Chapter Fourteen: Exodus Part Two

While my mom was out stalking the local hookah bar like a wolf prowling about a flock of sheep, I remained consumed with anxiety in my room. When these maternal freak outs occur it becomes difficult to concentrate on anything other than how infuriated I am. I wasn't feeling as imprisoned, as I was frustrated that my mom did not see my side of things in what I felt was some pretty compelling argumentation. I was asking for a pretty unreasonable favor in many respects.

Once my mom got home from her stakeout, she came into my room and charged me with disrespecting her in front of her friends. The way I saw it, there were plenty of opportunities for my mom and I to work out a compromise. My mom took the hard-line on tobacco use, despite the obvious hypocrisy in the smoking breaks she would take during our argument.

Some insults were exchanged. For some reason, my mom and I used our familiarity with each other as justification for the way we were berating each other. Sometimes it's just easy to be the roughest with the people you know best. I just couldn't resist pointing out all the little lies my mom likes to tell in order to manipulate situations and people's perceptions of her. Of course she denied all allegations like an expert psychotic. As if she would ever admit to flaws in her method.

Things started getting feisty. Some of the quips we got off would have made the hosts of MTV's hit Yo Momma quiver with the severity and magnitude of our mutual scathing. My mom demanded possession of my cellular phone. But the last time she took my phone she proceeded to call all my friends and try to extort information that would preferably result in a permanent grounding or police involvement. This was not something me, nor any of my friends, wanted to go through a second time.

I denied her request, making clear that we weren't going to have a repeat catastrophe on our hands. Then she came at me, grasping for my cell much like a crack addict would go after his stash. With some basic defensive maneuvers I was able to keep my moms grubby hands off my phone. I felt justified in taking a stand, my mom can't be the community watchdog mom. Such attempts at surveillance and prohibition never, ever work.

My mom was stunned that I wasn't simply handing over the phone. She tried to hit me a few times, but in my mom's middle age and femininity, her jabs did little to accomplish the desired effect. My mom was becoming more frustrated than I was. She was fuming, about how she gives up so much so I can have things, and I'm so ungrateful. Probably true, but just feeding, clothing, and housing someone doesn't give you the right to harass them. Not to mention, I did have other offers to go live someone, where I could be someone else's 'problem.' But of course my mom would never allow that.

Her frustration culminated as she stomped upstairs to go cancel my cellphone's service. She told me I could give her my cell phone, or get out. So I got out.

Out the backdoor, and sprinting across a backyard. I knew my mom was likely to call the police so I took off as fast as I could toward my friend Stephanie's neighborhood. After dozens of vaulted fences, I found myself navigating a log that was laid upon a shallow, but bitter-cold creek. Had I slipped off, it may not have been life threatening but it surely would have sucked balls.

I managed to exit the small woods area, and immediately began running toward Stephanie's house. It was the coldest night of the year; I had two pairs of pants, four layers of shirts, gloves, and I was still a bit nippy. My toes were the worst though, in my classless sneakers and thin cotton socks. I couldn't really complain though, life doesn't exactly reward those who run away from their parents. I was definitely no exception.

I arrived at Stephanie's house, but my mom had made good on her threats-my cell had been disabled from the T-Mobile network. And so I had to go on a stakeout of my own. It was getting to be late in the evening and I could most assuredly not just knock on Stephanie's front door. Her parents would never allow me to spend the night without questions and confirmation from my mom. So I watched, and I waited.

I tried throwing my gloves at Stephanie's window a few times, or peering through windows to get her attention. It was pretty creepy, and as time wore on, getting very desperate as well. After what was roughly an hour and a half I managed to get Stephanie's attention. By lying on my stomach on her deck, and peering through a tiny crack in the window. She came over and opened the door. She understood the circumstances of my situation and offered up her room as a place to post up for the night. After a few more minutes to make sure the coast was all clear, we moved swiftly and silently to her room, where I immediately hid in her closet. Better than hiding in some bush outside, getting frostbite.

I was exhausted and passed out withing a few minutes of laying down. But apparently closets aren't designed to be good beds. With my legs curled up the whole time so the door could properly shut, my sleep would often be interrupted by vicious Charlie horses. My half-awake thoughts generally went as such: Nothing like taking a nice stretch to....oh wait, I'm hiding in a closet, and my mom probably has the police looking for me.

Then things really kicked up. My mom started calling my closest homies, but soon focused in on Nick. She had his number from my cellphone bill. Her calls awoke him from his sleep and she announced her intentions.

"I know Andrew is over there. I know your parents aren't home. I already have the police involved so it's best you just put him on the phone and let him know I'm on the way."

"Patty, Andrew isn't here. My parent's are here, they're just asleep. It's 1 a.m."

A few minutes later, Nick was again awoken. This time by the door bell. My mom was outside his house. Another phone call.

"I'm at your front door, and I know you and Andrew are inside. Just put Andrew on the phone, I know your parents aren't here."

"My parents are just sleeping, like normal people do at night! The reason no one is answering is because it's so late! I'll go put them on the phone for you, if you don't believe me."

Nick got his parents to talk to Patty, and inform her that I was not, in fact, hiding in their house. My mom returned home, momentarily defeated. She then called Fairfax County Police and notified them that I was a missing person. (How come I never got an Amber alert?)

I woke up the next morning to the sound of footsteps. Stephanie's parents were awake, and they were moving around. Every step could potentially be one more step towards my discovery, and the subsequent complications that would arise. It didn't help that Stephanie's Labrador smelled my presence, and the scent of my dog on my clothes. Stephanie's dog was frantically trying to get into her room, and Stephanie's mom knew there was a pretty good chance there was someone in her room.

Stephanie's parents confronted her about whether or not she was hiding someone in her room. To Stephanie's credit, she fiercly denied the accusation and succeed in keeping her parents out of her room. As soon as her parents retreated to their own bedroom, I was down the stairs and gone. My phone had been reactivated and I called my dad for him to come pick me up.

He said we were gonna go for a drive and have a talk. There were uncomfortable conversations ahead, but that was to be expected. I was still trying to make sense of exactly what had happened the previous night. My memories were getting foggier by the minute, shrouded with emotional clouds. It had been a hectic twenty four hours. The time had come to give in.

Chapter Thirteen: Exodus Part One

I've said it before, when parents say they want you to be honest, they just mean they want you to do what they tell you to. Like when the United States says they want the Iraqi's to have an honest and open government, they really just want the Iraqi government to do what we want and give us exclusive oil rights. So one night a few months ago I found myself trying to be honest with my mom. My friends Tyler and Nick were over and we thought we'd like to have a relaxing sesh at the local hookah bar. I knew that the bar didn't have very strict standards for checking ID, so getting in wouldn't really be an issue. And even if they asked for ID I could always just...well, leave without buying anything.

My mom was having a few friends over that night, and if anything, I assumed she wouldn't mind getting me out of her hair for the night. So I went through my exercise in honesty and fired away.

"Mom, Tyler, Nick, and I are gonna go to the hookah bar, alright?"

"Nope. Absolutely not. It's illegal. Girls (referring to her visiting friends), what do you think?"

Friend One: "Well, if it's illegal then you shouldn't go."

"Well actually, it's illegal for them to serve it to me. It's alright if I buy it. They're the ones who would get in trouble. So why can't I go?"

"Because it's illegal. As a mother, I can't allow you to go do something illegal. If my friends and I come with you, you can go."

"Well fine, even if it is illegal, if a cop walks in to the hookah bar I'll take the possession of tobacco charge."

Friend One: "Why would you even want to risk it, Andrew? It's illegal you shouldn't go."

Friend Two: "Andrew, you're under eighteen. What if you get shot at the hookah bar? You'll be a minor so you won't be able to sue the hookah bar."

