I pour the drinks and crush the flowers

In accordance with the Soviet Volunteer System, I've kindly offered to pick my mother up at the airport.

Sigh.

I came in from Eviljob exhausted. I mean really, really tired. It's difficult to work now. And as I plop down to slowly starve to death on my sofa as I fall asleep watching a movie, my phone rings.

"Huunnnhh?"
"Her flight's delayed, and she wants to know if you can pick her up at the airport at 2:10 a.m."
"Wrong number." Click.

Ring.

"He..."
"Don't hang up on me--she wants to know if you can come get her, or does she have to take a cab?"
"Who in the hell is this?"
"Meg."
"Why do you sound like that?"
"I borrowed someone's phone; my battery died. Could you focus? Can you come get her?"
"No."
"She said you'd come get her." Oh, great. Use guilt.
"She lies. I didn't even know she was leaving."
"She says that she told you."
"She also says that she's given Elizabeth Taylor makeup tips. She also says that she's going to move out of the country within the year--and has been saying so quite faithfully for the past fifteen years. She *also* says that she regularly checks her blood sugar, but yet doesn't do so half as religiously as she says that she's moving out of the country. Why was I supposed to believe this?"
"She wants you to pick her up. You should."
"Arrrggghhhh!"
"I'll tell her that means yes, then."
"Grrrrrrr..."
"'bye, now." Click.
"Bwaah!"

Sigh. So I'm staying awake. And it's freaking *painful*. And I'm supposed to go file travel forms tomorrow morning, but I'll never get up now. And I have to listen to Mom for an hour.

At least that might not be too horrid; Meg says she's in a great mood. She's had a wonderful time, and is mad that she only went for the weekend. Because (begin Mommy Logic) she doesn't like to travel, but will if she has to, and she had to this time, because Ancodia is being irresponsible and not taking care of Meg. So she went--of course not for herself, but for Meg--but not for long, 'cos she doesn't want to go, so she'll stay out of Meg's way and go do things on her own, so she never actually sees Meg much since she's not bothering her. But once she got there, she started having fun. But she's committed (and should be...er...sorry) to return Sunday night, so has to leave, and isn't that a real pisser? (end Mommy Logic)

Although it's alleged to have happened before I was ever born, if Mummers actually did corner Elizabeth Taylor in the bathroom of the Whatever Hotel that some political convention was at, I think I understand why Liz took to drinking and pills. If there ever were to be an inquiry into it, I think we'd find that Mom actually is responsible for a *lot* of people's escapist addictions.

She can do that to you. Swear. If rehab centres paid on commission, my mother would be on the payroll schedule of damn near every one on the North American continent. In the same span of time it takes to say, "could you please pass the salt," my Mommy can turn you into a raving heroin addict.

Rilly.

As far as "handling" her goes (I kind of like that idea--it brings to mind herding her about with a whip and stool), Meg is better at it than I am. I'll spend most of the drive trying not to wreck her mood (and I hope that no one at the airline has beat me to that, which is likely--she's a hard one to coax, er, handle when it comes to things like waiting, following directions, and so forth), and I'll tamp down the urge to throttle her when she suggests we all go back this weekend (she's great at remembering Meg's schedule, but can't remember mine for ten minutes).

And if she's true to form, she'll want me to take her somewhere to eat...only everything is closed. Denny's, ho. Sigh.

And I just want to sleep, but I have to leave now.

What have I done to deserve this?