Two weeks ago, I asked you all what I should do with that insurance money of my mother’s (check made out to me for several thousand dollars). I took your advice and cashed the check. I did throw the old bitch a bone, though — I sent her about $500 of it. As of last Friday, she was chomping at the bit for the check to arrive. She needed her fix, the kind that only five new pairs of shoes could provide.
Pilfering this money, it was and still is a big risk for me. For if she ever finds out, it will be me who can’t spend Christmas with my family. It will be me who is talked about in hushed tones at family gatherings. Given the stakes, I made a deal with untitledhusband. I said, “If I do this, if I take this risk, I get to buy new living room furniture.” He said that was fine, given that our current set-up is 10 years old, losing its stuffings, and colored with scribblings, thanks to untitledson and a ballpoint pen.
I searched my soul over what to do. I read your posts. I wrung my hands. Once I had made up my mind, I dug deep and found the courage to do it. I cashed the check, sent part of it off to Mom, and went about window shopping for new furniture. I never thought it possible, but the process was downright therapeutic. I spent hours laying out diagrams of the room, researching new wall colors, and reading up on the elements of design. I imagined the moment when I could sit down in my living room, the room that Mother made. Yes, it would be like a womb, this room. It was to be a place of healing.
But karma being the duplicitous cunt that she is, this was not to be. For while I was planning and plotting and dreaming, untitledhusband convinced me that instead of letting the money fester away in our checking account until we made our purchase, we should pay off some credit cards and take out an interest-free loan for the furniture. It just made sense, he said. I was a little hesitant to part with that money, if only for a little bit. But I logicized it, and it made sense. So I said yes.
Fast forward one week. Tonight, untitledhusband sat me down and told me that unless I can find a place that will give us a zero percent interest loan for at least 12 months with no money down, I cannot get new furniture. And in case you’re wondering, this is pretty much nowhere, except for those places dealing in reclining sofas and pieces constructed of “leather everywhere you touch.” The nice places, they all want something down. And conveniently enough, the money is now gone.
The irony of this situation is not lost on me. It’s kind of like that story, “The Gift of the Maji,” but in reverse. I took the money from Mom because she has been such a greedy bitch over the years. And now it seems untitledhusband has taken it from me.
So here I sit in my living room, of all places, quietly enraged. Can’t let untitledhusband see my anger, for I’ve already been told that I’m being childish about this. Perhaps I am. But it’s hard, people. I always knew my mother didn’t have my back. But untitledhusband, I thought I could trust him.
The paint swatches and room diagrams, they are now in the trash. I’ll spend my lunch hour tomorrow in a humiliaitng hike over to the furiture store, where I will surrender the fabric samples to the sofa I was for sure going to buy. For. Sure. But no biggie. I’ll get over it. I’ll move on. I’ll forget. I always do.
