So, My Fucking Mother just freaked out after dinner. She wanted my help deciphering an e-mail she got from her property manager -- again. (Sometimes she says her English is good, and sometimes not. Whatever.) This e-mail was just a reminder to send ... well, something to the now-former tenants of a property my folks own. This e-mail was the latest in a chain of back-and-forths, the originating message of which came from the prop manager stating, among other things, that the owners of this property, aka my folks, need to cover their legal obligations by sending an itemized bill in the wake of cleaning up said property to the tenants. It's important to note that they don't know where these tenants have moved to, but legally, all my parents have to do is send this bill to these people's last known address. The reminder reminds my parents to do it soon.
And My Fucking Mother basically went, "WHA-WHA-WHA-WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?! I didn't know this!!!" Even though I told her two weeks ago about this ... when she showed me that e-mail, the beginning of this thread, because she didn't fucking understand that e-mail either. This should not comes as a surprise to her, but it did because she refused to pay attention. So she told me to e-mail her saying, basically, that ain't my fuckin' problem, I pay you to do this shit.
But My Fucking Mother wasn't letting this shit go. I was sticking around the living room so My Fucking Father could hand me that day's garbage that I would take out to the trash can. It was (and is) thundering, but I was thinking I could get that garbage out there before the rain came. I never got that garbage. Instead, Mother started asking me again about that fucking e-mail. I tried to explain to her that not only was her (as the "owner") supposed to send this mail, according to the e-mail the property manager sent to her, but that I told her this two weeks ago.
And then she started jibber-jabbering. "I'm educating you!" she said. Educating me? You're the one asking me what you need to do! And then she really laid the guilt trip on me. "What happens if we die? What are you going to do then?" Anything that's better than the "advice" you're giving me, Mother. Finally, after more bullshit came spewing out of her mouth, she tells me, in less-than-uncertain (?) terms, that all these properties are going to be mine some day, and I'd better get serious about running these properties. This was a revelation timed for maximum psychic damage (and one I had already figured out, even though I put it out of my mind a lot), even though I have rarely seen any of these properties, even though these interests were and are my parents' and my parents' alone, even though the only exposure I usually have to these come in the form of problem e-mails my parents toss onto my lap because they play the victim because they say they can't understand any fucking English. I'm not going to fucking care about this just because you tell me to fucking care. And really, if they die and I inherit running these properties, goddammit, I'm selling them the first goddamn chance I get.
I had to retreat into my shell, again, just to shut both of them up. (Oh, My Fucking Father got in on the yelling, too.) All I could do was go back to the e-mail; they are going to follow up by dropping by the property manager's office tomorrow and tell them that, for all they know, they as owners just pay them to do everything, including mail these bills to cover their asses. Seeing that nothing else can be done for the issue at hand until tomorrow, they quieted down. And I find safety in my bed, and in this blog, and put out of my mind that, once again, I will need to clean up a mess I had no hand in making -- in the short-term and the long-term.
And My Fucking Mother basically went, "WHA-WHA-WHA-WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?! I didn't know this!!!" Even though I told her two weeks ago about this ... when she showed me that e-mail, the beginning of this thread, because she didn't fucking understand that e-mail either. This should not comes as a surprise to her, but it did because she refused to pay attention. So she told me to e-mail her saying, basically, that ain't my fuckin' problem, I pay you to do this shit.
But My Fucking Mother wasn't letting this shit go. I was sticking around the living room so My Fucking Father could hand me that day's garbage that I would take out to the trash can. It was (and is) thundering, but I was thinking I could get that garbage out there before the rain came. I never got that garbage. Instead, Mother started asking me again about that fucking e-mail. I tried to explain to her that not only was her (as the "owner") supposed to send this mail, according to the e-mail the property manager sent to her, but that I told her this two weeks ago.
And then she started jibber-jabbering. "I'm educating you!" she said. Educating me? You're the one asking me what you need to do! And then she really laid the guilt trip on me. "What happens if we die? What are you going to do then?" Anything that's better than the "advice" you're giving me, Mother. Finally, after more bullshit came spewing out of her mouth, she tells me, in less-than-uncertain (?) terms, that all these properties are going to be mine some day, and I'd better get serious about running these properties. This was a revelation timed for maximum psychic damage (and one I had already figured out, even though I put it out of my mind a lot), even though I have rarely seen any of these properties, even though these interests were and are my parents' and my parents' alone, even though the only exposure I usually have to these come in the form of problem e-mails my parents toss onto my lap because they play the victim because they say they can't understand any fucking English. I'm not going to fucking care about this just because you tell me to fucking care. And really, if they die and I inherit running these properties, goddammit, I'm selling them the first goddamn chance I get.
I had to retreat into my shell, again, just to shut both of them up. (Oh, My Fucking Father got in on the yelling, too.) All I could do was go back to the e-mail; they are going to follow up by dropping by the property manager's office tomorrow and tell them that, for all they know, they as owners just pay them to do everything, including mail these bills to cover their asses. Seeing that nothing else can be done for the issue at hand until tomorrow, they quieted down. And I find safety in my bed, and in this blog, and put out of my mind that, once again, I will need to clean up a mess I had no hand in making -- in the short-term and the long-term.
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