Just when push was coming to shove (What does that mean, exactly? Estelle? Anyone?) the Earth seemed to shift on its axis again.
At the exact crossroads where one of us what going to have to face the inevitable and as a matter of saving face, throw down the gauntlet (Where do I even get a gauntlet?) there was a turn of events so enormous, so unexpected, so precisely timed it had to be the Grace of God.
I am not suggesting that this turn was a good thing. It most definitely was not. In fact it is so heinous and uncommonly horrible that I can not even write about it here. Satire would miss its mark.
But it happened. And it set wheels in motion that will probably pick up speed and begin to smoke in a matter of minutes.
And who, you might ask, might be the wizard behind the curtain for this particular epic drama?
Drum roll, please.
Sandy.
Yes, Sandy. J.'s former little ray of scorching, searing, cancer-causing sunshine. She with the disposition of the Tasmanian Devil and a voice that sounds as though she regularly swallows tacks.
Sandy for reasons that most of humanity would find baffling, did something so violating and appalling, so crushing and destructive that it will likely be the subject of lengthy, drama-filled litigation . Papers are being prepared to be served even now.
She has hatched lots of self righteous, self serving, singularly focused schemes before. Always at other people's enormous misery and expense. She has done some unspeakable things to the people closest to her, always having somehow justified her actions by convincing herself that they somehow deserved it or were careless and oh-well-s***-happens. "Perhaps if you had been more careful I would not have needed to punish you/hurt you/humiliate you in this way." (*Note - This is a woman who has been known to break into fits of hysterical laughter over such things as fatal youth choir tour bus accidents.)
And, surrounded by sycophants like her sister with the Home-for-the-Criminally-Insane haircut, and her brother, Tube-socks-and-Barcalounger, there was little chance that she would ever change her destructive entitlement approach to human interaction. She was always a ticking time bomb.
And today she blew up in all of our faces.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Guess Whose Not Coming to Dinner, Part Deux
J.'s birthday loomed. And the situation grew more and more awkward.
Mothers Day was a bust. A no show. An anticlimax.
And then Endora's birthday was a debacle. A farce. A slapstick comedy.
And now J.'s birthday was just days away and the heat was on. The situation was becoming a big cosmic game of chicken. Who would lose their nerve first? Who would jerk the wheel to one side in a last minute desperate attempt to avoid certain disaster?
As I have groused before, all of these events are normally celebrated...(OK maybe "celebrated" is not the right word. It is hard to call what the Cullens do an actual celebration. Perhaps "recognized" is a better verb - what with the glaring abstinence from revelry, hoopla, glee, enjoyment of any kind, and of course, alcohol.) OK, let's just say that we show up and have cake for these events at Endora's house. There are a few that are "observed" at Sheila's house. Again, with prohibition-style dining. The chasm was widening with every passing day and every antagonistic slight, and no one was about to voluntarily blink first.
Maybe this was a test. Sheila hosted a good number of her children's pseudo-celebratory fetes. Endora hosted her share of holiday and summer month soirees so that the pool might provide some form of entertainment. Perhaps they were stonewalling. Perhaps in their minds they were making a statement (but evidently somewhat timidly). They may have been saying, however unconvincingly, "Hey if you want a dinner planned for your birthday, J., don't look at us. Get your girlfriend to churn out a little hype for a change!"
No doubt, this should be my responsibility at this point. I could easily summon my inner Martha Stewart and throw a dinner party so J.'s family could shower him with the obligatory golf shirts and argyle sweaters. Under normal circumstances, I would not think of doing differently.
But these are not ordinary circumstances.
I could indeed throw a party. But to do so would create a tipping point. I could invite the regular cast of characters. Sheila and her brood and the newlyweds and Endora. Maybe even those two guys at the end of the table (their names really do escape me) and that obnoxious neighbor with the high pitched voice that she uses to pontificate endlessly.
But would they come? What if they didn't? And if they came, would they snicker at my decorating taste or the cleanliness of my bathroom or the size of my kitchen? And what about my cooking? Would that get the once-over from Chuck, the self-appointed know-it-all cook?
And if I was going to throw a party, I would want to offset the potential for torture and torment by stacking the deck in my favor, inviting my sister and her family so that I would have agents in all the enemy camps.
But even so, all of this seemed like caving. Like I was flinching first. They would hold out, and since J.'s birthday could not go without cake, candles and a chorus of Happy Birthday, I would have to throw it myself. And then I'd have to show my hand. I would have to extend invitations to them all and in a not-so-insignificant way, extend an olive branch by inviting them into my home.
Or, I could keep the party to the immediate family - and perhaps my sister's - and not invite them, any of them, and thereby draw a line in the sand. Declare war.
Or, I play the game and win...
My sister could plan dinner. Host it at her house. Her family, me, J. and all the kids. And when curiosity killed Endora's cat and she called - not J. but maybe one of the girls - she'd learn that we didn't need to rely on her dinner party to celebrate (so there!) nor did we commit the heinous crime of intentionally not inviting them to our party. No, we'd pulled off the social crime of the season. We'd been invited out and were not in a position to do any of the inviting.
Perfect.
Mothers Day was a bust. A no show. An anticlimax.
And then Endora's birthday was a debacle. A farce. A slapstick comedy.
And now J.'s birthday was just days away and the heat was on. The situation was becoming a big cosmic game of chicken. Who would lose their nerve first? Who would jerk the wheel to one side in a last minute desperate attempt to avoid certain disaster?
As I have groused before, all of these events are normally celebrated...(OK maybe "celebrated" is not the right word. It is hard to call what the Cullens do an actual celebration. Perhaps "recognized" is a better verb - what with the glaring abstinence from revelry, hoopla, glee, enjoyment of any kind, and of course, alcohol.) OK, let's just say that we show up and have cake for these events at Endora's house. There are a few that are "observed" at Sheila's house. Again, with prohibition-style dining. The chasm was widening with every passing day and every antagonistic slight, and no one was about to voluntarily blink first.
Maybe this was a test. Sheila hosted a good number of her children's pseudo-celebratory fetes. Endora hosted her share of holiday and summer month soirees so that the pool might provide some form of entertainment. Perhaps they were stonewalling. Perhaps in their minds they were making a statement (but evidently somewhat timidly). They may have been saying, however unconvincingly, "Hey if you want a dinner planned for your birthday, J., don't look at us. Get your girlfriend to churn out a little hype for a change!"
No doubt, this should be my responsibility at this point. I could easily summon my inner Martha Stewart and throw a dinner party so J.'s family could shower him with the obligatory golf shirts and argyle sweaters. Under normal circumstances, I would not think of doing differently.
But these are not ordinary circumstances.
I could indeed throw a party. But to do so would create a tipping point. I could invite the regular cast of characters. Sheila and her brood and the newlyweds and Endora. Maybe even those two guys at the end of the table (their names really do escape me) and that obnoxious neighbor with the high pitched voice that she uses to pontificate endlessly.
But would they come? What if they didn't? And if they came, would they snicker at my decorating taste or the cleanliness of my bathroom or the size of my kitchen? And what about my cooking? Would that get the once-over from Chuck, the self-appointed know-it-all cook?
And if I was going to throw a party, I would want to offset the potential for torture and torment by stacking the deck in my favor, inviting my sister and her family so that I would have agents in all the enemy camps.
But even so, all of this seemed like caving. Like I was flinching first. They would hold out, and since J.'s birthday could not go without cake, candles and a chorus of Happy Birthday, I would have to throw it myself. And then I'd have to show my hand. I would have to extend invitations to them all and in a not-so-insignificant way, extend an olive branch by inviting them into my home.
Or, I could keep the party to the immediate family - and perhaps my sister's - and not invite them, any of them, and thereby draw a line in the sand. Declare war.
Or, I play the game and win...
My sister could plan dinner. Host it at her house. Her family, me, J. and all the kids. And when curiosity killed Endora's cat and she called - not J. but maybe one of the girls - she'd learn that we didn't need to rely on her dinner party to celebrate (so there!) nor did we commit the heinous crime of intentionally not inviting them to our party. No, we'd pulled off the social crime of the season. We'd been invited out and were not in a position to do any of the inviting.
Perfect.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Home, Home On The Strange
The celebration for the day Endora was hatched came and went without incident. At least on J.'s end. I am confident he and I were raked over the coals with the grilled Branzino at the restaurant. "Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, but not those that trespass against us, troublemakers that they are. Amen."
The next day, J. called his mother on the phone a couple of times to see what opportunities existed for gathering with her and his girls to celebrate her birthday. Throughout the day the phone went repeatedly to voice mail, either ignored or not heard by Endora and the newlyweds. J, accepted the fact that it was probably coincidental. It was a Saturday; they could be doing anything. No need to assume anything sinister was afoot. Just the same, he decided to drive over to her house to pay a visit.
He made his way into the neighborhood and examined the car situation in search of some clue as to who might be home. The Vroom Broom was nowhere in sight. Witchiepoo must be out lunching or taking in a movie on her senior citizens discount with the Blue Hairs.
Em's car was not on the street so she must be out doing something terribly important.
Chuck's car - What does Chuck drive again? The parking situation is tight on the one way street, only one block long. There were no driveways. So Chuck normally parked ON THE LAWN to make the strenuous waddle from vehicle to dwelling more manageable. But that appalling habit was the only thing J. had ever observed about the car. In any case, there was no Batmobile on the crab grass. (That frankly, Chuck had better decide to volunteer to cut. And soon.) But could it be among the cars parked along the curb?
J. stood in front of the house he grew up in and wracked his considerable brain trying to think of what lame-o car Chuck drives.
And then he had a thought that struck him like a lightening bolt.
He stood in front of the house he grew up in trying to figure out who was home so he could decide whether or not to go to the door.
The house he grew up in.
The house that is always unlocked.
The house whose door is (figuratively speaking, of course) standing open with a welcome mat in place.
His home.
His home.
