The phone rang in our house all the time, day and night. This is why shrinks use an answering service—or maybe, in this day of cell phones, their voicemail—so clients can't reach them directly. Because everyone thinks their problem is the big problem and time is no object.
Initially, to protect Mom during business hours, I answered the phone calls. Yep, that was before answering machines and voicemail. Hard to believe we lived like that, but once technology offered a solution, I was off the hook (haha). Mom preferred an answering machine long after voicemail was commonplace. When times were flush and her career at a high point, she had a secretary with her own office space to take care of calls. But most of her life, she worked from home and on her own.
My mother's most loyal clients were people that needed frequent hand holding. They'd come for a counseling, get the information, go home, and then call her again. What was it she said? What were they supposed to do? Was it really going to be like she said? Did he/she/they really feel that way?
There is nothing in this world more painful than love gone bad. No one more emotionally desperate than a person who still loves someone and cannot have them. When you feel that isolated, cut loose from your illusion of happiness and control, you will grab at anything to stop the freefall. Lots of us find self-help books or therapists or good friends or family to support us through this time. But how much more seductive and hopeful is it to have a psychic that can predict what will happen, who will tell you that it's all going to be okay, that he/she will come back and give you a happy ending after all?
Which brings me to the dilemma my mother often faced: that of telling someone it wasn't going to work out or that the beloved was not their soulmate, or even their final relationship in this life. It was amazing to see how clients could twist or ignore what Mom actually said and create a consoling alternate version that fit their desires. When their delusion met reality, of course, there was serious crash and burn and they'd be back for another counseling.
"I told you he wasn't going to agree to that," she might say. "He's already moving on without you. I'm so sorry, but I can only tell you what I see—I can't make things happen."
Bingo. That's the crux of the issue. Being a psychic isn't being a wizard, there isn't magic involved nor any spell casting or love potions that will force a fading love affair to rejuvenate. But we want it so badly, we're deaf to good intentions and solid advice and blind to all but our heart's pain-wracked whimpering. We'll try any kind of mumbo-jumbo, believe in any sort of arcanery, if it will just give us hope for a while longer. Most of us see the truth in time.
Do we have free will? Can we change the future? If I knew, I'd tell you. As I've mentioned before, my mother was good at comparing possible paths and their likely outcomes, as she saw them. But she couldn't do anything to change what she saw.
"If I tell you that, should you turn left, you will be in a car accident...then you can choose to turn right and avoid it," she'd say. That would indicate a lack of predestination, a situation where free will trumps fate. But if you want to make yourself crazy, you could say that coming to her and receiving that advice was also predestined, thus avoiding the car accident because you were fated to avoid it. We used to have these circular conversations, but I'm not sure there were any hard conclusions. Who knows? (Only The Shadow knows, would be Mom's response. That's a generational reference, look it up if you don't get it.)
On the other hand, Mom was convinced that people go out of their ways to meet their deaths. She "saw" time and again how someone would defy the odds to be in a certain place at a certain time to make that happen. So are our lives really fluid, but our deaths set in stone?
Even the clients who got good news about their romances would return frequently for reassurance. Sometimes the outcome was way down the road, and they just needed to make sure it was still coming. It was always gratifying to hear from a client when things turned out well, as predicted; all of us enjoy a little appreciation of our work, and a psychic really lays it on the line to make these kinds of forecasts. I couldn't do it, it freaks me out. But Mom could.
Once in a great while, she would scold a client for not listening. She would reiterate her advice and tell them to pay attention or stop wasting her time. She would endure their crying and complaining and desperate phone calls—and then she would say, "I'm done. I can't do any more for you." My mom was ethical about these situations. She needed an income like anyone else, but she wasn't going to soak a client who wasn't getting any benefit out of her insights.
If there's an irony to this situation, it's that my mother was as fallible as her clients. Especially with one relationship, which she clung to long after it was obvious to all of us that it was over and done. As her daughter, she pulled on me to counsel her, read her cards, tell her what was going to happen. And, like her clients, she brushed aside what I had to say and kept hoping.
