Getting Mellow in My Old Age?

My mother will certainly not attest to that fact - that's for sure. I finally tried to tell her off today at lunch time (she really wanted to drive my toiletries bag all the way down to my office in Sunnyvale - a gesture which was greatly appreciated, mind you) for insulting me repeatedly over the weekend (see last Plague). Of course immediately afterwards, I felt horrible for ruining lunch, especially after she went through all the trouble of delivering my bag. FUCK! THAT'S IT! In writing that last sentence, I just realized the genius of it all! My uncle suggested that she just fed ex overnight the bag, as it's small and I'd get it the next day, and well, wearing only one contact (after ripping one of mine this morning - *grumble grumble* fuckin' Murphy's Law) isn't that bad, but she called me at work and *insisted* that she'd be dropping it off there so I wouldn't have to suffer another day without a pair of contact lenses. There was no two ways about it - she called me up at the lab bench, told me she'd be there as soon as my dad got back from the auto shop, threw in a lot of stressed tones and sighs to give me the impression that it was certainly effort and trouble, all the while insisting it was nothing at all and it was for the best, then hung up, literally hung up on me before I could get a word in edgewise. Why did I feel sorry immediately after that phone call? Because she sounded like it was a strain on her schedule. I immediately called her back, for a quick second had the spine to say "don't hang up on me like that, it's rude," only to immediately lose it, apologize again for making her go through so much trouble to bring me my contacts, and tell her that I'd put off my lunch hour until she arrived so we could at least have lunch together so it wouldn't be just a long drive here and back.
Of course, throughout these past few days, as you can tell, I've still been fuming over the insults of this weekend, and this morning, I was given a bit of advice from the ever-wise Max, whose parental situation seems to be very similar to mine. He told me that maybe I should just have a talk with my mother, really try to explain to her my situation and how I felt offended, instead of just letting it fester like so many other things. And so, I decided that lunchtime would, in fact, be the best place to tell her, since I'd be seeing her, and I wouldn't have to wait until after next weekend, as Jerrod is visiting for the 4th of July. Plus, the nagging wound has really been killing my productivity at work, as it's been keeping my mental processes otherwise preoccupied.
Upon delivery of the goods, I was extremely cordial and thanked my mother so much for taking the trouble to drive my bag which I'd stupidly forgotten all the way down to my office so I could fix my contacts and be able to see again.
She drove me to lunch at a dim sum place nearby - at which I took the opportunity to very politely say, "mom, can I tell you something about what your son did to me this weekend? He basically treated me like an alcoholic. Because of what you called me in front of him." Of course she told me she was just kidding (come now, who wouldn't deny intent if given the opportunity, it's like farting and blaming the dog). Knowing this, I kept on going, explaining "yes, I'm sure you were, but even so, you really should know better than to say that in front of Gugu. He's impressionable, and he'll usually believe anything he hears, especially if it's out of you or dad. It's one thing to insult me, and yes I took that very deeply as a personal insult, but to do it in front of my brother..." I continued to give many of the reasons I'd written about in the previous Plague about why I took the insults of this weekend to such offense, very calmly, very politely, and sans a single profanity (which all of you will note is a feat of extreme restraint, given the generally elevate level of crudeness that anger incites in me). She apologized, and proceeded to explain her reasoning for calling me an exhibitionist - apparently I'd violated one of the unknown prudish rules of the household: covering oneself with merely a towel is unacceptable. I'm still unclear of the details of this rule, as she couldn't be clear with whether or not it was that my brother happened to be playing a video game in the living room at the time, and I'd scar his delicate eyes with my corporal grotesqueness, or that it was the location that was unacceptable, as I'd pointed out to her that the only reason I thought it was okay was because I'd seen her wandering around in just a towel in the laundry room on many occasions before (this, of course, she defended with a lot of "pffts" and strange faces and "come on"s as if I were to understand the implicit acceptability of her towel escapades as opposed to my own).
The "alcoholic" comment - well, she explained to me that she smelled alcohol on me when I came home after my Friday night escapades, and that I burped in front of her. Nevermind that my entire family prides itself on burping loudly in public no matter the occasion. She then proceeded to tell me "hey, I'm sorry, just don't drink too much okay? It's not good for you." As if I hadn't gained a single whit of sense from those fucknut anti-drug and social living propaganda I'd experienced in grade school. It took my having to explain to her that "yes, I think it'll do me more good in the long run to admit to you now that I drank regularly even before I was 21." gasp. shock. I'm Lady_DiSaronno for fuck's sake. I write poems about alcohol. I built an electronic bartender that saved me from certain failure in 6.115. "And what's more, I've only ever puked once from excessive drunkenness. I learned from that 'wow, throwing up sucks, I'll never do that again." I know my limits."
Her response was "oh, I didn't know that. You never told me that. Okay, I trust you more now."