Suddenly he was less sure about the rules. For decades he's announce his arrival as he walked in the door. At any time of day or night. He'd putter and fix things. Take a nap on the couch. Retrieve things like yearbooks or photos from his room. Nothing was off limits. Not the fridge. Not the pool. His room still his room.
And now, his parents' bedroom and his bedroom had been transformed into the "honeymoon suite" - a bedroom and a TV room, outfitted with the furniture, flat screen and gaming system Em and Chuck managed to buy while they were not saving for their wedding or some sort of independent housing.
Would the door be locked?
Would he be asked to call first before popping over in the future?
Would he be turned away at the door if his mother were not home?
He took one long last gaze and turned to walk to his car.
He did not need to know today.
The next day, J. called his mother on the phone a couple of times to see what opportunities existed for gathering with her and his girls to celebrate her birthday. Throughout the day the phone went repeatedly to voice mail, either ignored or not heard by Endora and the newlyweds. J, accepted the fact that it was probably coincidental. It was a Saturday; they could be doing anything. No need to assume anything sinister was afoot. Just the same, he decided to drive over to her house to pay a visit.
He made his way into the neighborhood and examined the car situation in search of some clue as to who might be home. The Vroom Broom was nowhere in sight. Witchiepoo must be out lunching or taking in a movie on her senior citizens discount with the Blue Hairs.
Em's car was not on the street so she must be out doing something terribly important.
Chuck's car - What does Chuck drive again? The parking situation is tight on the one way street, only one block long. There were no driveways. So Chuck normally parked ON THE LAWN to make the strenuous waddle from vehicle to dwelling more manageable. But that appalling habit was the only thing J. had ever observed about the car. In any case, there was no Batmobile on the crab grass. (That frankly, Chuck had better decide to volunteer to cut. And soon.) But could it be among the cars parked along the curb?
J. stood in front of the house he grew up in and wracked his considerable brain trying to think of what lame-o car Chuck drives.
And then he had a thought that struck him like a lightening bolt.
He stood in front of the house he grew up in trying to figure out who was home so he could decide whether or not to go to the door.
The house he grew up in.
The house that is always unlocked.
The house whose door is (figuratively speaking, of course) standing open with a welcome mat in place.
His home.
His home.
Suddenly he was less sure about the rules. For decades he's announce his arrival as he walked in the door. At any time of day or night. He'd putter and fix things. Take a nap on the couch. Retrieve things like yearbooks or photos from his room. Nothing was off limits. Not the fridge. Not the pool. His room still his room.
And now, his parents' bedroom and his bedroom had been transformed into the "honeymoon suite" - a bedroom and a TV room, outfitted with the furniture, flat screen and gaming system Em and Chuck managed to buy while they were not saving for their wedding or some sort of independent housing.
Would the door be locked?
Would he be asked to call first before popping over in the future?
Would he be turned away at the door if his mother were not home?
He took one long last gaze and turned to walk to his car.
He did not need to know today.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
What's My Line?
More deafening silence.
No barky calls from Sheila interceding on the newlyweds’ behalf following J.’s abbreviated conversation with Em and Chuck’s appalling failure to respond, retaliate or revile – or do anything but retreat. Really.
No screechy re-treads of any one of a variety of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane rants from Endora on the same topic – and perhaps a few more that she’s imagined.
No very grown up phone call from Em wanting to explain. (Must be that she doesn’t have J.’s number. Maybe she can get it from his daughter…)
But really, what could anyone say?
Perhaps:
“We admit we were manipulating the guest list and are mad as a hornet that you didn’t fall for it. You usually do! What gives?”
Or maybe:
“Four o’clock on a Friday is an admittedly obtuse and insensitive time to plan a party. It’s even too early for Happy Hour. I am sorry that I assumed everyone had as little to do as I do, and failed to realize that most others lead far more interesting and demanding lives, with multitudes of activities and pressing engagements to juggle. Who knew?!”
Or:
“You caught us being sneaky and trying to lure your daughter to the dark side and persuade her to disobey you since you put your foot down. And now we are running around in little circles trying to figure out what to do!”
Or even:
“Forgive Em her stupidity. She is just too brainless to grasp that calling your daughter was totally inappropriate and transparent in its mission to undermine your authority as a parent by appealing to your daughter’s newfound 18-ness.”
Or how about:
“Em is not only painfully dim-witted but colossally self-absorbed. We did talk about the fact that you were not coming to dinner, and she should have known, but since the conversation did not directly mention her name, or reference her wedding or weight-loss regimen, all she absorbed was ‘Yakkety yakkety yakkety. Blah blah blah blah blah.’ And she called your daughter because those are the only 10 digits she can remember in the right order. Please don’t hold it against her.”
The possibilities are endless. But I think J. would be satisfied with two words.
"We're sorry."
No barky calls from Sheila interceding on the newlyweds’ behalf following J.’s abbreviated conversation with Em and Chuck’s appalling failure to respond, retaliate or revile – or do anything but retreat. Really.
No screechy re-treads of any one of a variety of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane rants from Endora on the same topic – and perhaps a few more that she’s imagined.
No very grown up phone call from Em wanting to explain. (Must be that she doesn’t have J.’s number. Maybe she can get it from his daughter…)
But really, what could anyone say?
Perhaps:
“We admit we were manipulating the guest list and are mad as a hornet that you didn’t fall for it. You usually do! What gives?”
Or maybe:
“Four o’clock on a Friday is an admittedly obtuse and insensitive time to plan a party. It’s even too early for Happy Hour. I am sorry that I assumed everyone had as little to do as I do, and failed to realize that most others lead far more interesting and demanding lives, with multitudes of activities and pressing engagements to juggle. Who knew?!”
Or:
“You caught us being sneaky and trying to lure your daughter to the dark side and persuade her to disobey you since you put your foot down. And now we are running around in little circles trying to figure out what to do!”
Or even:
“Forgive Em her stupidity. She is just too brainless to grasp that calling your daughter was totally inappropriate and transparent in its mission to undermine your authority as a parent by appealing to your daughter’s newfound 18-ness.”
Or how about:
“Em is not only painfully dim-witted but colossally self-absorbed. We did talk about the fact that you were not coming to dinner, and she should have known, but since the conversation did not directly mention her name, or reference her wedding or weight-loss regimen, all she absorbed was ‘Yakkety yakkety yakkety. Blah blah blah blah blah.’ And she called your daughter because those are the only 10 digits she can remember in the right order. Please don’t hold it against her.”
The possibilities are endless. But I think J. would be satisfied with two words.
"We're sorry."
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
What Would Donald Hollinger Do?
I can only imagine the fainting spells, and gasps of horror at J.'s reprehensible behavior. How dare he make such an accusation of sweet and innocent Em? How dare he use such language and insult her with his notions about the purity of her intentions?
Thank God it had been an actual conversation or it would be forwarded to every and all cell phones in our network and going viral by midnight.
J. sat and waited. The phone call was satisfying on many levels, but Em was only one small, dim-witted part of the larger problem. The ranks are closed. There would be other attacks. But, nonetheless, he'd made his point. He had seen through Em's thinly veiled agenda and had called her on it. She may think she had deftly handled his objections, that her obvious reputation for truth and innocence would clearly work in her favor, but he had hit his mark. And they all knew it.
What he was waiting for was a call back.
It would not be from Sheila. She'd had exactly one confrontational conversation in her adult life, and it had been with me, and it had been an abysmal ass-kicking. Even her mood stabilizers and whatever other therapeutic whammy she may subscribe to could not motivate her to go down that ill fated path again.
It might come from Endora. The self-proclaimed matriarch of the Cullen family might actually make a call, but would have to be coached on content, and would call only when she knew she'd get your voicemail so she could screech and chastise without the possibility of any type of retort or counterattack. The worst kind of bully. (Note to self: learn how to transcribe voice mail to YouTube with hilarious synchronized sock puppet show)
But really, the call should come from Chuck. J. has said that if someone insulted or denigrated me, he didn't care if the guy was Mike Tyson, he'd knock on the guy's door and he'd have to answer to him. But we all knew that Chuck, the perpetual nursing student who cooks and cleans and dotes on the older ladies in the family, would never call J. No, he'd retreat to the bosom of his circle of women, and nod his head in agreement that Uncle J. was a big meany.
We've seen this side of Chuck before. Once, in an obvious lapse in reason, Chuck had offended a young woman in the family in a way that could not go without comment. To not mention it would have been to accept that he'd crossed a boundary. J. did not rant and rave and make a federal case out of it. He merely called Chuck and said he'd like to talk about it.
Before he knew it, Sheila and Endora and all the other hens had gotten involved and were backing J. off of the matter like a rabid pack of she-wolves. So Chuck, rather than facing J. had rallied the women and hidden behind their aprons.
I don't know what Donald Hollinger would do in a situation like this. But I have to believe that he'd grow a pair.
Thank God it had been an actual conversation or it would be forwarded to every and all cell phones in our network and going viral by midnight.
J. sat and waited. The phone call was satisfying on many levels, but Em was only one small, dim-witted part of the larger problem. The ranks are closed. There would be other attacks. But, nonetheless, he'd made his point. He had seen through Em's thinly veiled agenda and had called her on it. She may think she had deftly handled his objections, that her obvious reputation for truth and innocence would clearly work in her favor, but he had hit his mark. And they all knew it.
What he was waiting for was a call back.
It would not be from Sheila. She'd had exactly one confrontational conversation in her adult life, and it had been with me, and it had been an abysmal ass-kicking. Even her mood stabilizers and whatever other therapeutic whammy she may subscribe to could not motivate her to go down that ill fated path again.