We're just not ready for the destination until we've completed the journey. Even then, it can really suck.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
All Night Craps
My mother resisted growing older with all her might. She gloried in her younger days, when beauty was more important than the brain she hid under all that flaming hair. She loved being impulsive, daring, naughty—and she loathed anything that compelled her to accountability, like budgets or rules or authority. If she'd been born in my generation, she might have been a hippie who did art, drugs, rock and roll, and palm reading. Or maybe not, since she absolutely loved high-end designer fashions, expensive shoes and purses, and really good liquor. Not something a hippie would aspire to.
Because my mom was Peter Pan with female plumbing, there were plenty of times I acted the part of Mother. I looked after her, did her errands, cared for her when she was sick, let her cry on my shoulder. I'm talking about her in her prime and me from about 10 years old and up, not in her dotage!
Point? Perhaps it's no surprise that I could be a priss-pot about my mother's behavior. I cringed when I saw her partying, dancing, drinking, flirting... maybe some of that's normal for any kid who sees their parent(s) "being cool" (as if!). Some of it was well-deserved, too, because Kay was one loose cannon full of herself and that always worried me. Consequences were more my thing than hers.
One of her great enthusiasms was gambling. OMG. It's too bad my grandparents sold off their piece of the Las Vegas Strip back in the day, because my mom would have had a blast running a casino. She could have sashayed around in flashy clothes, maybe done a little cabaret, had personal power and minions, a nanny for her kids, and lots and lots of nightlife, her favorite. Las Vegas would have appealed to the cowgirl in her, too, when she felt like trading sequins for a pair of good boots and a cadillac with horns.
It seems natural, given her personality, that craps was her game of choice. She didn't have the patience for poker and she poo-poo'd blackjack; but she loved the high-wire thrill of a craps table.
When my husband and I moved back from the UK to California, Mom had a boyfriend who owned a place at Lake Tahoe. We all loved the natural beauty: the smell of pines, the blue icy lake, the rising Sierras. Mom would buy summer flowers and we'd fill up huge containers on the deck with pansies and lobelia. It was like camping with benefits, fresh air and campfires and bathrooms and beds. But, of course, there were also casinos, right over the Nevada line.
I remember one night in particular. We had dinner and then hit the casino for a little fun. My idea of gambling, just so you know, was $30 worth of coins for the slots. I was happy as a clam to sit there, drink the free booze, and pull the arm. (These days, the slots are digital and you push a button and somehow, it's just not the same.) My husband had a flurry with blackjack and roulette, then he was pretty much done. After a couple of hours, we were ready to head home—but not Kay. One aside, in case you don't know this: drinking alcohol at high altitudes can knock you on your butt. A couple of free cocktails and I was woozy enough to sit down outside. We waited. And waited. Finally, we gave up and caught a cab home. My mom's boyfriend decided to hang with her, which ended up being until the wee hours of the morning. To our astonishment, Mom won $9,000 (fyi, that's the equivalent of more than $40,000 today) and was officially escorted from the casino to her car so no one would rob her on the way out.
I'd love to say it was Mom's psychic abilities that allowed her to win all that cash, but it wasn't. She might feel good or bad about a particular roll ahead of time, but in general, she was just hog wild, laughing with her fellow players and sucking up Scotch and water. Otherwise, she would have made a whole bunch more money. She did had a flair for commodities at one time—that's a blog for another day.
When our friends, J and B, decided to tie the knot in Las Vegas, they invited Mom and I to attend the ceremony. Mom had counseled them over time and predicted that their romance would blossom and J's career would take off—both of which happened—so they loved her to bits. We sometimes stayed at their place in LA. (They're still happily married after all these years and doing very well.)
The night before the ceremony, we cruised the Strip, had a lovely dinner, and went back to our hotel. It was pretty much a repeat of Tahoe, with different actors. I was sharing a room with my mom and turned in around midnight; the wedding was taking place at 11:00 the next morning. I didn't sleep well. Hours passed and my mom didn't appear. I tossed and turned. The sky paled and still her bed was empty. I thought of calling the manager. I didn't, though, because I knew where I'd find her: still standing at the same craps table I left her at the night before.