I should have known then that logic, reason, and basic risk calculation would not work with these people. But I fought on.

"Well, just because it's illegal doesn't mean it's bad. They used to have laws that black people and white people couldn't get married. That didn't mean they were good laws or that people should follow them. Even if I break the law at the hookah bar, nothing is going to happen. And I'm not going to get shot at the hookah bar."

Friend Three: "Andrew! I'm offended you would make such a racist comment!"

How do I even proceed at that point? I retreated to my room to plan out my next move with my friends. Tyler had seen far too many nights like this end in accusation and yelling, so he called his mom to come pick him up. He explained that we had asked Patty to let us go to the hookah bar, and he didn't think the night would end well.

We decided to ask if my mom and her friends wanted to accompany us to the hookah bar. Unsurprisingly, they declined our offer. My friend Luke had also been looking to hang out that night, preferably at the hookah bar, and was on his way to my house.

Tyler's mom arrived shortly thereafter. At nearly the exact same time as Luke. She decided that Tyler and I needed a thorough lecture on how we weren't yet eighteen and had to obey our parents. Conveniently enough, Luke began calling me, wondering whether he should come inside or not. Tyler's mom was starting off her lecture, so with Luke on the line, I just stuck my phone in my pocket.

What followed was a fifteen minute lecture about how I'm the dumbest smart kid around. About how I'm not eighteen and I need to take things easy and keep an eye to the future. And about how once I'm eighteen I'll be free to do all sorts of wild and crazy things because it won't be my parent's responsibility. She talked about Tyler and I's long friendship (I've known him since his birth) and personal substance abuse issues. And from the cell phone in my pocket, Luke got to hear all of it.

I agreed with most of what she had to say, but I also said that it's ultimtaly my life and my decisions to make. I just have a different point of view on some of the calculated risks in my life. She mocked the fact that I said everything is a calculated risk, just being alive means you live with the constant risk that you could die at any second.

When Tyler's mom finished her advice laden speech, I got away and took my phone out. Luke was busting his ass laughing, he told me he had heard the entire conversation that had just taken place. By then, Nick had had enough of our petty squabbling, and given his 18+ age just went to the hookah bar anyways. Nick was familiar with my mom's ways, and getting away from the brewing mess in my house was surely an appealing thought. But my mom's taint on his night would not end there.

After Nick left, my mom decided it was time for a Special Edition Patty G. Investigative Report. She went to the hookah bar so she could go check things out, talk to the owner, see how things are run. Basically, she was looking for ways to ruin all the fun.

Nick met up with his own group of friends at the hookah bar, relaxing, blowing rings of smoke. And on the coldest night of the year, he saw my mom standing outside the hookah bar window. Just standing there, staring at the people inside. What was going through her head is anyone's guess. Maybe she thought by standing out in the frigid night observing the operation of the hookah bar would reveal some enlightening aspect of parenting to her. Perhaps she could somehow figure out a way to shut down the hookah bar, and all the other hookah bars of the world. That way she could keep her precious son sheltered from all the negativity out there, and he wouldn't even have to make choices for himself. The fact of the matter, regardless, is that my mom was standing outside in single digit temperatures, watching teenagers, arab families, and other patrons at the hookah bar all for no apparent reason or objective.

More of that night lie ahead. It wasn't yet nine o'clock. There would be more strife to come in the hours that followed. But the rest is...

...to be continued.

Chapter Twelve: K-9

It was mid-September, 2008. My mom and I were still testing each other out. Patty G. was unsure of how far I would go in my recknlessness and rebellion, and I was unsure how far she would go in her efforts at being a normal parent. In the this mutual process of testing each other's waters a tension had fallen over the Gray home. It was a stalemate of sorts, both of us eager to find some excuse to hop out the trenches and drop artillery shells of acusation and yelling in each other's ears.

One afternoon, I hear my sister, resident canine lover, blurt out,

"We're getting a new dog!"

I was puzzled at my sister's curious emphatic outburst. It seemed we'd already got enough on our hands with Charlie, the infinite-energy wonder dog. Hell, with Charlie, we practically got three dogs for the price of one. Although dogs are clearly superior pets, did we really need another slobbery mouth to feed and more poop to scoop (specifically, more poop for me to scoop)?

Well, it's not like my family is known for rationality or thinking things through in its decision making. If it was, this blog would blow pretty hard. I had to see what was going on. If we were buying a new dog I wanted to know why, given that my student loans were (and still are) fast approaching. So I inquired my mom as to this alleged new canine member of our family unit.

"He's a drug dog."

Not many other statements have the ability to afflict such fear that I felt in that moment. I think I pretty well hid the fact that I right nearly dookied a shooter then and there. There are numerous constitutional tricks criminals can utilize, when questioned, to side-step even the most senior law enforcement officers. But if a drug dog sniffs something on you, you're toast. My mom says I squirmed like a fish out of water. Having a drug dog in the house could be a major setback to my extra-legal activities.

With this dog in the house, I wouldn't just be sleeping with the enemy. This would be like a Jew cozying up with Hitler, Goering, and the rest of the S.S. after a long day of crunching numbers and analyzing profit margins; he might as well have pre-heated the oven while he was at it. While using dogs to do law enforcement's bidding is a cruel manipulation of nature's beauty and dog's innocence, many a smoker knows that it sure is effective. And there was still more.

"His name is Toker. He's a retired police dog."

Toker? Seriously? At least I could get a chuckle out of all this. And still...

"Mary-Anne and I are starting a business where we search kid's rooms for an hourly fee. We're gonna be rich!"

Well, that's just excessive. If I was scared of a drug dog in my house, imagine the victims of these room searches. I could imagine some Johnny B. Goode coming home to a yelping dog and the sight of his stash swirling down the drain. And chances are that this Johnny B. Goode wouldn't have the balls(/stupidity) to challenge his parents, and would probably end up 'voluntarily' enterring some rehabilitation program to ease his deeply troubled, subrban-minded, and probably white, parents. Chances are if you have the means and are willing to dish out $200/hour to have some odd woman take a retired drug dog to your child's room, you're probably uptight and white. And there's probably something else wrong with you, too. Hint to parents: there are better ways of handling these things.

Even my dad had to throw his hat in on this one.

"You guys don't even take care of the one dog you have now. And your mother thinks you can take another? Man, you better not let that dog in your room (chuckles)."

These were still the times before I viewed everything my mom said through the lens of her cumpulsive lying. If this dog was actually coming to live with us, I had to be prepared.

Option One: sprinkle bits of contraband everywhere in the house. Obscure places, literally everywhere. This way the dog would bark at everything, and would be unable to acutely identify my stash. Potentially effective, but also potentially expensive.

Option Two: try to disable Toker's olfactory nerves in a way that would not cause pain or otherwise harm him. No dice, there's no known procedure that does this.

Option Three: 'Accidentally' run Toker over. This has some obvious ehtical drawbacks.

Option Four: Feed Toker some of my homemade brownies. Maybe he'd realize everything he's been missing out on, and revert to non-compliance with my mom. Even if it didn't work as I intended, it would still be a loving funny sight to see.

I would have time to mull this over. The dog wasn't coming until Thanksgiving. Allegedly. I filed away the drug dog in the back of my mind. I had more important things to stress about in the meantime. But Thanksgiving came and passed. That's not to say our Thanksgiving passed quietly or uneventfully by any means. It was nearing Christmas and I had to find out what my mom was really up to.

"So when is that drug dog coming?"

"Are you kidding? I made that up to see how you would react. And it worked! You freaked out. Why would I actually get a drug dog?"

"Are you kidding? Here's a better question: why would you actually lie about getting a drug dog so you could see how I reacted? One of these actions is definitely much more manipulative and crazy than the other."

