It is a truth universally acknowledged that every household must have a person designated as the family’s complaint department. In our family, that person is my mom, and every evening, we line up in front of her to unload.
“Mother! Behold my accomplishments of the day!” I am the first in line with my triumphs, setbacks, and a sparkling-new premise for a skit. As I’m wrapping up, my stepdad bursts in – a man possessed by the unshakable belief that the world awaits his wisdom.
“Wait, wait, you must hear this!” He has urgent opinions to share: a discourse on the economy, the moral decay of politicians, or his latest scheme for untold wealth.
And Mom, just settling in with her milk tea and an oatmeal cookie… she nods along and offers polite oh-reallys, occasionally waving us away when we block the hockey on TV. “Mm-hmm.”
Sometimes she summons my grandfather – a man of great age and even greater conviction – I suspect to serve as a buffer. Stepdad, thrilled by a worthy opponent, redirects his complains to Granddad, who fires back with Soviet-Union-honed arguments of his own. An intermission for mom to fry onions and boil soup in peace.
The thing about my mom is that she’s a do-er. A leak – she patched it. A mess – she cleaned it. A problem – she solved it. She moves. She acts. She makes things happen.
My stepdad and I, on the other hand, are thinkers. Dreamers. Big picture people. He’s all day at his computer – watching stock market strategists and taking notes on economic forecasts. I’m between the phone and the planner – plotting my comedy empire.
“This stand-up I’m writing? It’s going to make me famous!” I declare.
“And this day trading? It’s going to make us rich!” chimes in stepdad.
At least, I’m temporary. I linger for a few months, disrupt, then ta-ta! Stepdad is a fixture. His castle in the sky is anchored in their bedroom (which doubles as his office). Walk into that room and you’ll find walls of stock market papers: charts, numbers, graphs. My room isn’t much better. It’s just that the papers are rejected punchlines and abandoned scripts.
Between the two of us, we’ve destroyed half a rainforest and made not a single dime.
On occasion, even mom’s legendary patience wears thin.
“Why are you wasting so much paper?!” she’ll shout trying to cut through the jungle of our notes.
“Are you talking to me or him?” I’ll yell back.
She’ll sigh, “I can’t find the Planting Calendar”.
“Honey, I saw it in the bedroom! Did you check the cupboard or under the desk?”
And so life goes. My mom, the only sane person, stuck in a house with two visionaries who mistake brainstorming for work. Or, perhaps, she too, has gone mad – for what sane person would tolerate us? Let alone egg us on and then serve soup for dinner?