I look back on that event and wonder, why was I such a wet blanket about it? She was a grown-up, she had only limited funds and credit, so she couldn't get herself in too terribly deep, and it wasn't my problem if she looked like hell at the wedding. But when she dragged herself in around 6:00am, haggard and stiff from bending over the table for hours, I scolded her the way she scolded me when I was 18 and out all night with a boyfriend! Why did I bother? Why did I take that stance? Why was I such a party pooper?
I can only think that it was my job. One, ironically, that my mother assigned to me at an early age and who then became the victim of it. Growing up, my brothers referred to me as "the little Mom"—and that was no compliment, I can tell you!
She was so vibrant, so restless and hungry and impetuous...and the more she was that way, the more responsible and guilty and afraid I became. I needed stability but I wasn't getting it anywhere. Her marriages fell apart, her romances imploded, her finances soared up and down, and she still rode hell bent for leather through life. Sometimes I got swept along, giddy with luxury, indulgences, risk. You can't live beside a flame without wanting to stick your fingers in it at some point!
And, to use another metaphor, you also can't help but get tarred by the same brush.
I've never been the thrifty long-term saver that my brothers are. I may have been the ant to my mother's grasshopper, but my own legs were plenty long, too. I lived impulsively, romantically, without a plan. I didn't buy life insurance or invest in a 401K or consider saving for a mortgage. I craved stability but couldn't seem to find the way to achieve it as my own marriages and romances imploded. Even now, I tend to go for long periods trying not to spend, and then go on a shopping spree and feel guilty afterwards. The difference being that my expenditures are probably 15% of what my mother's would have been.
She never set aside anything for the future, for a rainy day. Not even her own funeral costs. She worried sometimes as she got older, wondering how she was going to make ends meet, but she also never stopped working. She knew retirement was not an option. She had windfalls, often just at the right time. She also had financially generous friends and clients, bankruptcies, and the luck of a...well, I don't know what. Something very lucky.
Worrying about my own life as the economy hits the crapper and I get older and less employable, I sometimes draw upon my mother as an example and an inspiration, ironic as that sounds. She believed that, as long as she was alive and had enough currency to stand at the craps table of Life and play the game, that was all that mattered.
I know how she felt.
If she were here, I wouldn't scold her. Not one bit.
Because my mom was Peter Pan with female plumbing, there were plenty of times I acted the part of Mother. I looked after her, did her errands, cared for her when she was sick, let her cry on my shoulder. I'm talking about her in her prime and me from about 10 years old and up, not in her dotage!
Point? Perhaps it's no surprise that I could be a priss-pot about my mother's behavior. I cringed when I saw her partying, dancing, drinking, flirting... maybe some of that's normal for any kid who sees their parent(s) "being cool" (as if!). Some of it was well-deserved, too, because Kay was one loose cannon full of herself and that always worried me. Consequences were more my thing than hers.
One of her great enthusiasms was gambling. OMG. It's too bad my grandparents sold off their piece of the Las Vegas Strip back in the day, because my mom would have had a blast running a casino. She could have sashayed around in flashy clothes, maybe done a little cabaret, had personal power and minions, a nanny for her kids, and lots and lots of nightlife, her favorite. Las Vegas would have appealed to the cowgirl in her, too, when she felt like trading sequins for a pair of good boots and a cadillac with horns.
It seems natural, given her personality, that craps was her game of choice. She didn't have the patience for poker and she poo-poo'd blackjack; but she loved the high-wire thrill of a craps table.
When my husband and I moved back from the UK to California, Mom had a boyfriend who owned a place at Lake Tahoe. We all loved the natural beauty: the smell of pines, the blue icy lake, the rising Sierras. Mom would buy summer flowers and we'd fill up huge containers on the deck with pansies and lobelia. It was like camping with benefits, fresh air and campfires and bathrooms and beds. But, of course, there were also casinos, right over the Nevada line.