I didn't think, and I still don't think it should've had to come down to that - I think that there are certain givens that you must accept when your child grows up - givens like alcohol experiences and sex and experimentation that you cannot and most certainly should not be there for. And if your child escapes unscathed, and a better, wiser person for it, there's no reason why you shouldn't extend your credit to them until otherwise proven wrong. While I can't say I've never done anything wrong, to my credit, I've never ever ever once called home and ask to be bailed out of *anything* major. Financially, sexually, safety-wise, academically. Nothing. Little things like a forgotten bag of contact lens solution are really all the leashes and ropes they have to yank on at the moment. That, and the one large financial black hole known as "college" that I hope to soon be free of too. That is an entirely different issue. And so, they need to resort to these little things - like driving my bag out here.
I've taken care of myself for 3 years - and while I'm no Martha Stewart, I think there's no need to micromanage my personal hygiene because I've had to add something to the wash once or twice while at home. Hell, I'd do it all by myself, except that having lived under the same roof but 3 years ago, I know that the family does its laundry together in combined loads to save water. Were it not for that, she'd not see a trace of my dirty clothes and sheets altogether.
Once I'd told her that, she immediately conceded more credit, telling me, "oh, I thought you wouldn't have time to do it and couldn't take care of it yourself, so I'd make it easier. Now that I know you can handle it, it's fine. I won't worry about your period anymore."
At this point in the conversation, I was beginning to think that the only way I could ever gain the kind of respect and credit I'm looking for is by essentially divulging my life's story, trials and tribulations, in all its gory detail to my parents. Except, there's got to be a better way - no fucking way I'm explaining my trips to the fetish flea market, and goddamnit, who I sleep with is nobody's business but my own, and I'd like to keep that air of mystique, about me thank you very much. Respect should *not* come with the FAFSA - which is the most invasive piece of government paperwork you can fill out, and the reason my father refuses to let me apply for a government-based loan. Isn't my good word, my past credit history, and my general state of being STD-free good enough to get me a little loan of credit and respect? Admittedly, parenting is hard, yes I know. There is always a worry of when a child will default on a loan of respect, and then well, you've got to drive the car out and pick their drunk ass up from the party. But think of the lesson they'll learn from the bawling out you give them afterwards. Preventative care isn't 100% of the solution - lest you end up as screwed up as my poor cousin is at the moment, and so you've often got to take the risk before you can gain anything in return.
Believe me, at this point, given the choice between having forgotten my vital toiletries bag at home, or having an enema with quick-dry cement, I'd choose the enema. The bag, well, the bag, you see, represents much more than just my vision necessities - it's a vulnerability for my parents to exploit. It's a chain, with a big huge ball of guilt at the other end of it. While I could've easily chosen to spend another day waiting for Fed Ex as a one-eyed jack (after all, being able to see only out of one eye isn't so bad when you're looking through a microscope anyways), my mother insisted that she drive the bag to me - express service from my parents. It's a long drive, a big pain, a lot of trouble to go through, but she'd do it just for the sake my ocular comfort. And for me to so much as attack her - holy shit, only a real ingrate would do that! Why, she drove all the way down here to save me from another irritating day with only a left contact lens and to take me to lunch, only for me to get all high-and-righteous? Hell no, I must be a total jackass.
At least, I sure felt like that when I got out of the car. I thought I was really holding it together - I was firm but polite at the restaurant, I could live with that. But then the topic of my would-have-been trip to Boston came up in the car ride back to the office. My mother told me that the reason she and my father were so dubious and iffy about my trip (with my own money) back to Boston for the 4th of July weekend to visit my friends and for a belated birthday party was because they thought I was originally planning to go in June. She told me that she and my father thought it was a bad idea because I'd have only been working one week before I left, and I'd be missing work, etc. etc. Of course, you and I all know that there was no ambiguity about the date. July 4th weekend had been set since before I left Massachusetts, and I have about 20 people that can attest to that (those who wish to do so can click the "reply" button and post a little bit of home-cooked attesting for my satisfaction, that perhaps someday I may throw it in the faces of those who would argue otherwise like an agitated monkey throwing feces). The reason that weekend was chosen was *specifically* so I wouldn't miss work, and because I'd have enough money saved by then. Nowhere, but *nowhere* did I say anything about the month of June, to which she cleverly argued "but you said 'birthday' so we thought June." At very best, I can only assume that either she and my father were really not listening when I was proposing my idea, and only caught key words to misinterpret, or the word "June" sounds a lot like the word "July," or... the whole argument's full of rhino pee. What leads me to believe in the thesis of rhino pee is the fact that when I asked my father earlier in the month what reasons he had against my going, he said "hey, the less flying you do these days, the better, so we thought maybe your friend could fly over here instead."
