An Ancient Evil Claims Another Victim

Today I realized that my mother is becoming my grandmother. I don't know why I didn't see it until today; it can't have been an overnight kind of thing. It didn't occur to me when she got the $25,000 a year raise and still insisted on shopping at Aldi's with the food-stamp crowd. It didn't even dawn on me that she may be turning into her own mother when I arrived at her house to find a giant box of bulk dog-training pads taking up permanent residence on her living room sofa. No, it wasn't until today's phone call that I realized that no matter how different they seemed, my mother was in fact transforming into my psychotic grandmother. Diaper pins and carpeted stairs can only be so far away now.

It was early afternoon and Ryan had spent the night up at Doan's house (she calls my mother Doan, long story), as she does just about every weekend. The phone rang, I answered, and it was Ryan. I could hear Mom feeding her lines in the background. Was I awake? Was I dressed? I asked if she was ready to come home and she said no, Doan had told her to call. I asked to speak to Doan and when she came on the line I asked, like I do just about every Saturday when I get this call, why she felt the need to wake me up for nothing. I mean, I'm thirty years old; shouldn't I be able to sleep all day if I want to? Ryan's having fun up there and I have nothing I need to get done today so why do I have to get up before noon if I don't want to? PLUS, I've been sick all week! If being far too old to be woken up by my mother on a Saturday isn't a good enough reason for her not to make Ryan call me, aren't sick people generally granted a little more freedom to sleep than most? Isn't rest what you're supposed to get when you're sick? Her reply? A very huffy "Well I thought you might want to talk to your daughter!"

Great, the guilt angle. But I wasn't falling for it. Because if that were a plausible reason then I should be able to have Ryan call her at 2 a.m. after a nightmare under the assumption that I thought she might want to talk to her grand-daughter. Of course, this argument in my favor didn't go over too well. Now, keep in mind that I said all of this light-heartedly, not confrontationally. I did want her to see that it was ridiculous to call me to wake me up for no reason on the only day of the week I have to sleep in, but I didn't want to start a fight over it. But the next thing I heard was "Well fine. I'll never call you again, okay? Goodbye." Click. She hung up on me.

This is Grandma Dorie behavior. The absolute over-reaction to anything conflicting with what she wants to do at the time, with no reasoning behind it. No reasoning behind making Ryan call to wake me up, and no reasoning behind acting as though I just told her I hated her and was going to put out a mob contract on her. This is disturbingly reminiscent of the time my grandmother confused her pill timer with the telephone ringer and *69'ed me angry that I was prank calling her every day at 3:15. She knows she's right despite any evidence to the contrary and is upset because I refuse to recognize it. Now I have to wonder, when did Mom become Grandma?

When did my braless, hairy-legged, feminist mother turn into the woman who wouldn't pull the alarm cord in her retirement home bathroom after a heart attack because the EMTs would have seen her with her pants down? When did the lady who refused to buy us any cereal in a box decorated with cartoon characters, the promise of a prize, or even primary colors become the same woman who believes that twinkie is a food group? At what time did the woman who kept condoms in the house just so I would have them, at age 14, mutate into the same woman who called me a whore for taking birth control pills? And what does this say for me? If my mother, who has historically been so polar-opposite to her mother, can evolve into her, what hope do I have? My mom's adopted; there isn't even a genetic reason for her to become the woman who raised her. I don't have that hope to cling to since my mother actually gave birth to me. Am I going to start taking notes on cooking shows, refuse to wax my post-menopausal beard, drink three day old black coffee I forgot was in the microwave? What's next for me?

But even more frightening than becoming my own mother is the possibility that if my mother is her mother, then I may become HER. I may become the semi-suicidal shut-in watching Anna Nicole updates and Montel reruns all day. I may someday find myself screaming at the kids in the playroom at McDonald's to keep it down, oblivious to their parents' hostile stares. I could someday find myself, during the family Christmas celebration, yelling at my nineteen year old grandson to keep it in his pants, with NO provocation. I don't want that. I don't want to be that. Hell, I don't even want to be around that, which is why I avoid my grandmother at all costs.

Please, somebody tell me there is hope. Tell me that we are not predestined to become our mothers. Tell me that the evil that is my racist homophobic grandmother will not attempt to live on through me. And if it ever does, tell me that you will kill me then to stop it. This deep ancient dark force, this slave to bodily functions, must be stopped by someone. Promise that if you ever find me, ten years past menopause and five years past a hysterectomy, buying panty-liners just because "they're free after rebate", that you will put the good of the world first and sprinkle cyanide in my sugar bowl.