Stuff happens. I don't know what else I was expecting on this one. The frustrating part was that she went through so much effort, fake phone calls even, just to convince me that we were getting a retired drug dog named Toker. Toker, for Christ's sake. The best part is that the whole thing seems totally normal to me now, in context with the rest of my mom's behavior. Just another day in the office, you know.

Chapter Eleven: Bankruptcy

It started a few years ago. New Digimon action figures had just rolled into KB Toys, so I went to check on the bit of birthday cash I stored in my underwear dresser. But all I could find was tighty-whiteys. I could have sworn I had a twenty tucked away in there somewhere. Eh, no matter. I wasn't yet a slave to money, and the only practical value of a dollar was getting two ice cream sandwiches from the lunch line.

I got older and the dollar amounts grew in significance. Nothing too major in terms of dollar figures, though, and still in small enough amounts to notice when there was some missing paper. That curious phenomenon happened a few more times; twenties disappearing when I couldn't remember buying anything. So I decided to ask around.

"Mom, did you borrow any of my money?"

"Yeah, sorry, I took a twenty. I'll get it back to you next Wednesday when I get paid."

Thanks for letting me know ahead of time, I thought to myself. If you really needed a quick spot of cash you could just ask. It's not like I'm in your family and would be glad to help or anything. I wonder, what other things does mommy take without asking? And so the distrust began to linger.

Flash forward to the fall of senior year. I've got Roth IRA retirement dreams. I was formulating a plan to set aside money so I could retire on time, and retire in style. No mall walks for this geezer, I want to be riding in pure Italian luxury. I knew that now was the time to start planning for the future, and in a proverbial blink of an eye I'll be sixty five. And when I'm sixty five I know I'm going to want to live for myself and my family, not for debt, the government, or some corporation.

But I still had forty eight more years to go. And in the meantime my parents, or at least my mom, determined that in my drug-addled state I was incapable of managing my own finances. So they went repo on my ass and confiscated all my cash, thinking I would just squander it all on herb. Because squandering it on the useless material treadmill of Target and Wal-Mart is so much better.

The school year was young and I wasn't in the best position. My parents thought I was on the verge of meltdown. I still had some things to prove, so I let their redistribution of property slide. But I found the spot where my mom tucked away the hundred plus dollars in cash she had nabbed. I checked in every now and then to make sure my nest egg was still waiting for me.

Flash forward again, this time to Thanksgiving '08, and I'm cashing in from my hours at Maggie Moo's. We've got some relatives from Ohio staying with us who want to do the whole tourist thing in DC. I was killing time in my room when my mom came to me with an apparently earnest plea.

"My paycheck might be a little late this week, would I be able to borrow some money to take our relatives into DC?"

"Yeah, how much?"

"Just a hundred."

"Sure, that's fine."

My mom had been keeping me restricted to the house lately and I saw an opportunity to earn a night out.

"Since I'm doing you a favor by lending this money, do you think I could spend the night at ____'s tomorrow night?"

"So you're calling it a favor?" shes says, almost shocked.

"Well, I am lending you money."

"I was just lying about needing to borrow money. I just wanted to see if you were spending all your money."

Did she really expect me to simply make all of my funds her private money well? This is the twenty first century, and with kids liable to sue their parents she's lucky I wasn't even charging interest. And the whole time she was just trying to manipulate things, construct a small web of lies to see where it got her. I was surprised she had revealed her strategy of lying. She was basically holding up a giant sign saying, "Don't believe anything I say anymore." Whatever, that was her mistake, not mine.

Skip to Christmas time. I was worrying about how I was going to pay for college. Apparently the United States was (and still is) in a recession, but my parents still had their jobs. There was no evidence of any scarcity under the Christmas tree this year, with ample presents as usual. Being male, middle class, and white is the shit.

I got an iPod video, not bad, I do listen to a bit of music. On the other hand, I didn't have a car so I wasn't sure an iPod would get too much use. With probable student debt just months ahead, why not get a start on saving a bit? My mom didn't mind the idea of putting away a little cash either, and approved my idea that I could exchange the iPod for cash and tuck the money away. So I went to the Apple store the next day and cashed in. But there was a little hang up.

My mom had bought the iPod with her debit card. So the money from the gift exchange just went back to her debit card balance. When I got home, I told my mom that the money had been restored to her checking account, and that it would be great if she could get that cash to me soon. She said she'd gladly oblige and I would have cash-in-hand shortly.

Predictably, I had no way of ensuring her promise. Plus, no one likes getting constantly hassled about money, so I didn't pressure my mom about the affair for a few days. But a few days later, after the events of Chapter Two, my mom was pissed. Real pissed. She informed me that I wouldn't be seeing any of the money from that iPod exchange. Great.

I understand that I am in no way entitled to any Christmas presents, but to single out a single family member is just disrespectful. I don't raid my mom's bank account because I don't approve of the new purse she got for summer. I wasn't counting on being denied that pretty substantial sum. My frustration escalated when I checked in on the cash my mom had taken earlier in the year and found it missing. Now I was down two pretty large sums of money.

My mom had deprived me of roughly $420 in total. I asked her when I could expect to see this money, if ever. She got very defensive, insisting that I didn't appreciate her enough. Anyways, I wasn't in any position of power so I had no choice but to let it slide.

I don't really count on seeing any of that money. I can't wait to get out of those house and I don't have to worry about the constant potential threat of my mom raiding my funds. Until then I'll just have to be a bit more fiscally conservative.

It may just be wishful thinking, but man it would be nice to get a check from my mom for $420. What sweet subtle revenge that would be.

Chapter Ten: Andrew Crosses the Rubicon

For those of you who don't know, I'm avidly involved in my school's debate team. The topics inevitably discuss some aspect of government policy. To many in the general citizenry, these debates are snoozers, spiritless, and stale. But in this complex world of cerebral chess via argumentation, I am in my element.

Accordingly, I pursued my love for debate to the limits of nerd. Every summer of high school I attended a debate camp so that I might hone my mental quickness, creative jests, and word economy. This past summer it was the Whitman National Debate Institute (WNDI) at the prestigious Whitman College in Walla Walla, Washington. Despite the uncanny name, the WNDI was one of the better camps for high schoolers in the country. Off the bat there was a high pressure to succeed. These people would more than likely be my competition on the national circuit when the time came. I immediately began to size up the competition.

Most of the people there could be described in one phrase: "pseudo intellectual." Although, there were still a fair amount of intelligent, funny, interesting people at the camp who were legitimately interested in humbling acquiring knowledge. The reality is that most debaters there were talkers. Swift talkers who really, really liked to talk about themselves. Especially frustrating were the pretentious hipsters. These 'renegades' of American culture, they liked to assume airs of superiority as they broadcasted idiotic dissertations about Nietzsche, the economics of energy, and the otherwise intellectually stimulating. Their conclusions were most often false, obvious, or unoriginal.

As the first few days of the camp unfolded, I was able to simply sit back and let the others expose their own weaknesses. I was content with staying quiet and absorbing information. There was nothing I liked more than letting others talk circles around themselves, then going in with the scalpel of efficient argumentation and systematically dismantling and discrediting their talking points.

He who is prudent and lies in wait for an enemy who is not, will be victorious. - Sun Tzu, The Art of War.

As I rapidly gained more confidence in my own debate abilities I was overlooking crucial errors I had made in other sectors of life. I was in for a rude awakening.

One day, going through the usual email rituals an unexpected email from my mom caught my eye. The subject line sent my heart racing.

Where did the “pot” in a white folded piece of paper on top of the freezer downstairs come from?

How could I have been so careless! In those days, just months ago, I was woefully unprepared to handle my mother's powerful convictions. I felt ashamed of my behavior and compelled to acquiesce to my mom's decisions. Things have changed a bit since those days. The following is the rest of that day's email dialogue with my mom.

