Mom Told Me To Visit A Psychiatrist

I called my Mom yesterday for one of our bi-weekly chats. The conversation normally follows a pretty standard format, where Mom checks to make sure that I am fulfilling the basics laid out in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, from eating to sleeping to avoiding laying on the couch while wallowing in my own filth. I then dutifully respond to her queries with a quick, monosyllabic answer along the lines of “yes” or “fine.” At this point, Mom will embark upon a ten minute tirade over the house’s chronically leaky roof, cursing my father who designed the roof, our comically incompetent Indian roofer Ganesh, and God in his role as the creator of moisture.

Apart from the fact that conversations with my Mom have changed little since I was sixteen, the call yesterday was interesting because after complaining about the roof, she took the discussion in an unprecedented direction.

Mom: Do you think it would be helpful if you talked to someone?

Me: I am.

Mom: No, I meant a psychiatrist, like Frasier.

Me: Uh.

Mom: Their not just for crazy people anymore. Maybe you’d feel better.

Me: Hmm.

Mom: Believe me, I’m going to have to visit one if this stupid roof keeps leaking…

Mom’s suggestion was disturbing because, like most parents, she has always viewed my idiosyncrasies through a rose colored prism. This meant that when I was growing up, my weight problem was attributed to “husky genes,” my deficiencies in school were the result of “not being challenged,” and the many stains that appeared on my bedspread during puberty were simply “toothpaste.” These past denials tell me that if she came right out and mentioned a shrink, she must think I’m pretty fucking nuts.

It also hurt because I really don’t want to let her down. As her only child, I am the sole measure of whether or not she was competent at child rearing, a task our society regards as an adult’s most important responsibility. Conversely, if a family has ten kids, and three are a success, then the parents would be batting 300, a percentage normally sufficient to have a player enshrined into the Baseball Hall of Fame. For Mom, I’m her one swing, which is why I’ve actually considered her proposal.

My personal assessment is that I do not need to visit a psychiatrist, a conclusion I reached after a day of self reflection and a few moments staring at my WWTCD bracelet (What would Tom Cruise do?) However, I do need to change the way I communicate with Mom.

In particular, I am going to try to listen to her inquiries, and respond with thoughtful and complete answers that actually stretch into sentences. I am going to ask her questions, and move beyond topics such as my eating habits and laundry status. I am also going to fire Ganesh, and replace him with someone who can actually fix the roof, which will hopefully help both Mom and I maintain our sanity for a long time to come without the need for professional intervention.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

[Frasier] [Tom Cruise] [Abraham Maslow][Baseball Hall of Fame]

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Christmas with the Mazes

For those of you wondering what the holidays are like in my household, here's a little recap of this year's attendees who made the annual Maze Christmas spectacular so special.

Bradley-me-Generally during family gatherings I will sit in the corner of the room and occasionally nod in agreement with something that's been said. Every once in a while I'll be asked to get someone a drink with no ice.

Mama Maze-Mother-fringe member of Gambler's Anonymous, and was, as always, draped in her prized Harrah's Casino pullover. She still will only ride in the car with Bradley if she is allowed to place her hands over the dashboard to brace herself in case of collision.

Sandy-Cousin-Chain smoker whose hobbies include talking about smoking and doting over her three grandchildren, two of whom she suspects to be gay.

Max-Cousin-Genius engineering professor who spends five days a week working in the city to avoid spending time with his wife Sandy at their home (See above). Vows to continue working until the good lord strikes him down (See Sandy above).

Bernard-?-Not sure how he is related to me but he suffered a heart attack on the 24th, and then defied everybody's expectations by still making Christmas dinner. He loves horseradish, and will put it on anything. Reputed to suffer from: diabetes, a pacemaker, botulism, e-coli, asthma, sickle cell anemia, night sweats, mumps, shingles, multiple white tiger bites, bubonic plague, rickets, the bens, etc.

Lois-?-Bernard's sister. She monitors his numerous health problems. During desert Bernard tried to eat a slice of pie, and Lois responded by reminding him of his diabetes. Bernard ignored her, and in a fit of rage Lois wrestled the pie away from him before trying it herself and proclaiming that "its too sweet for me, but Bernard would probably like it."

Mike-cousin on my father's side-A reputed anti-Semite who spends the majority of dinner wondering how he winds up spending every Christmas with so many Jews.

Al-Uncle-Owned a convenience store that he thought would someday rival 7-11 before it went bankrupt. Has a garage filled with over 10,000 baseball cards that he purchased from his son for $25,000 in 1998. In his younger days, he was considered to be the greatest amateur bowler in the history of Jersey City, NJ. He once poured an entire pot of hot soup on an opponent during a fight.

Beattie-Aunt-Married to Uncle Al. Described by medical professionals as chronically obese. Grew up in Vienna, Austria where as a little girl she developed a lifelong love of teddy bears and fudge.

Lenny-Godfather/Family friend-retired Spanish teacher and current labor agitator for the New Jersey teacher's union. With his spare time he harbors several illegal immigrants in his home, and they repay him through cooking and yard work. He also recently bought a pontoon boat.

That was this year's lineup. The sad part is its all true. I hope this explains why I live in Virginia instead of New Jersey.


[Christmas] [Holidays] [Family] [New Jersey] [Gambler's Anonymous]

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