It might come from Endora. The self-proclaimed matriarch of the Cullen family might actually make a call, but would have to be coached on content, and would call only when she knew she'd get your voicemail so she could screech and chastise without the possibility of any type of retort or counterattack. The worst kind of bully. (Note to self: learn how to transcribe voice mail to YouTube with hilarious synchronized sock puppet show)
But really, the call should come from Chuck. J. has said that if someone insulted or denigrated me, he didn't care if the guy was Mike Tyson, he'd knock on the guy's door and he'd have to answer to him. But we all knew that Chuck, the perpetual nursing student who cooks and cleans and dotes on the older ladies in the family, would never call J. No, he'd retreat to the bosom of his circle of women, and nod his head in agreement that Uncle J. was a big meany.
We've seen this side of Chuck before. Once, in an obvious lapse in reason, Chuck had offended a young woman in the family in a way that could not go without comment. To not mention it would have been to accept that he'd crossed a boundary. J. did not rant and rave and make a federal case out of it. He merely called Chuck and said he'd like to talk about it.
Before he knew it, Sheila and Endora and all the other hens had gotten involved and were backing J. off of the matter like a rabid pack of she-wolves. So Chuck, rather than facing J. had rallied the women and hidden behind their aprons.
I don't know what Donald Hollinger would do in a situation like this. But I have to believe that he'd grow a pair.
Monday, May 24, 2010
The Man from U.N.C.L.E
J. was seething.
He asked his daughter exactly how the conversation unfolded. There was very little if anything nebulous about it. Em had called his daughter directly and had extended an invitation just to her.
Did the Princess think for a moment that her relationship with J.'s daughter in any way eclipsed his own?
Was she leveraging what she thought was an eternal bond of servitude as a bridesmaid to pressure the girl into going, when it was already decided by her father that she would not?
Was she, a crafty and clever first year parochial school teacher, imploring J.'s daughter to exercise her newly gained rights as an 18 year old who can make her own decisions independent of the wishes of her parents?
Mrs. Scungili was feeling pretty powerful, wasn't she?
After taking a long car ride to alleviate his homicidal urges, he returned home to call Em directly.
He was picturing the scene. Sheila was probably over for a visit to look at the wedding video one more time. Mommom and Chuck and Em were all seated around the coffee table scratching their heads over the fact that their plan to manipulate the guest list had been met with uncharacteristic failure. (Where are Chuck's superhero powers when he needs them?) They'd inadvertently excluded J.'s girls. What to do, what to do?
Worse, they all assumed that J. had made the decision for his family without their involvement (Umm, hello, it is a decision, not a Constitutional Ammendment! We don't need to get the children's buy in every time!) His sour grapes from the wedding were staining his judgement and he was keeping his children away to spite them!
The perky and effervescent little Mrs. had a Girl Power thought! She would call J.'s oldest daughter. She was betting that she had no idea what had been decided for her and she'd be incensed! And she had such deep, abiding love and adoration for Em that she would thank her profusely for letting her know, and confront her evil wicked father and then insist that she be allowed to do the right thing. You go, Norma Rae!
J. picked up the phone and dialed Em. Knowing full well that she'd be sitting around in her Snuggy within earshot of his mother and Chuck, he wanted to send a shot over the bow that told them all the jig was up.
"Em, it's Uncle J. What was the purpose of your call to my daughter?"
"What do you mean, Uncle J.?" Surely she was sitting doe-eyed and blinking in her feigned innocence.
"You called, Em, and invited just her to Mommom's party. And you must already know that I have said we can not be there, for a littany of reasons I do not need to explain to you."
"Oh, no Uncle J.! I called to invite you all. I just called her because her number is in my phone."
"Em, you expect me to believe that you have been sitting there with your grandmother all day, and have talked to your mother 16 times, and you were somehow unaware that the party has become an epic boondoggle? And that my daughter, whose IQ by the way far exceeds yours, somehow misunderstood that your invitation was for all of us, and not just for her? Em, it seems to me that your call was an attempt to manipulate this situation."
"Oh no, Uncle J. I had no idea."
And to that, J. replied, as his father might have, "Em, you are a lying sack of s***."
And she, as one might have expected, simply hung up.
He asked his daughter exactly how the conversation unfolded. There was very little if anything nebulous about it. Em had called his daughter directly and had extended an invitation just to her.
Did the Princess think for a moment that her relationship with J.'s daughter in any way eclipsed his own?
Was she leveraging what she thought was an eternal bond of servitude as a bridesmaid to pressure the girl into going, when it was already decided by her father that she would not?
Was she, a crafty and clever first year parochial school teacher, imploring J.'s daughter to exercise her newly gained rights as an 18 year old who can make her own decisions independent of the wishes of her parents?
Mrs. Scungili was feeling pretty powerful, wasn't she?
After taking a long car ride to alleviate his homicidal urges, he returned home to call Em directly.
He was picturing the scene. Sheila was probably over for a visit to look at the wedding video one more time. Mommom and Chuck and Em were all seated around the coffee table scratching their heads over the fact that their plan to manipulate the guest list had been met with uncharacteristic failure. (Where are Chuck's superhero powers when he needs them?) They'd inadvertently excluded J.'s girls. What to do, what to do?
Worse, they all assumed that J. had made the decision for his family without their involvement (Umm, hello, it is a decision, not a Constitutional Ammendment! We don't need to get the children's buy in every time!) His sour grapes from the wedding were staining his judgement and he was keeping his children away to spite them!
The perky and effervescent little Mrs. had a Girl Power thought! She would call J.'s oldest daughter. She was betting that she had no idea what had been decided for her and she'd be incensed! And she had such deep, abiding love and adoration for Em that she would thank her profusely for letting her know, and confront her evil wicked father and then insist that she be allowed to do the right thing. You go, Norma Rae!
J. picked up the phone and dialed Em. Knowing full well that she'd be sitting around in her Snuggy within earshot of his mother and Chuck, he wanted to send a shot over the bow that told them all the jig was up.
"Em, it's Uncle J. What was the purpose of your call to my daughter?"
"What do you mean, Uncle J.?" Surely she was sitting doe-eyed and blinking in her feigned innocence.
"You called, Em, and invited just her to Mommom's party. And you must already know that I have said we can not be there, for a littany of reasons I do not need to explain to you."
"Oh, no Uncle J.! I called to invite you all. I just called her because her number is in my phone."
"Em, you expect me to believe that you have been sitting there with your grandmother all day, and have talked to your mother 16 times, and you were somehow unaware that the party has become an epic boondoggle? And that my daughter, whose IQ by the way far exceeds yours, somehow misunderstood that your invitation was for all of us, and not just for her? Em, it seems to me that your call was an attempt to manipulate this situation."
"Oh no, Uncle J. I had no idea."
And to that, J. replied, as his father might have, "Em, you are a lying sack of s***."
And she, as one might have expected, simply hung up.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Sheila O'Malley, Sheila O'Malley
I am not sure which is more insane: Planning a party at 4 o'clock on Friday or expecting people to be able to show up (Fraternities the world over notwithstanding)
Unlesss it truly wasn't the customary insanity or ineptness we'd come to expect at all. What if it really was some madcap, not-so-subtle, ham-handed plot hatched by J.'s hapless Mary Hartman-esque sister and the other demented residents of their little Fernwood?
Knowing his mother would take high offense to his family being AWOL from the birthday gig, and with even just a smidge of egging on, high drama would ensue, J. called his mother to explain his anticipated absence.
It was clear from the first syllables that Sheila had called and had boo hoo hooed to her first. "J. was mean to me and I wear glasses!" or some similarly sniveling pea-brained whine from her prepubescent repertoire. As only a mother can, Endora defended the indefensible (and the defensless Sheila O'Malley Sheila O'Malley who "must have been born under an unlucky star...") (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0074021/quotes)
J. remarked that the whole plan appeared to be tailored to fit the new Mrs. Scungili's burgeoning social calendar.
"Well she is my granddaughter."
Yes she is, but she is one of 14 people expected at the table and 7 of them will have to jump through hoops of flame and sacrifice equally important engagements to be there at the appointed hour.
That night while J. had dinner with the girls, he told them about the plans that had been made and the multitude of conflicts. Since they'd have to miss it, they'd need to think of something special to do instead - mindful of needing to borrow time from their own mother, and that it was her birthday weekend too.
Brunch - lunch - barbeque. All possible contenders. The weekend was supposed to be beautiful. Maybe and outdoor cafe!
As it often does, J.'s teen's phone rang as dinner was ending. She left the room to take the call but returned moments later remarking to the caller, "Hold on, I have to ask my Dad."
J. looked up expecting a question about an after dinner latte or curfew leniency for a late movie. "Dad, can I go to Mommom's dinner?"
Turning purple, J. inquired as to the identity of the caller.
"It's Em. She called to invite me."
Through gritted teeth J. managed to hiss,
"TELL HER YOU'LL HAVE TO CALL HER BACK."
Unlesss it truly wasn't the customary insanity or ineptness we'd come to expect at all. What if it really was some madcap, not-so-subtle, ham-handed plot hatched by J.'s hapless Mary Hartman-esque sister and the other demented residents of their little Fernwood?
Knowing his mother would take high offense to his family being AWOL from the birthday gig, and with even just a smidge of egging on, high drama would ensue, J. called his mother to explain his anticipated absence.
It was clear from the first syllables that Sheila had called and had boo hoo hooed to her first. "J. was mean to me and I wear glasses!" or some similarly sniveling pea-brained whine from her prepubescent repertoire. As only a mother can, Endora defended the indefensible (and the defensless Sheila O'Malley Sheila O'Malley who "must have been born under an unlucky star...") (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0074021/quotes)
J. remarked that the whole plan appeared to be tailored to fit the new Mrs. Scungili's burgeoning social calendar.
"Well she is my granddaughter."
Yes she is, but she is one of 14 people expected at the table and 7 of them will have to jump through hoops of flame and sacrifice equally important engagements to be there at the appointed hour.
That night while J. had dinner with the girls, he told them about the plans that had been made and the multitude of conflicts. Since they'd have to miss it, they'd need to think of something special to do instead - mindful of needing to borrow time from their own mother, and that it was her birthday weekend too.