"i tried it after we got back from lithuania. i didn't like being in that altered state, and i haven't done it since."

Where did you get it?

"someone from work"

How did you smoke it, and with whom? Also, this means you were driving my car with this in your possession from work to home?

"Out of a joint, by myself. It was after Tyler left. And yeah I drove with it."

This cannot be correct because there was not a “joint” in the piece of paper, only loose pot. More important, don’t you know this is illegal and that I can personally have your license pulled. So, to avoid this happening, I want you to tell me truthfully what happened and I promise you it will go no further, not even a mention to dad about this. I am not stupid Andrew. I just want you to be truthful with me.

"I guess I just left the loose pot lying around. The reason there was no joint was because I smoked it. (DUH! -added later) I know it's illegal but I also felt the need to experiment. It wasn't with Tyler, it was one night when ____ and ____ were spending the night. I didn't like it, neither did ____ or _____. I told _____ about it, and before I tried it I talked to _____ about it and she didn't recommend it at all. _____ wasn't very happy and I regret it."

Okay. Well, go and have a good day!

First lesson, honesty fails as often as it succeeds with parents. Second lesson, be more careful. Third lesson, my mom has the ability to go from crazy to seemingly normal in seconds. This could prove tricky to handle.

This is when my mom first started to really getting a footing in terms of controlling my decisions. My mom was now suspicious of these afformentioned friends, despite their spotless grades and disciplinary records. To make matters worse, my mom began to associate potential drug use with my recent break-up, an association that led her to assume that the next logical consequence would be the rest of my life getting flushed down the toilet.

Hell hath no fury like a mother scorned. To my mom, this was her mandate. This is why she was justified in aggressively curbing back my privacy. Her nosiness, her rummaging through my things, her monitoring of my text messages were all there simply to help me. Yes, because I was the one with a substance abuse problem. I could just imagine my mom taking deep relaxing drags of her Marlboro lights between raiding my dressers for evidence of my wrongdoings. Not to mention memories of my alcohol-scented father dispensing family wisdom between sips of beer.

It's better to have loved and lost than to be stuck with some bitch for the rest of your life. -Ken G.

My self-destructive lifestyle was clearly evident in my rock bottom grades and unhealthy friendships. I was obviously letting malicious friends pilot my life and influence my every decision for the worst. My mom saw me as no more than a slave to chemicals.

Well, actually, I had well over a 4.0 at that point, and my most influential friends give great risk-averse advice. But I guess it's easy to confuse the two when you're so bent on reaching a foregone conclusion that it blinds you to anything else.

Chapter Nine: Intermission; or, The Calm Before the Storm

As of now my stories have all taken place in essentially the same time frame: elementary school up to the first few weeks of high school. From the start of high school until this past summer, nothing major happened with my mom. Yet, since this past summer, things have escalated worse than ever before. The following is my account of what happened between the two extremes.

At fourteen years old I was poised to take a swan dive into mediocrity. I didn't see any sort of notable future in front of me. I was untested, intimidated by the growing importance of each passing day. I could throw AP classes and commitment to the dogs for all I cared. I wanted to retain that buoyant and carefree spirit forever. The approaching concerns of maturity and college yielded to present idleness and leisure.

On the humorless side of things, my closest friends were experimenting with harder and harder drugs and I was rapidly falling into the gravitational fringes of their influence. Back then I was content with mild experimentation (at least by my standards) and my friends' behavior profoundly concerned me. These were people who I could identify with intellectually and emotionally, and here they were, with pills and powder, doing the kinds of things that could instantly shatter a child's naivete.

Imagine an alternate Andrew G: age 17, lazy and unmotivated, penniless and eager to attend the prestigious Devry University in the fall of '09. That would have been far out, man. And that's where I was headed. Most people don't realize how easy it is to throw everything away. But the fates had something else in store for me. By virtue of pure chance, my two closest friends were caught with an illegal substance just hours after I had been with them. When my mom learned about my freshly busted friends, she banned me from ever seeing them again. And so at one of the most critical points in my life, circumstance made my decision for me.

I joined the debate team and toned down the malice a bit. Getting away from some of the chaos allowed me to maintain a tenuous respect for my schooling. I was aware that I had no idea about the trouble I could have been getting in to, and mild boredom was a much more appealing prospect than addiction.

By the midpoint of my sophomore year I was taking my academic life pretty seriously. It was then that I became cognizant of the extent of my gifts. I actually wanted to challenge myself, to see how far I could push my potential. Further, I was in place to make consistent runs at the state championships for debate. I was even mustering up some self-confidence after a few failed attempts at kindling some puppy love.

By no means was I some momma's boy during this span. I got into mild trouble now and then, but my parents pride and faith in me were constant. I was a devious one. Practical jokes, drinking, general dickery. We all know boys will be boys.

Junior year was a blur of infatuation and hard work. Luckily, most of the school work came to me easily and freed me up to do other things. One lengthy relationship and a few bouts with depression later, I lusted to bask in best life had to offer. As a new bachelor, I didn't have to worry about pleasing anyone else but myself, and my actions reflected it.

The summer after junior I learned to let it all go. It didn't come all at once. Not even close. Every day became a struggle to find a clear meaning in life. It took some pain and self-respect, but I got there. My attachments to things that didn't matter, my crippling self-hatred, and my irrational social inhibitions crumbled before the emerging new me.

It was this past summer that I re-united with those friends whom I had been banned from those years ago. Our paths had split markedly over these three years. Still, the circle was complete. Believe it or not, despite high risk activities, these friends had averted total disaster. They helped me get in touch with myself. But this time around, I had enough self-control to avoid their 'alternative' lifestyles. I could pick and choose the best advice they had to offer while avoiding the pitfalls of shameless indulgence.

Under this reawakening, I was beating the drums that would soon awaken a sleeping giant. My attempts to celebrate my freedoms and humanity were on a collision course with those antiquated ideas my mom had of me. I was unknowingly playing with fire over a powder keg. As coincidence would have it, this perfect storm of polarized people culminated in what is now present life.

Chapter Eight: The Fundamental Theory of Patty G.

The daughter whines to her father, "You messed up my childhood!" And the father says, "How could I, baby? I wasn't even there."

Although the temptation exists to conceptualize my mother as a terrifying and malicious Minotaur, the reality is that my mom is a human being. She has real feelings, rich years of experience, and her own unique worldview. My mom did not always embody the emotional distance and fear she presently exhibits. Actually, I distinctly remember that I was once incredibly attached to my mother's presence. In the most basic terms, I'm going to explain how we got from point A to points W, T, and F. The following represents my attempt to break down my mother's psychological chronology, from birth to present, with the purpose of better understanding the riddle of my mom's psyche.


Her birth came in 1959. She was born in the epitome of small-town America, Laconia, New Hampshire. She was the product of a hardworking, hard-drinking jackass and a homely Lithuanian-speaking girl. She was the first of four daughters in typical New England working class family. However, I have reason to suspect my mom began suffering from a very early age.

In the words of her best friend, my mother's biological father was the "meanest man [she] ever met." The details are cloudy, but it's obvious that things were bad for my mom from the start. I know her dad liked to hit the bottle, and probably the women as well.The fact that my biological grandfather was out of the house by my mom's tenth birthday does not bode well for the circumstances of her childhood. Neither does my mother's reluctance to reveal details about her family during that time in her life.

I see my mom as blaming herself for her broken home. Parents rarely effectively shield their children from the contagious self-hatred that brews in dysfunctional families. My mom was in the proverbial thick of things as the social delusions of the 1950's reached a boiling point.

