Entry 4: Boundaries
I could kill him! What higher power possessed my body over the last six months and made me hire such an interfering, overbearing, stubborn, meddling, pig-headed man to be my housekeeper? And I pay him, to boot! If I had an ounce of sense, I'd send him packing and tell him to take my mother with him.
First, he paints my car — or at least has it painted — the boldest, brightest, most obnoxious shade of red on the planet. Do I look like a Diablo Red type of woman!? I don't think so. And granted, we worked through that problem, and I realized I came down a bit hard on him. And I'll even admit to a moment's panic when I thought he might actually consider going to work for Diane Wilmington. But that hardly means I'm ready to let the whole thing go. I just don't know what his expectations of his job are, but I can hardly address the subject when I'm not sure what MY expectations of his job are — at least anymore.
And here we are, back to the original problem. How can I possibly draw a line with someone like Tony? We're knee-deep in a renovation project that I most certainly did not want, all so that Mother can live even closer, and hence bug me even more often than she already does. I love my mother, profoundly, but our relationship is hardly conducive to virtual cohabitation. She's outspoken, opinionated, and downright acerbic sometimes, especially when it comes to me. I've never been the kind of daughter she would have chosen. Not timid, shy, insecure Angela. I was overweight and inept and my mother was bold and sexy. And even today, with all I've accomplished, it's not enough. I'm still restrained in appearance and behavior, and awkward outside of the boardroom. I don't need to be reminded of that every day.
But I agreed to the project. Something in me must want this or else I never would have agreed. And why did Mother jump at the chance to live on my property? You'd think she'd have some reservations about living with me, but it wasn't until I questioned her decorating selections, of all things, that she put up a fight. Why would she want to live here, except maybe for Tony's cooking?
And do you think Tony can respect his role and stay out of my personal family business? Of course not. Okay, so I didn't exactly respect his wishes for Sam's birthday a few weeks ago, and I got a little caught up pampering a 12-year-old girl. But you see what I mean? We can't stay out of each other's lives, and we just seem to be pulling toward each other more and more.
I literally let my housekeeper talk me into spending thousands of dollars to allow my mother to move in — MY HOUSEKEEPER! He's supposed to mend socks, not family fences. I didn't hire him to be a partner, I hired him to clean my hosue. I call the shots. I'm the president of this company as much as I'm president of Wallace and McQuade. The problem is that my employees in New York take my status much more seriously, and I have no problem pulling rank in the office. But yelling at Tony made me nearly cry with shame the minute he left the room.
For the most part, I agree with the decisions he makes, and I do give him a lot of autonomy. I can't help it, particularly when he takes his job personally enough to defend me against that slimeball Jim Peterson. Not exactly a knight in shining armor, but the anger and indignation with which he threw Jim out was very endearing — after I fully understood what had happened. No matter what, I know he has my best interests at heart, even if his methods are a bit of a mystery.
Okay, Angela, admit it, you no longer want just a housekeeper.
In addition to respecting him, I like him. As much as I may not have wanted it initially, he is more than a housekeeper; he's become a friend. And if I'm going to enjoy the benefits of that friendship when it suits my purpose, I'm going to have to accept that I can't decide to forget the friendship when I disagree with him.
That sounds reasonable, right, but how am I supposed to negotiate such blurry lines? And for goodness sake, how am I supposed to live with my mother?