In an attempt to forestall what feels like a major impending anxiety attack, I'm going to spell out all the elements of my mental stress at the moment. When I feel this way, all the pieces of my life seem related, with one thing hooked into another, in an endless stream that is headed over an enormous waterfall. If A then B, then Ceeeeeee...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

I am feeling stress because the Keelhauler and I have been talking about buying another boat. I almost wrote "getting" instead of "buying," because apparently I feel guilty about admitting the expenditure.

I don't want to talk about the new boat.

When I brought up the subject to my mother, I felt an instant wave of smug disapproval, as I do every time I talk about buying something that doesn't represent the absolute lowest form of whatever object is in question. There is apparently some rule that I can't exist on any level higher than Making Do. If I buy a car, it must be old and very inexpensive. If I find a place to live, it must be in a neighborhood where no one else wants to live. When I mentioned to her at one time that I was thinking of moving off the boat, she sighed and said, sounding desperate, "But it just seems like such a good way to live cheaply..." Because apparently, that is her highest hope for me, that I will be able to just barely exist at the poverty level. Because any more than that, and I'll be in danger of having more than she does, which is unfair and unacceptable.

Every time I talk to her, she sighs and says, "Life is too expensive..." in this hopeless-sounding way, the same way my father always talked about it, with a sense of impotent rage and frustration, the same way my uncle says it when he calls up to tell me that he doesn't know if he'll be able to afford the property taxes on his beach house. I want to say to these people, "Sell your fucking house and move somewhere cheaper. Don't call me. I don't have any money, and I cannot help you, not even philosophically."

Why are they calling ME to tell me about it? And more importantly, why would I tell my mother that I'm thinking of buying something for myself? I can't even describe the way it happens, because it's not something she puts into words, really. It's more of a tone in her voice, or in the length of her silence, or the response "Oh...?" after a suitable pause to let me know that I don't deserve whatever it is I've mentioned.

Part of my fear in buying this boat is that I just don't have any reliable guidance, and I never have. Worse, the people who were supposed to guide me routinely either expect me to support them financially, or turn to me and ask why life is so hard. How the fuck should I know? They're the ones who brought me here--didn't they learn anything before I showed up?

Anyway, making things worse, I started crying on the phone with the Keelhauler about all the things I'm worried about--that the boat is too expensive, that it's too much of a commitment, that I'll fail somehow and lose the stupid boat to the bank, and that while some of my relatives may be rich, they're certainly not going to bail me out if I get in trouble, so this is somehow all up to me and I don't feel like I can do it. He was initially nice, and asked if I'd talked to anyone about the boat, and I said no, then mentioned that I'd talked to my mother and that she'd been typically unenthusiastic and disapproving. "She doesn't want me to have anything nice," I said, and the Keelhauler answered, "That's a terrible thing to say about your mother."

Way to take my side.

And anyway, my statement about her is true. Anything I have is too good for me, yet at the same time, she lets me know that better things exist out of reach. Example: A few years ago, I bought a new sewing machine on sale. It was like, a Singer or something. I told her about it, and dealt with the initial disapproval that I had spent money on myself. I mostly ignored that, but for some reason, asked her if the brand I'd bought was considered good. "No," she answered, with a little sniff, and after I prompted her, answered that Bernina was a much better brand. (And way more expensive, which she didn't say.) So... the Singer isn't good enough, and yet it's too good for me. Got it.

I could go on and on, but really, it's all the same story, from the stupid sewing machine to her position on catered wedding receptions ("In MY day, we were happy with punch and cake in the church basement.").

I recognize that her position is idiosyncratic, but in times of stress, I find it hard to deal with. I know that everyone does the best he can, and that she doesn't mean to make me feel this way. She doesn't know her way around this place, either, which makes her an ineffective guide when things get tricky. I know she's doing her best. The problem is, I'm doing my best, too, but it's not getting me anywhere, and I'm not sure what to do.

The entire time I've been writing this, even though it's my lunch hour, idiots have been rushing over to my desk with crucial papers they need to give to my boss (who is out at lunch), and discussing their need to leave the papers for him. Whatever. It doesn't matter. Whatever.