School life wasn't much better. My mom attended Catholic school from kindergarten to the start of high school. Anyone with older Catholic relatives knows that those nun's had acquired a ravenous taste for corporal punishment. The nuns would get you when you least expected it, too. My mom once recounted how she lived in such a state of perpetual fear that she once wet her pants in class. That little stunt didn't go over too well with Mother Superior. It cost my mom quite a bit of flesh and dignity at the expense of an extensive paddling. Not just any ordinary paddle either. It was one of those paddles with holes in it, to make the paddling motion more aerodynamic, so you could really put some zest on it.

These first ten years of my mom's life were surely a nefarious nightmare to those of us accustomed to basic respect for human rights and dignity. These days, teacher's who paddle for fun wind up in jail real quick. Further, these ten years passed with the cultural revolutions of the '60s in the ever looming societal background. As my mother went through the motions of poorly disguised emotional abuse, she saw an entire nation's youth rebelling against authority. Yet here she was, confined to strictly enforced norms and expectations.

While the first decade of my mom's life was marked by the presence of a distant, angry, and abusive father figure, the rest of her years had no father figure at all. By the time she reached high school, the flamboyant counter-culture rebellions had subsided and my mom had yet to experience the love of a supporting male figure. My mom entered her most impressionable years without any idea about how a healthy intimate relationship should operate. Like many young women, my mom likely suffered from a low self-esteem. Her odious father was certainly no help either. This seems like a predictable recipe for a potential future of physical and sexual abuse.

But my mom did not follow down any truly dark paths. In fact, she supplemented her fatherly void with attention from boys during high school. Apparently, Patty G. was quite the cutie in her teen years, because she went through boyfriends like toilet paper. Her primary criterion for selecting a boyfriend was how nice his car was. She was a bombastic teen unto herself, and predictably received considerable flak from her mom and step-dad for it.

At 18 she moved to northern Virginia, where she's worked various paralegal and law clerk positions since. She met my father in the early 80's and the two dated and traveled for nearly a decade before they decided to settle down. My father surely saw something in her. And as far as I can remember, my mom was quite normal up until her and my father split up.

So how does all of this culminate in the Patty G. we all know and love today? Well, when my mother and father separated my mom realized that my sister and I would inevitably end up favoring one parent or the other. My mom wanted to be sure that it was her we turned to if it ever came down to choosing between parents. It was this simultaneous awareness and fear that drove her first attempts to manipulate me. My mother began to tell me that my father didn't care about us, that he had new girlfriends, and more important things to do than visit or provide for his kids.

I wouldn't be surprised if my parent's marital issues had drawn distant and painful memories out of repression. As I matured and drugs, sex and alcohol became bigger and bigger blips on the radar, the only guideline my mom had to follow was her own experience. The only lesson she learned was that pain is the best motivator. Fear and suffering were acceptable methods of coercion. You do what your told because your parents are always right.

My mom's signature trait is her compulsive lying. She'll manipulate facts, omit details, or even construct entire webs of lies. Whether she's talking to me, my dad, a friend, or a cop, my mom has a distinct aversion to presenting an objective view. It's because she has a need to control things. She's been making up for the agonizing lack of control she experienced as a child with any means possible. My mom thinks that she knows what's best, not just for me and my sister, but for my father and her friends. So what's the problem in some white lies to get them pointed in the right direction?

Yet the more she tried (and continues to try) to control me, the more it backfired. I saw the fear behind my mom's attempts to attach herself to me. She wanted me to be her precious son forever. The closer she forced us, the more uncomfortable I felt. The more I understood myself, the more I understood my mom's motives. And the less I respected her questionable parenting techniques. I want her to be happy, but she needs to realize that to be truly content she cannot be contingent on other people's lives.

I wonder if when she looks back at painful childhood moments, my mom feels the anger in her parents eyes more heavily than the fear in her little heart. Because she certainly does not seem to identify or sympathize with my side of things. She may remember the pain she felt, but she doesn't see me in that same light. She sees my lifestyle as the harbinger of everything that brought down her family: chaos, mischief, disdain for authority, dishonesty, and distrust.

It's as if she wants me to let her down. She's still looking for something to hate, something that will fix her shattered past. She thinks, somehow, what she's doing now is making up for lost love. But my mom just doesn't have perspective on her actions. My mother has no equitable standard gained from experience. In her misguided struggle to feel loved, everything is expendable. The worst part is I want to help her, but she refuses.

Chapter Seven: Turkish Thanksgiving

Ever since 1621, Americans have been celebrating Thanksgiving. What better way to celebrate our ability to exploit colored peoples than to gorge ourselves on the fruits of their labors? Beats me. Every year, Thanksgiving for my family usually means going to an aunt, uncle, or grandmother's house for typical gluttony. But the Thanksgiving of eighth grade year was different. I sought to expand my horizons.

Upon an invite, I asked if I could have Thanksgiving with Kerem's family this year. I was pleasantly surprised when both my mother and father obliged. I was excited to meet someone else's extended family, something I'd never really done. Kerem and I had grown into really good friends, and I felt this was the culmination of our friendship.

After quite a bit of effort spent trying to button my thirty inch pants around my thirty three inch waist, I was off to Kerem's adorned in some decent semi-formal attire. My mom dropped me off at Kerem's row home, asserting she'd be there to pick me up later.

I was under the impression that this Thanksgiving was going to be a simple gathering at Kerem's. Maybe a few of his relatives in the area would drop by. However, the plan was for me to tag along with Kerem's family and attend a relatively larger party at Kerem's aunt's house. It was roughly a twenty minute drive, nothing major. Actually, I was excited to meet even more of Kerem's relatives.

As soon as we arrived, I could tell things were going to be good. As I waded through Kerem's affable olive-skinned relatives I was delighted at how they embraced me. Despite the fact that I was one of only two white people there, I encountered smiling faces and engaging conversations universally. Plus, there was an abundance of succulent American and Turkish dishes. My already constricted tummy would have to wait for freedom. Kerem and I had even brought our skateboards. We got in a few good hours of hardcore ollies and extreme power slides.

By the end of the night, I was overcome with an encompassing feeling of joy - great food, great people, and I even got to skate some. We headed back to Kerem's house, and as expected, it was time for my mom to come pick me up.

"How was Thanksgiving with Kerem's family?"

"It was real fun. We spent most of the time at his aunt's house, though. I met a lot of his relatives, they were really nice."

"Wait, you went to his aunt's house? You didn't tell me you were going there."

"I didn't think it was a big deal, we just went there and came back."

"Why didn't you tell me you were going to his aunt's house! You lied to me!"

"I didn't think it mattered! It was just his aunt's house! What's the big deal?"

"It does matter! You lied to me! You never told me you went to his aunt's house!"

"Why's it such a big deal?!?! It was just his aunt's house!"

"BECAUSE I SAID SO! I'M YOUR MOTHER! AND YOU LIED TO ME!"

I couldn't comprehend her anger. I had a lingering feeling all through that day that my mom would see traveling to Kerem's aunt's house as fishy. I never acted on it. I didn't see the need to. My mistake, apparently it was a pretty big issue to my mom.

I was incredibly irate. I explained to my mom that she was beyond logic at this point. How could she be so upset over something so trivial? There was literally no objectionable point to me going to and from Kerem's aunt's house. Yet another yelling match over something completely avoidable. Fantastic. My mother and I both went to bed that night with bitter hearts; both of us stubbornly bent on the idea that we were each in the right.

The next morning, she recanted. I think my dad may have talked to her about her outburst, as well. She admitted she had stepped over the line. So what if I had gone to Kerem's aunt's house without explicitly telling her? I wasn't intentionally deceiving her, or trying to hide anything mischievous. We made up, timidly hugging.

And so things went back to business as usual. I didn't know at the time, or I just wasn't read to accept, that business as usual would include incidents like this on the regular for years to come.