Brunch - lunch - barbeque. All possible contenders. The weekend was supposed to be beautiful. Maybe and outdoor cafe!
As it often does, J.'s teen's phone rang as dinner was ending. She left the room to take the call but returned moments later remarking to the caller, "Hold on, I have to ask my Dad."
J. looked up expecting a question about an after dinner latte or curfew leniency for a late movie. "Dad, can I go to Mommom's dinner?"
Turning purple, J. inquired as to the identity of the caller.
"It's Em. She called to invite me."
Through gritted teeth J. managed to hiss,
"TELL HER YOU'LL HAVE TO CALL HER BACK."
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Guess Whose Not Coming to Dinner
Things are looking better. There is no risk of a showdown in front of the kids - at least not my two. J.'s kids will likely get a hall pass from their mother to join in the fun for a while, whenever it is.
Maybe this is better than we'd expected. A opportunity to reacquaint ourselves with how to peaceably coexist. No weapons drawn, but no overly optimistic expectations for olive branches to be extended either. Guarded. Pleasant. Prepared for battle but hoping to avoid one. Not exactly peace talks. Not exactly a Mexican stand off. (Whatever that is. Another thing Estelle used to say)
I can do this. A journey of 1,000 miles begins with one small step. Bring on the first step!
And then out of nowhere, the most bizarre thing. J. called to tell me that he'd gotten a message from his sister. Dinner was going to be on Friday.
At 4 o'clock.
An idiot says what?
He called her back. She answers with the voice as flat as her affect.
"Sheila, did I hear that right? Four o'clock? On a workday?"
"Yeah." (There's the croaky voice again. Please adjust your dose of mood stabilizers)"That's the best the restaurant could do."
"So, let's go somewhere else! It's not like it is some coveted 5-star-month-long-wait-list kind of place. It's a chain."
Heavy sigh.
"Sheila, I am sure 4 pm is just fine for you and Mom and everyone else without meaningful employment, but we have responsibilities - careers and obligations - and the kids have a slew of activities. We can't just drop everything on short notice."
His argument went on - I am in another state until at least 5. He has an appointment an hour away that will end at 4. Most of the gainfully employed of the planet would have a tough time getting there. There are games and dances and an orthodontist appointment. All of this falling on deaf ears, evidently.
"Well," she whined in frustration. "Em has something to do on Saturday."
Princess is evidently still on stage. "So the world has to continue to be dictated by Em's whims? She has something to do, so we will sacrifice 6 other people so she can be there? In favor of what? Her nail appointment? We all have to race around at the last minute to accommodate her?"
"Well Friday is Mom's actual birthday."
Really. This is a 75 year old woman. Not a 9 year old. I am sure she will not go to pieces if we do not celebrate on the exact date and precise moment of birth. Better make sure there are 75 candles plus one for good luck or there will be pandemonium!
J. continued. "Sheila, this is a perfectly idiotic plan. I will see if anyone in my family can make it but I am not making any promises." He hung up.
While he was relating the hare-brained scheme du jour to me on the phone, Sheila called him back. He let it go to voicemail. Enough of her simpering already.
Her message was simple. And she'd clearly missed the point. She offered to pick up J.s girls so they could make it.
So there it was. They'd done it again. They'd planned a celebration and conveniently scheduled it at a time and place that would nearly guarantee the exclusion of the people they knew they had to invite but preferred not to be there.
J.
The much beleaguered Tim.
Me.
My children.
They would make special arrangements to ensure that J's girls could be there though.
J. would be dipped in s*** twice over before he'd let his girls be pawns in this scheme.
He called her back.
"Sheila? It's J. Listen, the girls have school activities and sporting events and we really can't just skip all that and make arrangements at work on such short notice, so don't go nuts trying to rearrange things. (As if!) We'll do something for Mom separately. Maybe brunch. This can be just your family and Mom. Have fun."
They'd get the guest list they want and Endora gets to grouse that J. and his entire family blew off her birthday dinner, too?
Not if we can help it.
Maybe this is better than we'd expected. A opportunity to reacquaint ourselves with how to peaceably coexist. No weapons drawn, but no overly optimistic expectations for olive branches to be extended either. Guarded. Pleasant. Prepared for battle but hoping to avoid one. Not exactly peace talks. Not exactly a Mexican stand off. (Whatever that is. Another thing Estelle used to say)
I can do this. A journey of 1,000 miles begins with one small step. Bring on the first step!
And then out of nowhere, the most bizarre thing. J. called to tell me that he'd gotten a message from his sister. Dinner was going to be on Friday.
At 4 o'clock.
An idiot says what?
He called her back. She answers with the voice as flat as her affect.
"Sheila, did I hear that right? Four o'clock? On a workday?"
"Yeah." (There's the croaky voice again. Please adjust your dose of mood stabilizers)"That's the best the restaurant could do."
"So, let's go somewhere else! It's not like it is some coveted 5-star-month-long-wait-list kind of place. It's a chain."
Heavy sigh.
"Sheila, I am sure 4 pm is just fine for you and Mom and everyone else without meaningful employment, but we have responsibilities - careers and obligations - and the kids have a slew of activities. We can't just drop everything on short notice."
His argument went on - I am in another state until at least 5. He has an appointment an hour away that will end at 4. Most of the gainfully employed of the planet would have a tough time getting there. There are games and dances and an orthodontist appointment. All of this falling on deaf ears, evidently.
"Well," she whined in frustration. "Em has something to do on Saturday."
Princess is evidently still on stage. "So the world has to continue to be dictated by Em's whims? She has something to do, so we will sacrifice 6 other people so she can be there? In favor of what? Her nail appointment? We all have to race around at the last minute to accommodate her?"
"Well Friday is Mom's actual birthday."
Really. This is a 75 year old woman. Not a 9 year old. I am sure she will not go to pieces if we do not celebrate on the exact date and precise moment of birth. Better make sure there are 75 candles plus one for good luck or there will be pandemonium!
J. continued. "Sheila, this is a perfectly idiotic plan. I will see if anyone in my family can make it but I am not making any promises." He hung up.
While he was relating the hare-brained scheme du jour to me on the phone, Sheila called him back. He let it go to voicemail. Enough of her simpering already.
Her message was simple. And she'd clearly missed the point. She offered to pick up J.s girls so they could make it.
So there it was. They'd done it again. They'd planned a celebration and conveniently scheduled it at a time and place that would nearly guarantee the exclusion of the people they knew they had to invite but preferred not to be there.
J.
The much beleaguered Tim.
Me.
My children.
They would make special arrangements to ensure that J's girls could be there though.
J. would be dipped in s*** twice over before he'd let his girls be pawns in this scheme.
He called her back.
"Sheila? It's J. Listen, the girls have school activities and sporting events and we really can't just skip all that and make arrangements at work on such short notice, so don't go nuts trying to rearrange things. (As if!) We'll do something for Mom separately. Maybe brunch. This can be just your family and Mom. Have fun."
They'd get the guest list they want and Endora gets to grouse that J. and his entire family blew off her birthday dinner, too?
Not if we can help it.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
The Girl With Something Extra
I have a few days to prepare. Perhaps this is a good first step - a public place, no home field advantage for anyone, the ability to order an emergency cocktail.
Endora's birthday falls at the end of my custody week with the kids. I make an assumption that the kids will be with Lars on the TBD day and decide to test the waters a little with them - mention the potential for a party of sorts (spell that C-A-K-E) and feel out their general interest in or resistance to the idea - and if they are game, approach Lars about a couple of hours of borrowed time. If they are not game, I have no shot.
Another drawback to custody guidelines: The kids have a ready-made excuse to avoid things they are not especially jazzed by. Like anything requiring sitting still, periods of enforced quiet, wearing a tie, or eating a meal that does not include french fries. The Ballet, non-essential religious ceremonies, and evidently, J.'s mom's birthday all qualify.
I start with the path of least resistance, my daughter. She seemed to like Endora, and was always doing sweet things for her: Bringing her books from the teachers' library, getting snacks for her when she got one for herself. Surely she'd be game.
Maybe not.
I tell her that Endora's 75th birthday is coming and we'll be celebrating with a dinner party.
"When?" she inquires, one eyebrow up.
"It's coming next week. We'll have to talk about it. The party will probably be while you are with Dad."
"Oh thank God."
"Oh! You wouldn't want me to talk to Dad to see if you could join us for a little while?"
"No way!"
Baffled, I remarked, "I thought you guys liked each other. You seemed to get along so well. Didn't you watch Ghost Hunters every day?"
"Mom. I was only nice to her so she would be nice to me!" She had the lisp going full tilt and was winding up for the final hand and head gesture. She told me that Endora had been mean to her brother for no reason, and he had just gone to his room everyday to become one with his Playstation. She was not about to miss out on Ghost Hunters so she'd played the game. Did unto others. Killed her with kindness. Commanded the clicker as a result.
I am horrified. I'd had no idea. My Mother of the Year crown was tarnishing even as we spoke.
My daughter, safely assuming there would be no pressure to attend the ticker tape parade for Endora, turned to me and asked if I'd be going.
"Yes, sweetie. I'll be there."
She took my hand, her little face so earnest. "Mom, will J. be there, right by your side? The whole entire time? In case there is any, you know, funny bithneth?"
I am stunned. (I dismiss the first panic attack that she had somehow read this blog) She clearly has absorbed much. She's drawn some frighteningly accurate conclusions. She is worried for me. I can not brush that off.
"Peanut, I understand your worries. But you should know, J. has stood by my side for much scarier things than some dumb disagreement with his mother, and of course he'll be by my side if anyone forgets their manners or gets nasty. Don't you worry."
"But Mom! What if they are sneaky and he doesn't hear it? Or it doesn't sound like it's mean but it really is? Chuck does that all the time and everyone thinks he's just being funny!"
Schoolyard politics have taught this kid a lot.
"I know that can happen, sweetie, but I don't think it will. If it does, you know I can take care of myself better than anyone, and anyone else I need to take care of too.