I remember one night in particular. We had dinner and then hit the casino for a little fun. My idea of gambling, just so you know, was $30 worth of coins for the slots. I was happy as a clam to sit there, drink the free booze, and pull the arm. (These days, the slots are digital and you push a button and somehow, it's just not the same.) My husband had a flurry with blackjack and roulette, then he was pretty much done. After a couple of hours, we were ready to head home—but not Kay. One aside, in case you don't know this: drinking alcohol at high altitudes can knock you on your butt. A couple of free cocktails and I was woozy enough to sit down outside. We waited. And waited. Finally, we gave up and caught a cab home. My mom's boyfriend decided to hang with her, which ended up being until the wee hours of the morning. To our astonishment, Mom won $9,000 (fyi, that's the equivalent of more than $40,000 today) and was officially escorted from the casino to her car so no one would rob her on the way out.
I'd love to say it was Mom's psychic abilities that allowed her to win all that cash, but it wasn't. She might feel good or bad about a particular roll ahead of time, but in general, she was just hog wild, laughing with her fellow players and sucking up Scotch and water. Otherwise, she would have made a whole bunch more money. She did had a flair for commodities at one time—that's a blog for another day.
When our friends, J and B, decided to tie the knot in Las Vegas, they invited Mom and I to attend the ceremony. Mom had counseled them over time and predicted that their romance would blossom and J's career would take off—both of which happened—so they loved her to bits. We sometimes stayed at their place in LA. (They're still happily married after all these years and doing very well.)
The night before the ceremony, we cruised the Strip, had a lovely dinner, and went back to our hotel. It was pretty much a repeat of Tahoe, with different actors. I was sharing a room with my mom and turned in around midnight; the wedding was taking place at 11:00 the next morning. I didn't sleep well. Hours passed and my mom didn't appear. I tossed and turned. The sky paled and still her bed was empty. I thought of calling the manager. I didn't, though, because I knew where I'd find her: still standing at the same craps table I left her at the night before.
I look back on that event and wonder, why was I such a wet blanket about it? She was a grown-up, she had only limited funds and credit, so she couldn't get herself in too terribly deep, and it wasn't my problem if she looked like hell at the wedding. But when she dragged herself in around 6:00am, haggard and stiff from bending over the table for hours, I scolded her the way she scolded me when I was 18 and out all night with a boyfriend! Why did I bother? Why did I take that stance? Why was I such a party pooper?
I can only think that it was my job. One, ironically, that my mother assigned to me at an early age and who then became the victim of it. Growing up, my brothers referred to me as "the little Mom"—and that was no compliment, I can tell you!
She was so vibrant, so restless and hungry and impetuous...and the more she was that way, the more responsible and guilty and afraid I became. I needed stability but I wasn't getting it anywhere. Her marriages fell apart, her romances imploded, her finances soared up and down, and she still rode hell bent for leather through life. Sometimes I got swept along, giddy with luxury, indulgences, risk. You can't live beside a flame without wanting to stick your fingers in it at some point!
And, to use another metaphor, you also can't help but get tarred by the same brush.
I've never been the thrifty long-term saver that my brothers are. I may have been the ant to my mother's grasshopper, but my own legs were plenty long, too. I lived impulsively, romantically, without a plan. I didn't buy life insurance or invest in a 401K or consider saving for a mortgage. I craved stability but couldn't seem to find the way to achieve it as my own marriages and romances imploded. Even now, I tend to go for long periods trying not to spend, and then go on a shopping spree and feel guilty afterwards. The difference being that my expenditures are probably 15% of what my mother's would have been.
She never set aside anything for the future, for a rainy day. Not even her own funeral costs. She worried sometimes as she got older, wondering how she was going to make ends meet, but she also never stopped working. She knew retirement was not an option. She had windfalls, often just at the right time. She also had financially generous friends and clients, bankruptcies, and the luck of a...well, I don't know what. Something very lucky.
Worrying about my own life as the economy hits the crapper and I get older and less employable, I sometimes draw upon my mother as an example and an inspiration, ironic as that sounds. She believed that, as long as she was alive and had enough currency to stand at the craps table of Life and play the game, that was all that mattered.
I know how she felt.
If she were here, I wouldn't scold her. Not one bit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)