Chapter Six: Andrew Walks Home

My idea of fun has changed a bit since the start of high school. Presently, for better or worse, I'm not usually satisfied anymore unless I'm pushing the envelope in some fashion. Without going too much into detail, just know that I like to flirt with the boundaries of my comfort zones. In contrast to how far I've come, at the dawn of my freshman year my lifestyle was a bit more deferential and placid. Whereas now, where even weekdays are susceptible to any number of mischievous shenanigans, my ideas about fun back then were contained to uncomplicated trips to Wal-Mart.

And so there I found myself on an uneventful Wednesday, early in freshman year, home alone after school. Kerem called. He wanted me to accompany him and his new Indian friend, Akash, to Wal-Mart. I could have stayed home and played Runescape in the basement, but hanging out with friends on a weekday was unheard of - simply too good of an offer to pass up. Kerem's grandfather picked me up shortly afterward.

Our trio was thus complete: me, Kerem, and Akash. We meditated on life's pressing issues. Finding dates for homecoming as freshmen, karate lessons and whoop ass, and other boyish matters of concern. However, one issue dwarfed all others; we needed to get some poster board from Wal-Mart, pronto.

Not that big of a deal, really, just about a mile and a half down various main roads through the heart of suburbanized northern Virginia. We made the trek with ease, and Wal-Mart was stocked with ample amounts of standard white poster board. We made another curious find as well. Flimsy, plastic Darth Vader masks, for about ninety cents each.

Just for kicks, Kerem put on the Darth Vader mask, whilst Akash and I put down our hoods so they covered our faces. In the midst of a massive disillusion that we were somehow bad ass Sith-looking motherfuckers, we began accosting Wal-Mart employees, James Earl Jones voice impression included. The reactions we drew validated my suspicions. We just ended up looking like a couple of regular lameass motherfuckers.

Retrospective embarrassment aside, we had fulfilled our goals. The time had come to return home. The sun was beginning to set, but we still had plentiful time before darkness set in. The walk back to Kerem's house was routine, and it was about time that my mom came and picked me up.

During the ride home, my mom posed the normal fair of questions.

"So what did you guys do?"

"We went to Wal-Mart."

"Oh, how did you get there?"

"We walked."

"YOU WALKED?! It's dark outside! You could have been hit by a car!!!"

"Well, it's dark now, but we walked back nearly an hour ago. There was still light out."

"I can't believe you walked to Wal-Mart! Cars can't see you, you could have died!"

"Well I didn't get hit by a car. They have sidewalks for a reason, mom. Chill out."

"DON'T TELL ME TO CHILL OUT! DO YOU WANT TO WALK THE REST OF THE WAY HOME?!?!"

And that was it. My 'crime' was walking to Wal-Mart during well-lit daylight hours, sticking to sidewalks, and obeying traffic signals. If I was going to get yelled at for doing nothing wrong, then I was going to let my mom know she was being absolutely ridiculous, oppressive, and deranged. I let her know how I felt.

But as we all know, families are hardly democracies. My mom followed through on her threat, something she scarcely does. My insubordination was rewarded with the joy walking home.

As I began hoofing it back to my house, I dialed up some friends. I needed to share this experience, I wanted to know if I had acted out of place. After all, had I seriously just been kicked out of the car because I walked to Wal-Mart? I called my dad, and he was none too happy with the situation. Unfortunately, his parental jurisdiction was limited on this quaint weekday evening. Retribution would have to wait.

Ironically, the path from the place I got kicked out of the car back to my house was longer, darker, and in a shadier neighborhood than the route from Kerem's house to Wal-Mart. Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire. If my mom was honestly worried about me getting hit by a car before, she didn't show it. According to her own perverse logic, she would apparently risk me getting hit by an auto just so she could make a feebleminded point.

Frustration and hypocrisy at their finest. I still felt I was right, that my mom was behaving in an uncalled for manner. Whenever I bring up teenage rebellion in class, Mr. Monteverde always says, "Without hypocrites, nothing would get done."And I think his point has a lot of validity. But I don't think this is the kind of motherly hypocrisy he envisioned.

Chapter Five: Andrew Tries (and Fails) to Look Badass

Looking back, I was a little rough around the edges, intellectually, in the eighth grade. I actively subscribed to the ideas behind The Anarchist's Cookbook and other random deconstructive anti-state crap. Yet in my infinite wisdom of how much the systems of power sucked, I'm pretty sure I would not have been able to give a ballpark definition of the word 'economy.'

Meanwhile, The Da Vinci Code was shooting to the top of best seller's lists across the world. Angels and Demons and those other two mediocre-at-best books were able to successful ride the coattail of Da Vinci to best-selling status as well. And boy, was I hooked. Dan Brown was my literary God. My taste for literature was a tad underdeveloped, and I thought these books were instant classics of the English language.

If Dan Brown was my God, then Robert Langdon was my Jesus Christ. Langdon's character seemed to embody everything I admired. He used his hyper-intellectual ability to solve grave mysteries and get laid. Specifically, in Angels and Demons, one of the recurring motifs is the power of anagrams as simultaneous art and communication. In the novel, Langdon is a fictional pseudo-expert on anagrams; and I was soon infatuated with these complex blends of beauty, text, and thought.

Clearly, the next logical step was to get a tattoo with one of these tight looking anagrams on my bicep. What better way to demonstrate my suaveness, my chic hipster style. But in the eighth grade I didn't exactly have the social connects, or even the desire, to get an official permanent ink tatoo. So black sharpie would suffice.

Using the book as a guideline, I was able to scrawl a haphazard anagram of 'Fire' on my left arm. I figured, after this, I'd need a stick to keep away the hordes of women madly enamoured with my badass tat.

That night at dinner, some odd far off instinct told me, "Hide this from mom!" The majority of dinner was spent navigating the uncomfortable balance between feeding myself and pulling my left sleeve down over the fresh anagram. Eventually my mom caught on to my painfully awkward fidgeting. She asked to see what my sleeve was covering up. I stuck my arm out and showed her the intricate design.

"Oh my God. You're not in a gang are you!"

"No mom, it's just an anagram."

"You're in a gang aren't you!!! Swear to God you are not in a gang!"

"Mom, I'm not in a gang, I just thought it looked cool."

"So why is it on your arm! That's what gangs do!"

"Because it looks cool, mom. It just says 'Fire.' "

"IS THAT THE NAME OF YOUR GANG?! FIRE?!"

At this point, my mom was inexorably settled on the idea that I was in a violent street gang. My sharpie tattoo was clearly some dedication ritual that the gang was using to initiate me. I started to cry, because my mom would simply not drop the issue. She kept asking the same questions, making me feel like I was doing something wrong. I couldn't figure out what I had done, who I had hurt. But my mom still laid the guilt on me.

I went upstairs, and tried to wash off that former source of pride. I wanted nothing to do with sharpies, anagrams, or tattoos anymore. Even if I could appreciate their beauty, my mom sure as hell couldn't.

For a good eighteen months after that, my mom was especially suspicious of potential gang membership. In her eyes, every public place I went to during that span became a potential recruitment center for MS13. Fairfax Corner, gangs there. The Colonade, gangs there. 7-11, definitely gangs there. I guess my mom never realized that gangs don't target the middle class, un-muscular white boy demographic.

Chapter Four: The Beginning

It was the August before the 5th grade. I was on the eve of transferring to a new school. I knew I would face the challenges of succeeding in the more difficult G/T curriculum as well as making new friends. However, my worries soon dissolved in the shadow of more pressing concerns.

I vividly recall it was a humid day, and some of those late-summer thunderclouds were rolling low over the mountains from the west. The rain was violently pelting the ground by early afternoon, and I could tell my parents were having some issues. My father had been spending less and less time at the house. When he was home, I could hear him and my mother arguing through the floors more and more.