"I know you can, Mom. Just like Grandmomstella."
Yes, I may just have to strap on a reserve tank of my inner Estelle. Wouldn't want to get caught in a cross fire changing clips in the heat of battle.
Endora's birthday falls at the end of my custody week with the kids. I make an assumption that the kids will be with Lars on the TBD day and decide to test the waters a little with them - mention the potential for a party of sorts (spell that C-A-K-E) and feel out their general interest in or resistance to the idea - and if they are game, approach Lars about a couple of hours of borrowed time. If they are not game, I have no shot.
Another drawback to custody guidelines: The kids have a ready-made excuse to avoid things they are not especially jazzed by. Like anything requiring sitting still, periods of enforced quiet, wearing a tie, or eating a meal that does not include french fries. The Ballet, non-essential religious ceremonies, and evidently, J.'s mom's birthday all qualify.
I start with the path of least resistance, my daughter. She seemed to like Endora, and was always doing sweet things for her: Bringing her books from the teachers' library, getting snacks for her when she got one for herself. Surely she'd be game.
Maybe not.
I tell her that Endora's 75th birthday is coming and we'll be celebrating with a dinner party.
"When?" she inquires, one eyebrow up.
"It's coming next week. We'll have to talk about it. The party will probably be while you are with Dad."
"Oh thank God."
"Oh! You wouldn't want me to talk to Dad to see if you could join us for a little while?"
"No way!"
Baffled, I remarked, "I thought you guys liked each other. You seemed to get along so well. Didn't you watch Ghost Hunters every day?"
"Mom. I was only nice to her so she would be nice to me!" She had the lisp going full tilt and was winding up for the final hand and head gesture. She told me that Endora had been mean to her brother for no reason, and he had just gone to his room everyday to become one with his Playstation. She was not about to miss out on Ghost Hunters so she'd played the game. Did unto others. Killed her with kindness. Commanded the clicker as a result.
I am horrified. I'd had no idea. My Mother of the Year crown was tarnishing even as we spoke.
My daughter, safely assuming there would be no pressure to attend the ticker tape parade for Endora, turned to me and asked if I'd be going.
"Yes, sweetie. I'll be there."
She took my hand, her little face so earnest. "Mom, will J. be there, right by your side? The whole entire time? In case there is any, you know, funny bithneth?"
I am stunned. (I dismiss the first panic attack that she had somehow read this blog) She clearly has absorbed much. She's drawn some frighteningly accurate conclusions. She is worried for me. I can not brush that off.
"Peanut, I understand your worries. But you should know, J. has stood by my side for much scarier things than some dumb disagreement with his mother, and of course he'll be by my side if anyone forgets their manners or gets nasty. Don't you worry."
"But Mom! What if they are sneaky and he doesn't hear it? Or it doesn't sound like it's mean but it really is? Chuck does that all the time and everyone thinks he's just being funny!"
Schoolyard politics have taught this kid a lot.
"I know that can happen, sweetie, but I don't think it will. If it does, you know I can take care of myself better than anyone, and anyone else I need to take care of too.
"I know you can, Mom. Just like Grandmomstella."
Yes, I may just have to strap on a reserve tank of my inner Estelle. Wouldn't want to get caught in a cross fire changing clips in the heat of battle.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
That's My Mama
Mothers Day began to fade from view in the rear view mirror and the rest of the clan had to focus on the next gig. J.’s mom’s birthday. A big one. 75.
J. had been blown slightly off course by the bizarre shell game that Mothers Day had become, but followed the detour signs back to familiar territory. The birthday would be a regular family gathering. There were hundreds a year. This one would more than likely not make a huge departure from tradition.
First up, the obligatory phone call from Sheila, complete with a voice leaden with victimization and a tone that moans, “Me again, burdening myself voluntarily with another thankless, laborious task that I lack the requisite talent to accomplish and will surely end up in a blithering state of self loathing over. Call me back to feel some hint of my oppression and feel free to openly flog me like everyone else. Woe is me.”
Please don’t let this woman plan my birthday party. Not exactly reeking with happy-to-be-alive.
Since she’ll do just about anything for a little human interaction, she leaves no clues on the voicemail. No proposed dates, or times or locations or invitations to propose anything yourself.
Just call her back. Yippee.
J. does.
Through sighs of despair she imparts only that it will be dinner, that a particular franchise Italian place tops the list of locations (different from the rehearsal franchise Italian place), and the date and time are TBD. Oh and Sheila can’t possibly afford it all herself, can J. help?
Finances again? Are we on food stamps? Unless we are inviting the local chapter of the AARP it is hardly a cast of thousands. It’s Mommom and two average sized families. Hardly need to take out a loan for that. J. toys with a response. “Ummmm, Sheila, the wedding is over, and the financial sacking and plundering is complete. Of course we’ll split the bill. This isn’t exactly a State Dinner at the White House.”
But he doesn’t. She’s clueless. No need to point that out to her. She is oozing self pity and so completely bereft of confidence that the razzing may send her into the bowels of despondency. So he simply agrees to the obvious, that of course they’ll share the expense of the celebration. (Caution: Better make sure there is no 3 tier cake with The Golden Girls caricatures all over it.)
And in the last waning moments of conversation, she mentions that the kids and I are invited.
How touching.
And so here we are at the starting gate. Chomping at the bit. Anxious to see how the competition has trained for the event. Alert and observant as Secret Service Agents looking to see where the first shot might be fired from and practiced in what our responses will be.
Better make sure the flask fits in the purse.
J. had been blown slightly off course by the bizarre shell game that Mothers Day had become, but followed the detour signs back to familiar territory. The birthday would be a regular family gathering. There were hundreds a year. This one would more than likely not make a huge departure from tradition.
First up, the obligatory phone call from Sheila, complete with a voice leaden with victimization and a tone that moans, “Me again, burdening myself voluntarily with another thankless, laborious task that I lack the requisite talent to accomplish and will surely end up in a blithering state of self loathing over. Call me back to feel some hint of my oppression and feel free to openly flog me like everyone else. Woe is me.”
Please don’t let this woman plan my birthday party. Not exactly reeking with happy-to-be-alive.
Since she’ll do just about anything for a little human interaction, she leaves no clues on the voicemail. No proposed dates, or times or locations or invitations to propose anything yourself.
Just call her back. Yippee.
J. does.
Through sighs of despair she imparts only that it will be dinner, that a particular franchise Italian place tops the list of locations (different from the rehearsal franchise Italian place), and the date and time are TBD. Oh and Sheila can’t possibly afford it all herself, can J. help?
Finances again? Are we on food stamps? Unless we are inviting the local chapter of the AARP it is hardly a cast of thousands. It’s Mommom and two average sized families. Hardly need to take out a loan for that. J. toys with a response. “Ummmm, Sheila, the wedding is over, and the financial sacking and plundering is complete. Of course we’ll split the bill. This isn’t exactly a State Dinner at the White House.”
But he doesn’t. She’s clueless. No need to point that out to her. She is oozing self pity and so completely bereft of confidence that the razzing may send her into the bowels of despondency. So he simply agrees to the obvious, that of course they’ll share the expense of the celebration. (Caution: Better make sure there is no 3 tier cake with The Golden Girls caricatures all over it.)
And in the last waning moments of conversation, she mentions that the kids and I are invited.
How touching.
And so here we are at the starting gate. Chomping at the bit. Anxious to see how the competition has trained for the event. Alert and observant as Secret Service Agents looking to see where the first shot might be fired from and practiced in what our responses will be.
Better make sure the flask fits in the purse.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Grudgy, Wudgy was a Bear
So Mothers Day came and went with a surprising lack of Mother.
J. was baffled by the unavailability of his mother on the very day designed to honor her most. The day all manner of adolescent upheaval, and hurt feelings, and failures to communicate (and yes, disapproval of one’s atrocious voting record) all pale in comparison to the importance of the day. Most moms clear the calendar, keep the phone lines open, stay at home, remain available, unlock the door, and put the coffee on. If she knows you are coming, she bakes a cake.
So it is a little troubling that Endora vanished for such a long period of time with a fairly flimsy excuse. (No Meryl Streep, her acting job just a little transparent.) J. felt it safe to assume that she was celebrating with a less prickly segment of the family. One without any high expectations for accountability and decorum and manners and propriety.
Could be a coincidence. Could be more than that. Could be much more than that.
I had a hateful old aunt who died an old maid and was every inch the bitter old hag you would expect from someone who toiled away at a mundane clerical job at a utility company all her life. Who spent the evenings of the prime of her life caring for her mother. Whose health and good looks went the way of the dodo way ahead of the curve. And who never had a partner to share life’s joys and sorrows with, even as the lives of people around her evolved or came to an end, one by one, year after year. Aunty had brothers and sisters and cousins and in-laws, but as their lives all took flight and hers did not, she became increasingly more cantankerous of nature and malignant of disposition. Yet we continued to invite her to dinner, include her at birthdays, bring presents at Christmas. And then one day, she began to close herself off. Lock her doors, unplug the phone, ignore the doorbell, vanish for days at a time to take casino bus trips and generally secede from the union.
Funny thing though. She would often complain that no one called. No one visited. She could be “dead in this house for three days and no one would know it.” But we would call. We would visit. We would extend invitations and worry how she was getting about in the snow. She just would not make herself available to receive those acts of love and courtesy.
So now…is Endora taking a page from Aunty’s book and building the same case? So she can tell all the blue hairs in the Widow’s Club how her wicked son and his hateful lady friend didn’t even have the respect and consideration to pay her a visit on Mothers Day? So she can lament and bemoan how he’s changed and how he was never so callous until I came along? Nothing like this ever happened before he took up with that uppity beyotch!
And to think my voting record was all I had to worry about.