Of course, this got me entirely too agitated, and I actually raised my voice in the car, which was extremely unfortunate, because it made my mother feel bad, which in turn made me feel absolutely terrible for losing my temper. I felt like I'd ruined the entire lunch, that I'd been such a dipshit for yelling at her when she was only being wonderful and bringing my much-needed toiletries all the way down from El Cerrito to me. This niggling feeling destroyed my productivity all afternoon, until finally at 4:15 pm, I took my 15-minute employee break to phone her and apologize profusely and wholeheartedly for ruining lunch - I felt so guilty.
Until, I realized from that very first sentence I started writing in the Plague tonight, that she didn't have to. She didn't have to bring my stuff all the way down. In fact, my uncle told her not to, and offered a perfectly viable alternative solution. She chose to. And in so doing, she yanked that chain, that Asian safety plan. If I did anything to her, she wouldn't have to do anything but look sad, because I'd immediately realize that she was all the way over here for nothing but my benefit, and immediately feel guilty for being angry with the person who was doing me the favor.
THE GENIUS OF IT ALL IS ASTOUNDING!
I hadn't realized just the depth to which this entire thing has been bubbling, for 21 years, I'd been oblivious to the sheer genius of the generosity, the favors, and the keenly placed "scheduling" trials. Each and every time I fucked up, even harmlessly, like forgetting my lunch or textbook at home, was a new way to make me feel guilty for even so much as stating a contrary opinion to my favor-bearer.
And to this point, I'd always wondered what exactly it was that I had against being helped. Why, it was, that I have absolutely refused help time and time again from the men that I have fallen the most deeply in love with. But now I know. It's this association that I have with help, and favors, to guilt. It's why I have this devouring need to be a independent, to be an asshole, to be alone - I can't take help without having something to offer in return, or I'll believe the favor will be hanging over my head in the form of power of another person over me. It all stems from this.
I've always wanted to know why it is that I can never let anyone help me unless they need it equally from me as well. And I think that now that I've finally figured it out, I really do owe some of the people in my life a sincere, heartfelt apology, and hope that somewhere, they'll find a way to forgive me, because I've never understood until now, why I've been a lot of the way I am.
Firstly, Jerrod - I know you hate it when I apologize. But this is the very last thing that I need to do, to get this load off my mind: I'm sorry for any of the times that I may have doubted the sincerity of your desire to do favors for me out of the goodness of your own heart. Real love's not made of obligations, and I'm beginning to understand that now. I won't be afraid to ask you for favors anymore - the stupid little things like the car rides, to the bigger things, like asking you to help me sort out the things in my mind that are eating away at me, but I'm too afraid to talk about because I think they aren't things you want to hear about. No more fear, I promise I'll try.
Secondly, Alex - I think you're probably the person I owe an apology to most. For the times we always argued about giving help and getting help - the stupid little shit things like 001 and just plain "talking" that got in the way of whatever we had or could've had. That part doesn't matter now, shit is shit. What matters is that I now know that I was wrong, or at least wrong enough for not being able to see both sides of an argument that we'll forever disagree about, but at least now I know why I see things the way I do, and I hope maybe this helps the both of us understand a little better. Shit, however, is still shit.

It's a subtle thing, the use of guilt without being noticed. I've been told most people are much less subtle about it - and it's true. I've always prided myself on never letting anyone pull that horse crap on me in the long run, and believe me, there has been one who has gone so far as to have convinced one of my best friends to help dump the guilt on me. Fortunately for me, neither of them were nearly so subtle, and I was just considered a flaming arsewad by many who observed my resisting the guilt with an iron resolve (though I must offer some thanks to Jim at this point for having provided me with a number of excuses, including the famous "we're going to do some on-campus testing" excuse, in which he invited me to hide in his office and listen to j-pop and eating microwave japanese food and cookies until the wee hours of the morning when various cretins gave up and went to bed). However, my evasion skills have made me cocky - and in a way, this whole revelation has made me much more aware of the subtleties of a truly experienced player of psychological games. I'm almost grateful for the experience of the past 21 years of love-and-guilt going hand in hand, but I'm glad that I've really started figuring it out at last.

Further bulletins as events warrant.

P.S. In case you readers may have gotten worried that I've gone soft and have started believing in the idea of "trust," you should know that I still hold firm to the belief that really needy women who need their men to take care of them lest they forget to eat, sleep, study, and god fobid, breathe, are worse than castration with that rotating cheese grater that my friend got as a christmas present one year from Crate and Barrel. And believe me, that thing's already hard enough to disassemble and clean when you've only been using it to grate some Asiago for your pasta.
Of course, this too, is probably the independent in me screaming for dear life, but I think I'll let that part scream, just for now. It's soothing in that "fire trucks and ambulances rushing to aid an old man who's fallen and can't get up and used his personal alert system" kind of way.