That day, during a particularly intense confrontation, I could hear the loud steps of aggressive footsteps. My parents voices penetrated the paper-thin walls and floors of my house, and eventually, my impressionable young mind. My mom began yelling for me to call the police. I ran upstairs, and one of the doors in the hallway looked like it had been knocked off its hinges. My mom emerged from the broken door, and was sure to position herself so that I was between her and my dad. It seemed like I'd interrupted right before their argument reached critical mass. By then they were both too ashamed to continue fighting. I shuddered to think what might have happened, had I not responded to my mom's cries.

I was ignorant of why a married couple would ever fight like that. I was typically confused, wondering whether it was my fault, or what I could do to make it all stop. Through my sobs, I yelled at both of them, chastising their heartbreaking behavior. Couldn't they stop and look at themselves?

They didn't realize how much they were hurting my sister and I. I couldn't be around them, so I bolted out the front door. I'd take the chills from the rain over the chills their arguing gave me any day. I walked around the local neighborhoods for a few hours, uncertain of the short and long term future. Eventually, with little else to do, the prospects of using the bathroom outside for much longer drove me back to the house. In my absence an artificial peace had fallen over things. My parents were able to put their issues temporarily aside for my sister and I, but irreparable damage had been done.

I feel there's strong evidence that this could have been the start of my mom's decline in emotional and mental health. I don't know if it is simply general poor memory of my life before this point, but it seems to me that something in my mom cracked during this time. Perhaps some deeply repressed childhood trauma had emerged from the shock of the situation. I don't think I'll ever know for sure.

It became clear in the weeks that followed that my dad would be moving out of the house. I begged and begged for both parents to reconsider. But according to both of them the separation was something that "had to be done."

As my mother, my sister, and I adjusted to life without my father, my mom very rapidly ascended to new heights of neuroticism and possessiveness. She began calling my dad on his cell during the evening hours, and quite often at that. When my Dad didn't pick up, my mom took matters into her own hands.

She would pack my sister and I into the car, and we'd drive around to the local bars, specifically the ones my dad liked to frequent. My mom didn't even try to disguise what she was doing. She'd say, "Let's go see if dad is at the Bungalow."

We would scan the parking lot for my dad's unmistakable red F-150 with the ladder rack on top. When we found it, my mom would lay her trap. She would send me into whatever bar, and have me ask my dad something innocent like, "We want to know if you're stopping by the house tonight." Although it probably should have been phrased as "Mom wants to know..."

From the moment I walked into these places, I knew I didn't belong. Not only was I well below the required age of twenty one, I was usually the only person there under thirty. It never occurred to me that I was only there to make my dad look like an irresponsible father. To make him feel sorry for going out while his 'wife' and children stayed home.

These kind of stakeouts became a regular occurrence.

Looking back, I get so frustrated thinking about how my mom used me for her own political ends. My dad was a fully grown man, legally separated from my mom. Further, my mom had requested custody of my sister and I, yet she was still trying to pass the burden of remorse onto my dad.

I've since talked to my dad about what happened. He told me when him and my mom first split up, he was heartbroken. I guess he might have turned to bars to be around friends, and numb the pain with some beers. My mom made it clear that she saw his outings as him shedding his familial responsibilities so he could get drunk and test the forty plus singles market. It was probably somewhere between the two, but I can't judge my father either way.

Neither of my parents have ever acquiesced to tell the whole story, but over the years my own detective work has shed some light on the specific details of my parents' break up. From letters and legal documents I learned what caused the fight in question, the one that left more things broken than just a hallway door.

One letter particularly struck me. It was written by my dad, addressed to my mom. Evidently, my mom had taken several hundred dollars of my dad's cash so she could go shopping for herself. He articulated that he had been saving that money, and intended to use it to get my sister and I nice school clothes. I could feel the anger in my fathers words, and I shared every ounce of it. Her betrayal trespassed on material and moral principle. This was the kind of stuff that belonged on a TV, on Jerry Springer, not in my life - past or present.

I guess you could stay this was the start of it, of everything. So God damn it, thanks, mom.

Chapter Three: French Onion Soup

It was the eighth grade and Halo 2 was at its peak. I had recently subscribed to Xbox Live and could now take my hypercompetitive video game rage to the realm of the information superhighway. I had shed a few pounds since my grade school days, but my after school hours were still comparably unproductive. For hours a day, every day, I would don my headset and give my thumbs a good work out at the expense of my virtual competitors. I was even known to rant violently when my teammates failed to perform to my standards.

Despite the conveniences that Xbox Live offered me, I yearned for something more personal, more social, and, hopefully, more fun. So I decided to host a LAN party. Short for 'Local Area Network,' a LAN party is essentially a bunch of pimple-faced nerds physically linking multiple Xboxes for large multiplayer games. I figured my spacious, newly carpeted basement would serve as an ideal locale for such a gathering.

An optimal Xbox LAN party could hold sixteen people, four to an Xbox with four Xboxes. In the days before cell phones, texting, and driver's licenses became mandatory, grandiose plans could easily go awry. And sure as hell, my intentions broke down like a Compaq computer.

Two people showed up. Kerem, my witty, post-pubescent Turkish friend, and Jacob, an afro-headed Halfrican. Our numbers may have been few, but I knew were were going to play the shit out of some Halo.

My friends arrived and my mom issued a terse "Hello." The look on my mom's face exposed her obvious disapproval of my foreign choice in friends. Under my mom's watchful eye we retreated to the basement. I had a fairly modest television and gaming system already set up, and we jumped right in to some hardcore pixelated violence.

My mom came down a few times, offering food, drinks, etc, but I'm pretty sure it was just a ruse so she could spy on us. Once she departed from eye sight, I offered a few obscene hand gestures towards the spot on the stairs she had occupied just seconds before. Over the course of the afternoon my mom proudly declared various times that there was french onion soup upstairs, waiting whenever we were hungry. Junk food might have fit the bill a bit better. And my mom's cold and distant aura was certainly no help. So we passed on the soup.

After a few more thinly veiled attempts at spying on us my mom laid down the law of the land. Her time and labor intensive soup would have its day.

"Boys, come up and have some french onion soup. It's already laid out for you."

A command none of us dared to defy. We marched into my house's formal dining room, complete with full dinette set and fancy table cloth. Awaiting us were three steaming bowls of french onion soup, complete with melted cheese and bread bits. Little did we know, this would be the most awkward meal of our short lives.

As we approached our chairs Kerem and Jacob each offered a "Thanks, Ms G." My mom's response was a barely audible grunt of acknowledgment.

We sat down, and each of us cautiously sipped to test the temperature. But not my mom. She remained standing in the corner of the dining room. Watching us eat. Classic Patty G. As I found out, having your mom stare at you and your friends, noiselessly scrutinizing every movement, can put quite a damper on dinner table conversation. We remained mute and kept our motions slow. With little else to do, Kerem, Jacob, and I exchanged fleeting moments of eye contact. However, none of us dreamed of meeting my mother's intense gaze.

To make matters worse, these bowls of soup were monstrous. Absolutely filled to the brim. It was as if my mom wanted to keep us glued in those seats until judgment day. I knew none of us had the stomach to polish off the massive volumes of broth. Just a few minutes in, and me and the boys were all desperately looking for an excuse to get out of there.

So I stepped up to the plate, and excused myself from the table. Kerem and Jacob followed within milliseconds. There was easily at least two thirds of the soup remaining in each of our bowls. But we just wanted to go back downstairs and play some freakin' video games.

We returned to the basement for more Xbox action, but all three of us couldn't forget what had just happened. I don't think we'll ever forget what happened, actually. That was the first time close friends had directly experienced the coarse parenting my mother was capable of. Up in that dining room, Kerem and Jacob were able to feel my mom's emotional presence (or void, rather). That place where comfort, warmth, and approachability had long since departed.