J. was baffled by the unavailability of his mother on the very day designed to honor her most. The day all manner of adolescent upheaval, and hurt feelings, and failures to communicate (and yes, disapproval of one’s atrocious voting record) all pale in comparison to the importance of the day. Most moms clear the calendar, keep the phone lines open, stay at home, remain available, unlock the door, and put the coffee on. If she knows you are coming, she bakes a cake.
So it is a little troubling that Endora vanished for such a long period of time with a fairly flimsy excuse. (No Meryl Streep, her acting job just a little transparent.) J. felt it safe to assume that she was celebrating with a less prickly segment of the family. One without any high expectations for accountability and decorum and manners and propriety.
Could be a coincidence. Could be more than that. Could be much more than that.
I had a hateful old aunt who died an old maid and was every inch the bitter old hag you would expect from someone who toiled away at a mundane clerical job at a utility company all her life. Who spent the evenings of the prime of her life caring for her mother. Whose health and good looks went the way of the dodo way ahead of the curve. And who never had a partner to share life’s joys and sorrows with, even as the lives of people around her evolved or came to an end, one by one, year after year. Aunty had brothers and sisters and cousins and in-laws, but as their lives all took flight and hers did not, she became increasingly more cantankerous of nature and malignant of disposition. Yet we continued to invite her to dinner, include her at birthdays, bring presents at Christmas. And then one day, she began to close herself off. Lock her doors, unplug the phone, ignore the doorbell, vanish for days at a time to take casino bus trips and generally secede from the union.
Funny thing though. She would often complain that no one called. No one visited. She could be “dead in this house for three days and no one would know it.” But we would call. We would visit. We would extend invitations and worry how she was getting about in the snow. She just would not make herself available to receive those acts of love and courtesy.
So now…is Endora taking a page from Aunty’s book and building the same case? So she can tell all the blue hairs in the Widow’s Club how her wicked son and his hateful lady friend didn’t even have the respect and consideration to pay her a visit on Mothers Day? So she can lament and bemoan how he’s changed and how he was never so callous until I came along? Nothing like this ever happened before he took up with that uppity beyotch!
And to think my voting record was all I had to worry about.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Are You My Mother?
Under the best of circumstances, Mothers Day can be a challenge. Whole, completely intact, and fully connected families are complicated. Throw in a strained relationship or two, a divorce, a remarriage, a custody battle or some kind of physical or emotional gap and the potential for stress, if not full on, pedal to the medal 8 cylinder pandemonium is possible.
So, there is the thing with my mother. Mothers Day comes 15 days into a conversational drought instigated by the chasm formed by her discovery that she can not tolerate the way I vote.
Of all things.
I can tolerate – and have tolerated – quite a bit about Estelle that would send a less liberal person running. Inclusive of the way she votes. How ironic. So I call her on Mothers Day, as I should, but choose a time when I know the conversation will be truncated in order to get myself and the kiddos to Mass. Oddly, she mentions that she did not send a card to me because all of the Hallmark stores she went to lacked the required Mothers Day card specifically designed for one’s daughter. And evidently, no other “For Someone Special on Mothers Day” variety would do. I am sure the lesbian parents and transgender families have similar laments. (There is a mint to be made here, people! Someone start an Off the Beaten Path greeting card company please! I'll even give you a name for it: My Two Dads Greetings.) We deftly avoid the subject of politics (the strain in her voice at skipping its normal entrée into regular conversation is audible) and she merely mentions that she finds it troubling that the world is suddenly in financial collapse so abruptly with this administration and… Oh my, where did the morning go? Better get going! Don’t want to get the hairy eyeball from Father.
J.’s drought was likely to be more troubling.
Or not.
Perhaps with the Squatters just having arrived at Mommom’s it was too soon to be doing any entertaining. The lack of an invitation to break bread did not mean anything necessarily. So, as he would have on other occasions, J. piled the girls, the gifts and the greeting cards into the car and went over the river and through the woods and was in her driveway in 15 minutes. The absence of any scheduled gathering let me off the hook entirely. Happy Mothers Day to me!
They arrived to find no one but the Scungili family dog to greet them. No happy couple. No Mommom. No cars in the driveway. They went in (the door is usually unlocked, it is that kind of neighborhood) and made themselves reasonably comfortable. For an hour.
After an hour, they placed the gifts, cards and flowers on the dining room table, left, went to get lattes, and drove home. The whole trip lasted about 2 hours. As they walked in the door, J. got a call from his mother. She had been at the grocery store. The grocery store that is 2 doors away from the house. For the routine 2 bags of groceries because that is all she can carry.
And that took more than two hours?
Accepting the fact that Mommom drives to the store 2 doors away for a variety of reasons, how is it that 2 bags of groceries took two hours to purchase? And why is Mommom doing the grocery shopping anyway when the younger and moderately more able-bodied newlyweds should be volunteering to do so?
And if that’s all there is to the story, why was there no “Have you gone far? Stop back for dinner so I can see the girls!” like there normally would be?
The possibilities are endless and none of them pass the sniff test. For once, the fact that J. and I have custody issues to contend with was not the most troubling matter of the day.
So, there is the thing with my mother. Mothers Day comes 15 days into a conversational drought instigated by the chasm formed by her discovery that she can not tolerate the way I vote.
Of all things.
I can tolerate – and have tolerated – quite a bit about Estelle that would send a less liberal person running. Inclusive of the way she votes. How ironic. So I call her on Mothers Day, as I should, but choose a time when I know the conversation will be truncated in order to get myself and the kiddos to Mass. Oddly, she mentions that she did not send a card to me because all of the Hallmark stores she went to lacked the required Mothers Day card specifically designed for one’s daughter. And evidently, no other “For Someone Special on Mothers Day” variety would do. I am sure the lesbian parents and transgender families have similar laments. (There is a mint to be made here, people! Someone start an Off the Beaten Path greeting card company please! I'll even give you a name for it: My Two Dads Greetings.) We deftly avoid the subject of politics (the strain in her voice at skipping its normal entrée into regular conversation is audible) and she merely mentions that she finds it troubling that the world is suddenly in financial collapse so abruptly with this administration and… Oh my, where did the morning go? Better get going! Don’t want to get the hairy eyeball from Father.
J.’s drought was likely to be more troubling.
Or not.
Perhaps with the Squatters just having arrived at Mommom’s it was too soon to be doing any entertaining. The lack of an invitation to break bread did not mean anything necessarily. So, as he would have on other occasions, J. piled the girls, the gifts and the greeting cards into the car and went over the river and through the woods and was in her driveway in 15 minutes. The absence of any scheduled gathering let me off the hook entirely. Happy Mothers Day to me!
They arrived to find no one but the Scungili family dog to greet them. No happy couple. No Mommom. No cars in the driveway. They went in (the door is usually unlocked, it is that kind of neighborhood) and made themselves reasonably comfortable. For an hour.
After an hour, they placed the gifts, cards and flowers on the dining room table, left, went to get lattes, and drove home. The whole trip lasted about 2 hours. As they walked in the door, J. got a call from his mother. She had been at the grocery store. The grocery store that is 2 doors away from the house. For the routine 2 bags of groceries because that is all she can carry.
And that took more than two hours?
Accepting the fact that Mommom drives to the store 2 doors away for a variety of reasons, how is it that 2 bags of groceries took two hours to purchase? And why is Mommom doing the grocery shopping anyway when the younger and moderately more able-bodied newlyweds should be volunteering to do so?
And if that’s all there is to the story, why was there no “Have you gone far? Stop back for dinner so I can see the girls!” like there normally would be?
The possibilities are endless and none of them pass the sniff test. For once, the fact that J. and I have custody issues to contend with was not the most troubling matter of the day.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Incredible Mr. Limpet
My daughter’s fish have defied the odds and are still swimming happily around in the Section 8 housing that is my mixing bowl. Decision time – Buy the tank and filter and coral and treasure chest and thereby tempt Fate? Or let them live out their lives believing that they had truly traded up when they moved from the Baggie to the bowl?
The school year has begun its long, slowly descending glide into summer. With all of the field trips, and May Day, and Family Fun Day, and Field Day, and year end parties, and awards celebrations, I am not at all sure that this qualifies as school. Why bother? If all we were going to get were days filled with junk food and downtime, I could have left the kids home alone for the last two months of the “academic year.”
The deafening quiet is disconcerting. J. has not heard from anyone in his family for nearly two weeks. Not a peep. No calls. No voice mails. No texts. No e-mails. No hate mail. No letter bombs. No nasty-grams, notes on windshields, smoke signals, Morse code messages, or notes delivered by carrier pigeon.
Nothing.
Nada.
Zilch.
Zippy the donut.
What gives?
Has the family been so consumed by the long term devotion to the Big Day that in its absence they’ve forgotten how to participate in a normal life? With Em and Chuck out of sight, do they not have anything left to do? And have they strayed so far afield from regular existence that they don’t know what comprises a routine day? Let’s hope they are still bathing!
I am sure the fading glory of the Big Day has something to do with it – but it is probably more related to how the family structure has changed between the day the Big Question was posed and the Big Day itself.
It has changed on a cellular level. Its DNA is all scrambled. It is like the prehistoric water thing that swam around in ever-receding pools of water and over time found that it had grown much needed legs. Something changes and it changes YOU.
So J. has learned to walk around outside the gene pool. He can take an occasional dip but he can’t linger. He thrives in another environment now.
Sure, he may long for the relative comfort of the warm embracing waters of his family. But he’s learned that those waters can turn dark and become infested with predators. Swim at your own risk.
So he and I, and our kids, will learn to live a life that is different from what it was before. Every bit as happy, every inch an adventure. But with caution signs in unusual places and a few detours from the roads we’ve travelled. Still, we are happy to have adapted in this way and embrace what life has in store for us all.
And now, as if on cue, I notice that one of my daughter’s Firehouse Fun Fair gold fish has gurgled its last breath and has sunk to the bottom of the mixing bowl. How different it would be if they could simply grow legs.
