Because Of You

I went to the kitchen to get a piece of ham and some Pepper Jack cheese. I melted it on top of a microwave beef burrito and glanced across at my mom on the phone, waiting to yell at some customer service rep over a miscalculated health insurance bill or the poor attention she received at Macy's last night while returning Anne Klein pumps ("Can't you see these are brown, not Taupe!") and I waited for the buzzer. As long as I focused on the prize, that buzzer letting me know my mouth was about to be filled, I could go into a trance and not take on the intensity. Only Costco frozen delights could protect me from the petty, pissed-off rage of an un-fullfilled little girl who just wanted to be the Disneyland Mermaid and got stuck being a mom, union worker and adult.

When Mom got home from work it was always the most intense, the most angry part of the day for her. She hated her job and when the eight hours were over it was time to make someone else pay. As long as we kept the house clean from the garage where she parked her $950 a month Lotus, through the laundry room she passed to get to the mail holder, we were fine. She'd find a bill or an ad or a letter from a distant relative letting us know her brother was back in jail, or that our great Uncle in Germany was found dead in the shower with an empty bottle, and that would get us off the hook for that first hour when her mind was a boxing ring. She'd call someone and take it out on them, and I'd take it out on something with toasted, cheesy, buttery bread.

The sooner she’s off the phone the sooner I can turn the kitchen TV on. My favorite show is almost over. I’ve never missed a single episode of MTV’s The Grind, a dance-off for people my age. I will never look like these people and I will never be go to Lake Havasu for Spring Break, but this is show is a supreme pizza of major wackoff material. When no one is home later, I will move into a room with a bigger TV than the one in the kitchen that sometimes shuts itself off when we turn on the microwave. I won’t be disturbed later by a shorted fuse or a small screen where a girl with short hair and a tank top could pass for a boy. There is nothing worse than realizing mid-session that you’re turned on by the unclear gender.

“You people are chickenshit!” She screams and winces her small, bright blue eyes.

She takes off her glasses, sets them next to her car keys listening to see what the insurance representative will say next. Whatever she says makes mom more angry, and before hanging up she says, “If I knew I’d be talking to a gang member I would have asked for a supervisor!”

She smells my burrito and pork combination. “What the hell are you eating?”

“Just a snack before dinner.” I mutter, sort of ashamed. She walks toward the stairs shaking her head.

“Lee, I need Sizzler tonight,” She says and walks up to her bedroom to change into sweatpants. "I’m under a lot of stress.”