Chapter Two: Andrew Comes Home to Two Police Cruisers

It was the Saturday after this past Christmas. I was out on the town, attired in a new tie, a gift from my father. My parents and I had avoided butting heads for a while, and I was enjoying the recent vacancy of any serious yelling matches. My mom actually let me take her car out on a weekend night, a rare treat. My mom still had my cell phone, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me from hanging out with some friends.

I picked up Stephanie and Cory, and we were off to get some ice cream. We dropped by, and my friendly co-worker, Erin, was manning the front. Her eyes bulge, and I momentarily panic; it’s the same look she gives when I’ve fucked up something really important.

“WHY IS YOUR MOM CALLING ME?!”

“Uh, what…? I haven’t had my phone for a couple weeks.”

“WELL YOUR MOM CALLED ME! AND KEEPS CALLING ME!”

Apparently, after Erin sent a text about a drug dog (that’s for another story) to my phone, my mom began harassing her. My mom would try to get Erin to admit to ridiculous crimes. Patty even suggested the lovely idea that we were laundering massive amounts of drug money through Maggie Moos. It got to the point where my mom was perpetually calling Erin, trying to get to Erin’s parents. Erin’s mother eventually had to intervene, and tell Patty G. to quit being the ‘Community Mom.’

I was palpably pissed. This new information stirred hot emotions. I don’t like it when my mom sneaks around, especially given my mom and I’s recent conversations about, namely, not sneaking around each other.

I was going to have a word with my mom about this choice act. At the same time I wondered if it would even make a difference. I decided it was time to head home, so me and the girls split ways.

I pulled down my construction-scarred street, and the all too familiar figures of two Fairfax County police cruisers caught my eye. They were parked in front of my house. A million anxieties rushed through my head. Maybe my mom had finally made good on her numerous threats to have law enforcement types search the house. Or maybe my mom was just trying to give me a nice scare, crazier things had happened. No matter why the cops were there, I didn’t see this night ending well.

I walked into the house and one of the cops was taking down a police report. Great, that meant there was some sort of reportable ‘incident.’ My mom filled me in on what happened, but I took her words with a grain of salt.

“Your sister called the police on me. Allison lied about what she was doing with your cousin, and so I tried to find out what really happened. She started crying and complaining, she must have been too emotional, and called the police. I was just trying to be a concerned parent, like anyone would, and get down to the facts.”

My mom’s recall was half directed toward me, and half directed to the cop. But even more, her tale was fully tainted with the pseudo-caring voice she puts on when she’s talking to a stranger. In this case, a stranger with state-granted authority.

I darted to see Allison. She was at a neighbor’s house, talking to the police. She had been crying a lot, but she filled me in on her side of the story.

Evidently, my sister had been with one of my cousins all day. My cousin and Allison told my mom they were going to shop at the mall at around noon. But their ride didn’t come until three, nothing they could control. When my mom found out about this little delay, she freaked out. My mom started calling my aunt and uncle, and scathing my sister for ‘lying’ to her about going to the mall. My mom assumed that this three hour gap had been filled with sex, heroin use, and any number of illegal activities. In Patty’s own words, she was going to ‘get to the bottom of this.’

When my sister finally got home from shopping, at the outrageously late hour of five o’clock, my mom turned up the heat. My mom would not stop interrogating my sister, determined to find out what ‘really’ happened. She couldn’t come to the obvious conclusion that Allison and my cousin had just hung out for three hours, waiting for a ride.

When I looked into my sister’s account of what happened, I saw too many sad parallels to my own struggles. My mom was using the same scare tactics on my sister that I had grown up with. The only difference was that my sister was even younger and more inexperienced than me.

By then the police had left, satisfied that it was just a minor incident between a rebellious teenage daughter and a worried mother. Nothing noteworthy. I went back to the house, and I gave my mom a pretty substantial piece of my mind. I told my mom that she could go anywhere on this earth, and if she digs deep enough, she could find dirt. I also told her it was almost like she wanted Allison and I to get into trouble. When she keeps the microscope so focused on us, it’s easy to find flaws. I told her that if she wanted to keep calling my friends she could expect to have more parents hand her ass to her. I mentioned that she could go gently caress herself up the bum-bum, as well.

I thought about taking this altercation into the stratosphere. My mom felt no remorse for the lies she had told to the cops, and it made something inside me burn. But the words “pick your battles” resounded in my head, and I decided two cop cars in one night was more than enough, so I backed off.

The next day I was talking to my sister.

“Did mom tell you that I called the police on her?”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I dialed the numbers 9-1-1 to scare mom. Then she took the phone and hit me with it, which is what actually called the cops.”

Chapter One: My Entrance

Dear Internet,

My name is Andrew G. and I'm 17 years old. I live in socioeconomically sheltered Northern Virginia, and I regularly attend high school. I get pretty good grades, and I fancy myself as an intelligent, able, and strapping lad. I enjoy the company of women, wine, and weed. Also, I pride myself on the fact that I have pretty few illusions about what the 'real world' is.

But I have a problem. There is a hellish creature, devoid of any capacity to think or feel, that lurks on the nightmare edge of my consciousness, perpetually keeping me in a prison of negativity.

My mother.

For the foreseeable future, this Blog will be my account of living with Patricia G. I don't want to spoil the fun and spill all of my stories and Oedipal emotional upwellings in one post. The best part is that this story still ain't done. I've got a little over five months until I graduate, a little over six until my eighteenth birthday, and a little over seven until I officially move out.

So, let's play some Tetris, motherfuckers. I guess I'll start with the first ever traumatic experience, when I learned that my mom might not hold completely healthy unconditional love for me.

I was in the sixth grade: chubby, impressionable, and eager to have some fun. It was my second year taking Gifted/Talented classes at a new elementary school, and my social network was understandably meager. My after-school activities usually included taking the bus home, eating, and absorbing the glory that was Cartoon Network. I was also pretty new to the idea that people could develop and explore hobbies outside of vegetating and getting fatter.

Mitch, the kid who sat across from me (and later good friend), successfully pitched the idea that I should come down one of these Wednesday evenings and join his Boy Scout troop. The Boy Scouts seemed less depressing than sitting around watching Mid-September days blend into Autumn.

After spending all of the fifth grade living at a separate apartment, my parents had 'reconciled' their issues, and my Dad was back in the house. I figured joining the Boy Scouts would be an easy sell to Mom and Dad. What self-respecting middle class parent would ever deny their child an opportunity to join this emblematic, American Hitler Youth? (Ha, ha)

"Mom, I want to join the Boy Scouts. My new friend Mitch told me about it, they meet up every Wednesday at the school, and, and..."

"No."

"Why not? Please mom, it's the Boy Scouts."

"No. Don't you remember the time we tried to sign you up for football, and you cried the whole time?"

"Well, yeah. But this is the Boy Scouts!"

"What has gotten into you? It's those new G/T kids isn't it?!? You want to try all these new things! You're changing! I BET YOU'RE ON DRUGS!"

Text will never convey the extent of my heartbreak. I burst out crying because I just didn't know where this rage-filled outburst came from. For the next two hours my mom grilled me. I crumbled in front of her onslaught. Everything she said was wrong, but it still stung. I was peppered with questions: What's wrong with me? Where do I get my drugs? Who are these new friends?
This was the first time in my life I had felt seriously threatened by my mom. I recall the tears continued, while the rest of that night is an emotional blur in my memory.

In the morning, my mom approached me bearing hugs and sorrys. And so I returned the sentiments. Because she's my mom, and that's how I'm supposed to feel, and that's what I'm supposed to do.

A few weeks later, my Dad actually took me to a Boy Scout meeting. But it wasn't at Mitch's troop. Or anyone else I knew for that matter. Whether it was the stigma my mom created, or something else, it kind of sucked and I never went back.