The school year has begun its long, slowly descending glide into summer. With all of the field trips, and May Day, and Family Fun Day, and Field Day, and year end parties, and awards celebrations, I am not at all sure that this qualifies as school. Why bother? If all we were going to get were days filled with junk food and downtime, I could have left the kids home alone for the last two months of the “academic year.”
The deafening quiet is disconcerting. J. has not heard from anyone in his family for nearly two weeks. Not a peep. No calls. No voice mails. No texts. No e-mails. No hate mail. No letter bombs. No nasty-grams, notes on windshields, smoke signals, Morse code messages, or notes delivered by carrier pigeon.
Nothing.
Nada.
Zilch.
Zippy the donut.
What gives?
Has the family been so consumed by the long term devotion to the Big Day that in its absence they’ve forgotten how to participate in a normal life? With Em and Chuck out of sight, do they not have anything left to do? And have they strayed so far afield from regular existence that they don’t know what comprises a routine day? Let’s hope they are still bathing!
I am sure the fading glory of the Big Day has something to do with it – but it is probably more related to how the family structure has changed between the day the Big Question was posed and the Big Day itself.
It has changed on a cellular level. Its DNA is all scrambled. It is like the prehistoric water thing that swam around in ever-receding pools of water and over time found that it had grown much needed legs. Something changes and it changes YOU.
So J. has learned to walk around outside the gene pool. He can take an occasional dip but he can’t linger. He thrives in another environment now.
Sure, he may long for the relative comfort of the warm embracing waters of his family. But he’s learned that those waters can turn dark and become infested with predators. Swim at your own risk.
So he and I, and our kids, will learn to live a life that is different from what it was before. Every bit as happy, every inch an adventure. But with caution signs in unusual places and a few detours from the roads we’ve travelled. Still, we are happy to have adapted in this way and embrace what life has in store for us all.
And now, as if on cue, I notice that one of my daughter’s Firehouse Fun Fair gold fish has gurgled its last breath and has sunk to the bottom of the mixing bowl. How different it would be if they could simply grow legs.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Spring is Sprung
To quote my mother, and to be admittedly unsure of whom she might have been quoting, “Spring is sprung, the grass is riz. I wonder where the flowers is.”
I know where the flowers is. They are still at the Farmer’s Market because I have been too #@$*&%^ busy to go and buy them. And I have not even begun to try to clear out the plants, yes actual plants, that have begun growing in my gutters like nice long straight window boxes. And I continue to be baffled that not one neighborhood kid knocks on my door each week anxious for the opportunity to mow my lawn for a little beer money in return. I will have to remind myself to look frail and pathetic when I am out there next in my gardening clogs mowing it myself while they cruise around on their mountain bikes with their phones that cost more than my lawnmower. Maybe I can shame one of them into tiptoeing through the tulips with my Craftsman.
May is an action-packed month for me – and for J’s family, the Cullens. All of them. May sets the stage for the trifecta of Cullen-centered events – Mothers Day, J.’s mother’s birthday, and then J.’s birthday – followed by the victory lap that is Memorial Day, when the cover comes off the pool and all of humanity remembers that you have one.
I am still in a quandary as to what I should do – now that there have been words – and snubs- and my unthinkable non-attendance at the O’Malley-Scungili nuptials and post-game fete.
Traditionally, we’d all go to J.’s mom house for the afternoon, or maybe for dinner to celebrate these things (and for mind numbing conversation about the wedding, as you might recall) With the wedding slipping into long term memory status, what on Earth will we talk about? Better bring a riveting novel!
This year will undoubtedly be different. And J. would like me to be a grown up. (Should that be capitalized?) Just come with him as I always have. I am not sure that I can do that. Seems the risk far outweighs the ROI. Not enough water over the dam. Not enough water under the bridge. Not enough water on my brain to be able to be able to do that yet. But for his benefit, I could offer some parameters should I be Stockholm Syndromed into going along:
-I am not going unless he is expressly told that we are invited. Don't want to show up, unexpected and unwelcome, only to be met with a cast iron skillet to the face a la Roadrunner/Wile E. Coyote.
-I am not bringing the kids unless I am reasonably sure there will be no shenanigans (I am not at all sure. We have rarely enjoyed a shenanigan-free event.)
-I will not tolerate any variety, flavor, manner or sum of CRAP from any portion of the family, regardless of age, rank, imaginary social position or ability to defend one's self.
-It is not exactly just Endora’s home now that the Squatters have come home to roost, and that changes everything, so pardon my hasty exit if it becomes too Outer Limits to bear.
-I have no genuine desire to spend my Mothers Day with his mother. I am not even spending it with my mother. Again, prepare for a vanishing act that would make Houdini proud should there be one errant comment intended for no one to hear.
-I have no interest in a perpetual reel to reel replay of 17 hours of wedding video punctuated with high pitched squealing from his idiot niece. If forced, I may fake a seizure.
-If I ever cross the threshold again at the Bat Cave, I will for the foreseeable future be concealing a dainty but adequately sized flask of Jack, a deck of cards, a needlepoint project, and possibly a loaded gun, in my purse.
-I will walk out in flurry of expletives if provoked in the slightest way. I don't care about home court advantage. I have 30 years of Estelle Bootcamp under my belt and more stripes than a WWII General.
Duly warned, all of you.
I know where the flowers is. They are still at the Farmer’s Market because I have been too #@$*&%^ busy to go and buy them. And I have not even begun to try to clear out the plants, yes actual plants, that have begun growing in my gutters like nice long straight window boxes. And I continue to be baffled that not one neighborhood kid knocks on my door each week anxious for the opportunity to mow my lawn for a little beer money in return. I will have to remind myself to look frail and pathetic when I am out there next in my gardening clogs mowing it myself while they cruise around on their mountain bikes with their phones that cost more than my lawnmower. Maybe I can shame one of them into tiptoeing through the tulips with my Craftsman.
May is an action-packed month for me – and for J’s family, the Cullens. All of them. May sets the stage for the trifecta of Cullen-centered events – Mothers Day, J.’s mother’s birthday, and then J.’s birthday – followed by the victory lap that is Memorial Day, when the cover comes off the pool and all of humanity remembers that you have one.
I am still in a quandary as to what I should do – now that there have been words – and snubs- and my unthinkable non-attendance at the O’Malley-Scungili nuptials and post-game fete.
Traditionally, we’d all go to J.’s mom house for the afternoon, or maybe for dinner to celebrate these things (and for mind numbing conversation about the wedding, as you might recall) With the wedding slipping into long term memory status, what on Earth will we talk about? Better bring a riveting novel!
This year will undoubtedly be different. And J. would like me to be a grown up. (Should that be capitalized?) Just come with him as I always have. I am not sure that I can do that. Seems the risk far outweighs the ROI. Not enough water over the dam. Not enough water under the bridge. Not enough water on my brain to be able to be able to do that yet. But for his benefit, I could offer some parameters should I be Stockholm Syndromed into going along:
-I am not going unless he is expressly told that we are invited. Don't want to show up, unexpected and unwelcome, only to be met with a cast iron skillet to the face a la Roadrunner/Wile E. Coyote.
-I am not bringing the kids unless I am reasonably sure there will be no shenanigans (I am not at all sure. We have rarely enjoyed a shenanigan-free event.)
-I will not tolerate any variety, flavor, manner or sum of CRAP from any portion of the family, regardless of age, rank, imaginary social position or ability to defend one's self.
-It is not exactly just Endora’s home now that the Squatters have come home to roost, and that changes everything, so pardon my hasty exit if it becomes too Outer Limits to bear.
-I have no genuine desire to spend my Mothers Day with his mother. I am not even spending it with my mother. Again, prepare for a vanishing act that would make Houdini proud should there be one errant comment intended for no one to hear.
-I have no interest in a perpetual reel to reel replay of 17 hours of wedding video punctuated with high pitched squealing from his idiot niece. If forced, I may fake a seizure.
-If I ever cross the threshold again at the Bat Cave, I will for the foreseeable future be concealing a dainty but adequately sized flask of Jack, a deck of cards, a needlepoint project, and possibly a loaded gun, in my purse.
-I will walk out in flurry of expletives if provoked in the slightest way. I don't care about home court advantage. I have 30 years of Estelle Bootcamp under my belt and more stripes than a WWII General.
Duly warned, all of you.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
1-Adam-12, We Have a Domestic Dispute…
We were all enjoying the quiet stillness of the post-wedding gloaming. Nothing to check on a list. No appointments to keep. Nothing to decide, count, arrange, approve, pay for, comply with, stuff, fold, tie, paste, or squeeze into a specially designed undergarment.
A return to relative normalcy. But not Relative Normalcy.
The O’Malley-Scungili Extravaganza – and its runway – all 730 days plus one for Leap Year – had left the Earth scorched. Its plant life parched. The creatures in its path spent and clinging to life by their French Manicured fingernails. It was like the green fog that Moses conjured up in The Ten Commandments. Only pink.
J. was hoping that an olive branch had managed to survive the apocalypse and was ripe for the picking. Convinced that now that the levy-breaking pressure of the Big Day had subsided and no one was going to feel compelled to square off and take to their respective corners, that no one was going to have to give in the to the other’s logic or (God forbid) change their mind, or have to admit to their own defective reasoning in a fit of snots and tears and hand wringing, --- that there might be some enlightened, peaceable recognition of what the other side’s position had been.
I am sure there were Hatfields and McCoys with the same optimistic pipedream.
For J.’s sake, I hoped that there would be some covert or implied acknowledgement – whispered in the kitchen, in hushed tones, concealed from view by an open refrigerator door – that Sheila et al had been wrong not to consider his feelings about who his family was, and who among them would be invited. Wrong to expect so much understanding, and commitment and contribution from him with only narrow-minded inconsideration in return.
I had said out loud (and admittedly, at times, overly loudly!) that I understood their position. It was insulting to me and hurtful, personally, but intellectually I could grasp the logic, though I believed it to be flawed. Emotionally it missed the target – and would for our children. My decision had to favor the emotional side of the equation. Not some technicality or Bride’s Magazine how-to column. Truly – had no one been able to grasp that? Or was the failure to see it just a convenient act?
