Walking Disaster

The Car

If there’s one thing I’ve noticed in my life, it’s the difference between societal views of “daddy issues” versus “mommy issues”. I’m speaking very much from my own point of view, so I doubt it will be the same for everyone, but for some reason strained relationships with fathers lead to the idea that someone is broken or damaged or an inevitable stripper, yet terrible relationships with mothers are to some extent viewed as not so serious? Don’t worry, I have a half-baked theory as to why: in my socio-economic bracket, white and Californian, stories about batshit crazy moms are usually bizarre or ridiculous enough to be kind of funny. Obviously I’m not talking about the psyche-damaging crazy, like limiting her kids’ food intake for aesthetic purposes, because that’s not very fun or upbeat. I mean the more light-hearted crazy, like not noticing when her daughter moved out until three weeks have passed. And since I just had a very recent reminder of my own mother’s malignant presence, I thought I would dive into Exhibit A of proof my mother is either evil, stupid, or clinically insane. I think it’s better I blog these, because I noticed very early on in my adult life that when I talk about my life and childhood, an awkward silence descends…

This story involves my first foray into criminal life. It all began my first week of college, more specifically on move-in day. Since my parents can’t even be within 40 feet of each other without yelling or threats of bodily injury, and I was about to meet the strangers I was moving in with, I decided to employ my dad and brother to help me move in. My brother ended up being too hungover to be useful, but that’s neither here nor there. Fun fact: the friend who gave me the idea for this post was also there making sure I didn’t just haphazardly chuck my clothes into random ass drawers. I chose these people mainly for logistical reasons — for example, my dad is able to hold more than one box and walk at the same time. You can see how low my standards were. In all my years, I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mom do that, seeing as she really only has experience holding shopping bags and other people’s credit cards.

I had informed my mom, we call her Lucille for obvious reasons, that I was having my dad move me in, and I would prefer if she didn’t come on the same day, so that I could start my college life with my new peers under the impression that I was a well adjusted human, and I knew that if both my parents were there, that illusion would be shattered immediately. She said it was fine, she understood, and we both agreed that she would come a few weeks later for homecoming once I got settled and everything. This was my mistake. I take full responsibility for stupidly thinking she could be a normal and rational being. It turns out, the next weekend when her mood switched on a dime, as is typical for those addicted to narcotics, Lucille decided that the best way to punish me for hurting her feelings was to call the police and claim that not only is my car actually hers, it’s also stolen.

Now, the context is that when I turned 16, she got me a car so I could drive myself around. This car was about four years older than me but it was a solid first car — slow as shit, and somehow cheaper than even Kelley Bluebook’s lowest expectations. But she also got it basically for free, because a friend of hers had a used car dealership (friend here is a stand-in for a dude she friend-zoned in college, and only pays attention to when she wants a new set of wheels). The weird part was, that I was technically under my dad’s auto insurance and figured if the car wasn’t in my name, it would be in his. I realize this is a ludicrous understanding of cars and everything involved with them, but I was eighteen so shut up. I didn’t think I would ever need to know who’s name the car was under, until I found out that it was under my mother’s name and, just to really fuck me over, it was her maiden name. Where did I find all this out? At the police station.

So there I was, trying desperately hard to seem as normal and awesome as possible to all these new faces, when the public safety officers showed up at my dorm and told me to come with them to their office on campus…where the actual police were waiting. And before I even had time to process the situation, cry, and/or shit myself, I was in handcuffs and a police car on my way to the station. Ironically enough, Grand Theft Auto V came out this exact same week; fun for everyone else, not at all fun for me. Luckily, someone at this station knew how to use the internet, because there was no time at all before they figured out the woman who cried “theft” had the same last name as her daughter, the supposed thief, making this a domestic issue at worst, and a legal non issue in reality. A vaguely discernible call to my dad, where he miraculously understood me through my tears, and I was quickly getting the most awkward ride in the world back to campus.

Afterwards the public safety officers, now more confused than before, helped me clean out my car before it could get towed and impounded, and helped take the remains of my stuff to my dorm — thus unintentionally fueling rumors that I got arrested for drug dealing, and the whole matter was considered closed. When I finally did call my mom to scream/cry and ask how she could think that it was within the realm of okay to file a stolen car report against her daughter? And if she knew that I got arrested and traumatized? And if she realized that I could have easily been prevented from getting jobs in the future had things gone even slightly south? Her response was to say that her feelings were hurt from being excluded from move in day and that I was being dramatic because it wasn’t that bad, she was close to campus the whole time “in case she needed to step in.” Which to me, was worse, because it meant she could’ve prevented the situation or stopped it at any time. The fact that she chose not to, and instead had a nice day out to herself, made me feel even worse than I had the entire day. Embarrassingly, it took this moment and that sentiment for me to realize that her reality is not the same one the rest of us plebeians live in.

So there you have it, this was the first, and so far only, time I have gotten arrested, but it is definitely not the last time she brought me into legal trouble (more on that shitshow another time). Unfortunately, I ended up with considerable trauma, terrible coping methods and no car. Fortunately, I had about a solid two weeks of some great street cred at school because all the other students saw me get arrested and thought I was a drug dealer before they got to know me and realized I’m way less interesting than they thought. This was also the first time I stopped talking to her for more than a month. It took about a year to even entertain the thought of being near her and then another six months to consider hearing her non-apology. The only reason I ended up accepting said bullshit apology is, ironically, because my dad thought that’s what he was supposed to support, and because I got expensive gifts from her due to her need to rebuy my love. It’s also important to note that I subsequently re-gifted most of those because she likes intentionally buying me clothes a size too small for aspirational purposes. All in all — everything balanced out relatively fine. Could’ve been better or worse, but on the spectrum of her wildest antics, this ranks somewhere in the top ten. Stay tuned for more fun stories, like hiring an animal psychic or flirting with married men.