Mrs. Mom, P.I.

My mom (Maxine) has read too many detective novels. In her mind (I imagine) she sees herself as a great detective. Miss Marple, Angela Fletcher (of Murder She Wrote), and Mrs. Maxine (of the great crime metroplois, Littleton, CO). She is ever so excited to pop her nose into someone else’s business, eager to find a story. Weather it be the new neighbor on the block, or her own son, Maxine is on a quest to make things right, at least to her standpoint.
A year ago my mom invaded my privacy and learned a lot about me which she rather not have learned. The house wailed from the tears and screams from its occupants over the reading of a journal. One would think that one calendar year later, both parties would have learned to cover their tracks better.
Today I use my blog as my journal, and keep my old journals in a locked metal box under my bed. Most people might hide their porn, drugs, or whatever, I hide my thoughts. About a month or so ago I started writing bad poetry in a small ledger. I tried to always keep it locked up, I'm human, and sometimes the ledger is placed on a pile of books near my bed. Three a.m. rolls around, and it happened again. My bedroom door opens, my mom finds me asleep in my bed, and placed the ledger next to me in my sleep. I should have known better. If I don't keep something personal nailed down under lock and key it becomes fair play in my household.
Have I learned nothing from the year past? Apparently not. 2005 finds me still living in my parent's home, without a sufficient income to move out, my personal belongings and private thoughts being scrutinized by the entire family. Once my mom finds a rather juicy or suggestive passage, she picks up my phone to tell my father. More importantly, when she finds something supports a long standing feud with my father, she calls him. My lackluster of a life has, in the past twenty-four hours, had more coverage and analysis then anything Fox news deliver.
I need to understand that no matter how upsetting it is for my mom, she will never learn not to breech the thoughts of other people. She will always cast judgment, because, that is all she knows. Last months the topic at hand was our new Latin neighbors. Mrs. Maxine was convinced that were Mexican terrorists with an agenda.
“An agenda for what, to make America safe for mariachi music?” I asked.
“Don’t be so stupid” she retorted. Evidently, Mrs. Maxine discovered that they had been a terrorist cell named “El brazo Diablo.” The named had been overheard once in their driveway. A motive was still forthcoming when she organized a neighborhood watch group (Maxine had grown tired doing it all her self). Her jaw dropped when the “cell” came to meeting and brought their patriarch to help organize the meeting, a county assistant sheriff.
I have often been the spotlight of Mrs. Maxine’s gaze. From an earlier age all my mail comes sealed with a crinkled edge, phone calls I’ve made from the house have often had “mysterious” background noises, and, while I haven’t found it yet, I’m sure the content of my rooms have been thoroughly cataloged. It shouldn’t come as any surprise to me that my journals, sketch book, and poetry should come under the same scrutiny.
When my mom handed back my journal, I felt (then and now) that my privacy had been violated; but then I remember I don’t have privacy at my home. The most privacy I have is to share my thoughts openly with the public on my blog. At least it’s away from the Mrs. Maxi, P.I.
Maxine is still the same neurotic woman she was a year ago. I hope I’ve grown a little since then. I still love her, but I need by more padlocks.