laugh at those who don’t. Not really laugh out of humor, but out of a, “Really? You thought that could work?” kind of thing. He’s doing the same thing I am, keeping his back turned to the mold and he’s shaking he head. Since The Mold will not listen to me, I continue to talk to myself, and I tell her, in my imaginary world where she listens, that a circle can not fit through a rectangle. Then I tell her that she is making what could be a five minute job into a half hour one. I am saying this aloud, and my dad hears me and laughs. The Mold however continues to think that she can defy the laws of physics, and go back to ignoring her.

She bothers me in so many different ways, but the main ones would be how she asks like a pack mule, or a work horse. Someone says something and she jumps right on it and does it, incorrectly most of the time, as though that’s going to get her more time in the house (I didn’t mention she tried to negotiate staying through the holidays…Hell no sucker fish, ain’t gonna happen). It’s like having a dog that has to be by your side, no matter if it is getting in the way of your walking, or it’s pushing you aside to squeeze into a small space. The dog doesn’t think about how annoying rather than helpful it is being. The Mold has the mentality of that kind of dog…and yet, I think the dog has more value in the end. Also, when you say something, like, “Hey dad, remember that time?” and you go on to talk about something that only the two of you were there for…she says, “Yeah, hm-hmm.” And I wanted to turn to her and say, “No I think that was one of those weekends you wanted to get high and you sent the kids to our house. To be honest I don’t think you remember much of any of the past 10 years.” Cause she did that a lot, for things I knew she wasn’t there for. She’s would be a great empathizer if she wasn’t so full of it.

Another thing that bothers me is how she thinks she right. The time came to put the bedding on the bed. So the first thing would be the bed skirt. My mom and I, I repeat, my mom and I were getting ready to do that, and here wobbles in The Mold. “It’s easier if you do it this way,” she says. I stare at the wood frame of the bed, clenching the bed skirt. She ventures in closer to the room, I supposed not getting a response out of either of us wasn’t a veritable ‘stay out of this’ sign. My Mom and I….again, my mom and I begin to put the bed skirt on. “Mom (she used her real name here), it’s easier if you do it this way.” And preceded to go to the other side of the bed “to help”. I couldn’t look at anyone. You know how sometimes in books people describe the color of the room changing when they are completely angry? Sometimes it’s red…most times it’s red. I feel like the room changed right before my eyes. It was probably a side effect of the blood vessels in my eyes bulging with anger. She tries to help mom, I stand back, mom tells her to do something one way and the two of them get the bed skirt. I leave the room. I went downstairs, so angry tears were welling in my eyes. I tried to calm myself down because I’m pretty sure I have anger management problems. I punch of pillow and try to control my breathing so my dad, in the next room, doesn’t get tipped off that I’ve had it. Then I start to straighten my parent’s movie collection as I tried to suppress the rage surging through my veins.

I let them finish the room, my mom had a new helper and if she wouldn’t tell her to butt out, I’d butt out and not help anymore. So I went and played a computer game for a while and contemplated leaving before dinner. It just wasn’t worth it to me. Then mom came downstairs and we went to the store to pick up some last minutes things. I was calm. We got back to the house and The Mold had settled into the contours of the cushions to watch TV. I went upstairs to help clean up the second room, and the mood I was in made it possible for me to easily throw away a bunch of junk.

My sister (who had my cousins with her all day) arrived home so I got in a spot to hide and take pictures of Spam as she first laid eyes on the room. So that was a success and then we cooked up dinner, which I was ready for because all I had eaten that day were four packs of smarties my mom bought, oh and a glass a root beer. What can I say? Anger makes me lose my appetite. So I debrief my sister and brother-in-law on the many fiascos of the day while we are outside cooking on the grill.
Then we get inside and the table is set and I wanted a hamburger which was on a plate at the kids table so I grab my plate and go get one. I come back and The Mold is setting her own plate in my spot. I say, “that’s my spot.” Loudly, and everyone heard except the burn out. I was going to move to the other side but my sister-in-law said, “Sit by me.” Which is what I would have been doing before my seat was stolen. So I stand there, by my spot and wait until The Mold returns and I say more clearly and with my hand on my hip, “Uh, that’s my spot. I was sitting there, that’s my seat.” I said it several different ways in case she couldn’t understand the first few. She laughs and says, “Oh, that explains why there was no plate there.” You think? I mean honestly, a completely set table and somehow the person who set it forgot a plate? Not likely moron! She always does that! She thinks that somehow we’re idiots and forgot a plate so she always goes to get a new one, and no one wants her putting the clean plate back because who knows what nastiness is embedded into her skin and now rubbed off on the plate?! *breath*. So she moves to the other side of the table. I set my plate back where it belonged and then I realize my side of the table only has two chairs. So I give mine to my sister-in-law and she’s saying, “Oh no, you don’t have to.” And I say, “There’s one here in the kitchen, so it’s no big deal, I clear it off and use it.” I clear of the chair and there’s The Mold in dog mode, and she grabs the chair to take it into the dining room. I’m thinking she’s “doing her part” I walk into the dining room and she has taken my chair for her own! She didn’t put the chair in my spot, she put the chair in her spot. She took it! The freaking thief! My sister-in-law gives me this wide eyed look like, “She just took your chair.” Damn right she did. So I say, “My chair!” of course again, she didn’t hear it. My sister is laughing hysterically probably because that just set her over the edge and she realizes that someone in the house is about to die (and for a second she even thought it was her when I came at her she flinched and jumped behind my dad). So my mom mentions we have a folding chair upstairs. The Mold goes to retrieve it and I go outside to calm down (really need that anger management class). I sit outside and tell myself not to overreact. Then when I feel up to it I go back inside. The folding chair is in my flipping spot! The wench didn’t even trade the chairs. So I come in and sit in the chair and I’m sure I looked pissed off because at this point I had completely had it and my sister starts laughing again and runs out of the room (this is when she flinched and jumped behind dad because I took this opportunity to leave the room as well). Then I come back in and sit down. I forget what happened, but someone took something else from me and my sister said, “Tough day, first your spot, then you chair, now this.” I wouldn’t even look at The Mold who was sitting right across from me. I actually ignored her so well throughout the rest of dinner that I can’t recall her being there for long.

She just aggravates me, I thought I should state that since I don’t think you can pick up on it. If she is not out of the house at the end of September I am boycotting my parent’s house, and my sister said she will too. I mean, my mom knows I’m a brat, I told her today that she made me this way, so she only has herself to blame and she agreed.go