VENOM

Spitting it out, pouring it out, regurgitating it, at me, full force. Totally uncalled for, totally misguided. Wrong on all counts. Here she is. As expected. Peg, back at it again, twisting the truth to suit her, her mind mixing like the inside of the Cusinart on high speed. 

She has had it in for me since I arrived. Today, hm, let's see, she got mad at me because...

...I wanted to try and locate, in the chaos of her quarters, all the condolence notes and cards that came in so we could answer them before 2020. But no, SHE would answer them! It was none of my business! They were HER cards! (not counting the many addressed to me too, unopened). And it was HER room. I was to stay OUT of it.

...Bonnie never invited HER to her (Bonnie's) Christmas drinks party last December (the one Bonnie did invite her too but she declined).

...I have put her scripts from all her Old Time Radio & TV Convention appearances in very accessible boxes (organized according to date and script title) in the den cupboard, as opposed to the mishmash they were in in her now completely inaccessible (due to sudden appearance of clothes rail and mahagony desk) metal filing cabinet in her "dressing" room.

...I am going to see the lawyer to sort out the will and probate and Daddy's Prudential life insurance policy which is far more complicated than one imagines (well, too complicated for me at least).

...I went out to dinner with old mate David Jenkins on his birthday tonight (and she didn't).

...I am here.

I had arranged for Terri to kindly Peg-sit while I was out. Got back at 10:30 PM to get an earful [SEE ABOVE]. Terri hugged me and apologized and told me how badly she felt that I am treated this way by my mother. I told her it was normal. And it is. It's how Peg works. Loving me, admiring me one second, crucifying all I do the next. I'd like to think it's all because of the trauma of Daddy's recent demise but, nope. Same old Peg, whether Odd's in the next room watching CNN on "mute" or in a box on her desk next to her psoriasis lotion. 
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What the fuck, one wonders, is my mother's problem? It is not JUST dementia.

Why, when I could be home, am I here knocking myself out to make the rest of her life not only pleasant, but possible for her? Had I not leapt in, my mother would be out of funds by now, no question, all the staff would have left and she'd be sitting here on her tod surrounded by twelve hundred new photo printers trying to figure out how to make six thousand copies of fishers and her Gramercy Park apartment for the (rapidly decreasing) Fans of Peg to marvel over.

I give up.
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My son's 27th birthday tomorrow. He's taking his girlfriend Iris to London for two nights. Staying at actress Maureen Lipman's it seems, after his usual mates turned out to be out of town. This is so unbearably kind of her to offer that my eyes are filling. I hope to Christ he brings her flowers or at least walks her Basengi for her.

Denis can't find the "Play" aftershave he bought  six months ago for Alex's birthday. He hid it but now can't find where he hid it. Doesn't matter hugely because I too bought Alex "Play" aftershave, at Nantes airport, two weeks ago, and in front of Denis, in fact Denis stood at the till paying for it--but not of course saying anything like "Oh, wait, YOU'RE getting him "Play" aftershave? But I already have some for him!" and thereby saving us $56...

I give up. 

Going upstairs now to crawl into bed with David Sedaris. Kindle version.