Monday, November 14, 2005
6:56 PM

What the fuck was I thinking? Trying to clean my mom's house? What a joke! (Scroll down for a 'Fell Better About Yourself' picture tour of the humble abode.)

I meant well. Really I did. Even my brother and sister were willing to lend a hand. And yell at each other and mom and I the whole time. It was rather bonding, very 'family' of us.

Every holiday season centers around mom's house. It's the biggest in the family and also the only one able to accommodate wheelchairs, walkers, cripples, zombies, bed-wetters, depends-wearers, and anyone else who's a missing limb away from a nursing home. There are only a few steps in the house, one up or one down but never two in a row. Still, my hobbling mother can't keep the place free of stranger's garbage. God I wish I was lying. It's literally garbage, complete with the garbage bag tied up.

Instead of calling mom names, cursing uo one side and down the other, while being totally depressed at the reality that this was the same woman who gave birth to me, I stayed away from her. Initially. While she was on the phone getting dumpster quotes, I gathered whatever garbage I knew she would agree with and threw it out. Well some of it was debatable. She would've kept most of what I threw out, but I didn't care. Lauren handed me the bag across a pile of shit blocking a walkway and I headed out the front door, past mom's van and threw away the trash. How ridiculous??!! I had to sneak garbage outta the house to prevent my mother from looking through it and possibly crying at the sight of a buckle-less sandal.

Lauren insisted on arguing with mom about what was and was not garbage, something I'd done for the last two years. While mom maintains that everything is hers, even the stuff from other people's garabge piles, we all heartily maintain that it doesn't becomes 'mom's just because she brings it home. "It was in the garbage, mother. Jesus Christ," we've each yelled on numerous occasions. "Now we're cleaning it up again and throwing it right back where it fuckin' was."

I wish it didn't bring out the nasty side of us, but how can we help it? Here's our mother, 53 years-old and on enough medication to launch the Space Shuttle, sitting on a rolling cart because her body is so outta whack, and she's become one with a broken foot stool. Sad, sad reality.

After I took some pictures and reminded myself that my apartment, while small and near lots of noise, was also clean and clutter-free, I left. "I can't do anything here. I want to throw it all away and I fuckin' should, but you're as messed up as the rest of us. I don't need your cryin' bullshit. I'm just gonna leave." And I did.

Between my brother's gambling and lack of motivation to be anything other than a barely-part-time bartender and a short order cook, and my sister's one college class and graveyard shift at Walmart, combined with my 12 years as a waiter and six years trying to become a famous comedian, who the hell are we to judge a grown woman's desire to be a pack rat?

On the phone last Fall, mom sat and unloaded her van just outside the side door off the kitchen.

A few months later the Village of Shorewood contacted her to get rid of all the shit in front of the house. "I'll burn what I can," she said, shivering. "By the way, everything I have on is from the garbage," she added on this particular day.

After the snow melted mom headed back to the front porch and sifted through even more shit. Yes, the 'Shit Happens' hat was from the trash.

The way the front porch looked yesterday, November 14, 2005.

The great room, a combination of a living room and family room. That wooden thing that looks like a big table is really the top of a church altar. Seriously.

Just off the great room is the pool room. The pool table is now a big shelf that cost about two grand. We hope to be able to use it again, maybe by 2012.

The kitchen. And dressing room sometimes.

Just inside the front door. People are expected to walk through this area. It just might take a trip and fall for mom to come to her senses.

There's a way to and from the great room under all that shit. And again, it's mostly complete stranger's shit. This is right inside the front door off to the right. Just down the hall to the right are the bedrooms.

My sister's bedroom, piled high with baskets of dirty clothes and her own clutter. She's well on her way to becoming my mother.

The hallway right outside of the bathroom and then the bathroom. Even I have to walk sideways down the hall. Sometimes I have to shower when I get back to my apartment after showering at mom's. Just to be safe, ya know?

My mom and step-dad's bedroom. And why do people get married again? Especially re-married? To a woman with 3 shitheaded kids no less?

A view of the deck off the kitchen. Our dog is now Chelsie and there's no need 'Beware' of her. Not sure where the other 4 or 5 grills are.

This is the main deck off the great room. Mom pulled up either the truck or the van here over a year ago and dumped this shit onto the porch. It's simply disgusting. But nothing a little gasoline couldn't take care of.

There, now do you feel better? And better understand why you'll never be invited to mom's for a visit?!