Generations

Much has been said in the family about the transgressions of my dad; he was a drinker, he was obnoxious, he was this, he was that. And at the end of his life he was a shambles of his youthful athleticism and good looks. Thin, hunched, his clothes hanging on him and the worst smokers' cough with emphysema complicating the picture. His lungs fairly floated in mucus. It was so hard to listen to him because as we all know I don't do mucus very well.
But really nothing has been said about my illustrious mum. Why? In my opinion because it is very hard to put into words exactly what her transgressions are. She is so passive as to be a non-entity. Passive to new olympic heights. Passive Agressive. A woman who gets what she wants and accomplishes her minor ambitions by being the biggest black hole of passive aggressive behaviour every seen. The US Open of Passive Aggressive.
A pile of my bills sitting on the countertop in the kitchen. Along with an assortment of her bills and pills. I avoided the pile because literally there is a backlog of bills sitting on my desk. And I just didn't want to bring 'em upstairs for no other reason than I didn't want to....
So she moves 'em closer to the edge of the counter. Every day a little closer. Until they are literally hanging over the edge of the counter. Finally her last bit of daring-do she puts 'em upstairs on a box in the dark hallway where they will never be seen and possibly scattered hither and thon by the cats rambling around.
What's the point? Why doesn't she ask: "Why don't you take this pile of mail upstairs?" To which I would reply; because mom I just don't want to right now.
I don't know why this makes me angry. Because I see her ruse; her attempt to manipulate the situation to suit her for an arbitray idea: Judy's bills go upstairs while my bills can stay downstairs. It is so unimportant this moving of the mail but it is such a big deal to her. Her steadfast belief in the rightness of her small world and its rules. She hates the Russians who have moved into the neighbourhood. And since the 80s, about the time I left the city for parts unknown, there has been a huge influx of Russian immigrants bringing their bakeries and their delicatessans and their restaurants and their love for dogs (they have a ton of dogs; all sizes but mostly big) and their love for the outdoors and their general open good naturedness. This is what I can see on the surface; and she detests all of it. It is simply quite amazing how opposite, how polar opposite she is to the Russian community. She who hides inside all day, never going outside for the simple love of open air and sunlight, sitting inside smoking her cigarettes one after another. They love to take care of themselves (she hates that); love good food, and big jewellery and bigger clothings and boots and yet they take care of themselves; go to the gym, take long walks, hang out talking in the park at the end of the street that stretches the length of the subdivision. Everything that they are, she is not. And you know, my father is a lot like those Russians. He loved the outdoors; he loved being out there, hanging out with people, schmoozing and talking and doing whatever. He did love life when he was younger and the alcohol hadn't destroyed his body and annihilated his personality.