But with a graduation on the horizon and celebrations to be planned, there were relationships to massage. Perhaps resuscitate. Crow to eat. Swords to run on. Who would be cast in what roles and what the chances of survival are remain full blown mysteries to me.
I was curious but not kill-the-cat curious. I could live with the unknown for a long time. The Kennedys did. Why not me?
A return to relative normalcy. But not Relative Normalcy.
The O’Malley-Scungili Extravaganza – and its runway – all 730 days plus one for Leap Year – had left the Earth scorched. Its plant life parched. The creatures in its path spent and clinging to life by their French Manicured fingernails. It was like the green fog that Moses conjured up in The Ten Commandments. Only pink.
J. was hoping that an olive branch had managed to survive the apocalypse and was ripe for the picking. Convinced that now that the levy-breaking pressure of the Big Day had subsided and no one was going to feel compelled to square off and take to their respective corners, that no one was going to have to give in the to the other’s logic or (God forbid) change their mind, or have to admit to their own defective reasoning in a fit of snots and tears and hand wringing, --- that there might be some enlightened, peaceable recognition of what the other side’s position had been.
I am sure there were Hatfields and McCoys with the same optimistic pipedream.
For J.’s sake, I hoped that there would be some covert or implied acknowledgement – whispered in the kitchen, in hushed tones, concealed from view by an open refrigerator door – that Sheila et al had been wrong not to consider his feelings about who his family was, and who among them would be invited. Wrong to expect so much understanding, and commitment and contribution from him with only narrow-minded inconsideration in return.
I had said out loud (and admittedly, at times, overly loudly!) that I understood their position. It was insulting to me and hurtful, personally, but intellectually I could grasp the logic, though I believed it to be flawed. Emotionally it missed the target – and would for our children. My decision had to favor the emotional side of the equation. Not some technicality or Bride’s Magazine how-to column. Truly – had no one been able to grasp that? Or was the failure to see it just a convenient act?
But with a graduation on the horizon and celebrations to be planned, there were relationships to massage. Perhaps resuscitate. Crow to eat. Swords to run on. Who would be cast in what roles and what the chances of survival are remain full blown mysteries to me.
I was curious but not kill-the-cat curious. I could live with the unknown for a long time. The Kennedys did. Why not me?
Monday, May 10, 2010
Facebook and Twitter and YouTube, Oh My!
I am truly a child of the 60s. I write letters. I open my windows. I place photos in photo albums. I go to the store and try on clothes before I buy them. I set the table. I write appointments on a calendar on my refrigerator door. Despite the fact that I am blogging, by today’s standards, I really am a throwback to a bygone era. Last year’s model. So last season.
(I am hearing the All the Family theme in my head again.)
So this is why I am in complete amazement that there are wedding photos on Facebook already, posted only hours after the bride and groom’s first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Two Left Feet.
What does that mean? Did all of their friends race home from the reception to upload photos and update their pages and write on each other’s walls? Is that what they were doing while the over 30 set retired to the hotel bar for more drinks and more dancing and more laughing about when we were kids? Has the social networking site taken the place of actual social networking?
Aren’t we missing the point here, people?
What’s next? The cyber wedding? Where we all get dressed up and sit in a wired restaurant and text each other from little carrels while watching the bride and groom IM their vows? And then send happy little emoticons?
Or was it Em and Chuck who posted the pictures? Did the happy couple spend their wedding night with lap tops instead of lap dances? Uploading instead of undressing? Friending instead of –--- nevermind.
It is just too demented and sad to let percolate in my head for too long. Imagine the update:
“Got married today. Now me and the little missus are in the honeymoon sweet (sic). Em put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door so no one would bother us because her wittle feet hurt from her shoes. She’s still got the hair all boufed up and the veil on. Don’t ask me how she managed to get the turtleneck on over it all. But she’s all cozy in her bridal Snuggy watching Gilmore girls. Me, I’m going to take the USB for a spin and see what Kodak Memories we made today. Thanks for the loot. I’ll upload video from Disney!”
Oh my.
(I am hearing the All the Family theme in my head again.)
So this is why I am in complete amazement that there are wedding photos on Facebook already, posted only hours after the bride and groom’s first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Two Left Feet.
What does that mean? Did all of their friends race home from the reception to upload photos and update their pages and write on each other’s walls? Is that what they were doing while the over 30 set retired to the hotel bar for more drinks and more dancing and more laughing about when we were kids? Has the social networking site taken the place of actual social networking?
Aren’t we missing the point here, people?
What’s next? The cyber wedding? Where we all get dressed up and sit in a wired restaurant and text each other from little carrels while watching the bride and groom IM their vows? And then send happy little emoticons?
Or was it Em and Chuck who posted the pictures? Did the happy couple spend their wedding night with lap tops instead of lap dances? Uploading instead of undressing? Friending instead of –--- nevermind.
It is just too demented and sad to let percolate in my head for too long. Imagine the update:
“Got married today. Now me and the little missus are in the honeymoon sweet (sic). Em put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door so no one would bother us because her wittle feet hurt from her shoes. She’s still got the hair all boufed up and the veil on. Don’t ask me how she managed to get the turtleneck on over it all. But she’s all cozy in her bridal Snuggy watching Gilmore girls. Me, I’m going to take the USB for a spin and see what Kodak Memories we made today. Thanks for the loot. I’ll upload video from Disney!”
Oh my.
Friday, May 7, 2010
My Name is Mudd
The kids and I had a wonderful time shopping and eating our way through my college town. Bellies and shopping bags full, we piled into the car and hit the road vowing to be tour guides for J. and the girls on a return trip this summer. Then they dozed off into much needed naps.
I was fading on the ride and called J. to be talked the rest of the way home.
He told me that he'd mentioned to his teen his inkling about Em returning from Disney pregnant; what isn't a surprise you can be prepared to be disappointed by.
She was not surprised at all even now. "Dad, everyone in the bridal party is already taking bets on how long it takes. Want in on the pool?"
So much ado about nothing, my derriere. If there was a will there would be a way. So long as it wasn't too icky. She could close her eyes and do it once.
Like I said in my very first post: Nothing brings out your family weirdness like a wedding or a new baby. And now we might have both. A double header. The family dysfunction shotgun was loaded for bear.
But J. was feeling a little better - relieved actually, now that the O'Malley-Scungili Affair had taken its place in the history books. And personally, I was feeling, in a twisted way, better about the Big Snub to my kids. And me. And J.
Em had openly disrespected her father in front of scores of family and friends and strangers while he poured his heart out, and evidently the contents of his wallet.
She had chastised a bridesmaid - who had paid for a dress, alterations, shoes, a mani, a pedi, an up do, plane tickets, a hotel room and a gift, all to honor her friend on her wedding day. And I'd bet there were Spanx and a really decent bra involved for the new mom, too.
She had disregarded, disappointed and dismissed her sister, her maid of honor, who had given her a personal, creative, meaningful gift she'd toiled over even while she finished her degree, studied for and aced her boards, held a full time job in her chosen profession and a part time one just for extra money, and managed to hold up her end of a thriving relationship - all while herding the cats on this vaudeville show.
Hell, Em had flexed her Alpha Dog muscle with Chuck in full view of his posse. She may as well have removed his penis and stashed it in her loot bag before dragging him down the aisle by his earlobe.
I was on the periphery of her world. An easy snub. In hindsight, J. and I should have anticipated the snub. It would have saved me the aggravation and thousands of words, and J. could have told her to go s*** in her hat when she asked him to read. Then we both could have skipped the whole shindig.
There is one thing that leaves me a little unsettled though. It would have been a glaring departure from the norm for J. to be at this event, at any event, without me. Yet not one person inquired as to my whereabouts.
Perhaps they ignored the elephant in the room and did not ask because they thought maybe we'd broken up. Not wanting to be nosey. Not wanting to harsh anyone's mellow.
But I don't think so.
No. I think no one asked because they knew. In a not so unexpected circling-of-wagons war tactic, Endora had gone out and poisoned the well. A smear campaign against me so no one would find fault in their abominable social faux pas.
Family weirdness aplenty.
I was fading on the ride and called J. to be talked the rest of the way home.
He told me that he'd mentioned to his teen his inkling about Em returning from Disney pregnant; what isn't a surprise you can be prepared to be disappointed by.
She was not surprised at all even now. "Dad, everyone in the bridal party is already taking bets on how long it takes. Want in on the pool?"
So much ado about nothing, my derriere. If there was a will there would be a way. So long as it wasn't too icky. She could close her eyes and do it once.
Like I said in my very first post: Nothing brings out your family weirdness like a wedding or a new baby. And now we might have both. A double header. The family dysfunction shotgun was loaded for bear.
But J. was feeling a little better - relieved actually, now that the O'Malley-Scungili Affair had taken its place in the history books. And personally, I was feeling, in a twisted way, better about the Big Snub to my kids. And me. And J.
Em had openly disrespected her father in front of scores of family and friends and strangers while he poured his heart out, and evidently the contents of his wallet.
She had chastised a bridesmaid - who had paid for a dress, alterations, shoes, a mani, a pedi, an up do, plane tickets, a hotel room and a gift, all to honor her friend on her wedding day. And I'd bet there were Spanx and a really decent bra involved for the new mom, too.
She had disregarded, disappointed and dismissed her sister, her maid of honor, who had given her a personal, creative, meaningful gift she'd toiled over even while she finished her degree, studied for and aced her boards, held a full time job in her chosen profession and a part time one just for extra money, and managed to hold up her end of a thriving relationship - all while herding the cats on this vaudeville show.
Hell, Em had flexed her Alpha Dog muscle with Chuck in full view of his posse. She may as well have removed his penis and stashed it in her loot bag before dragging him down the aisle by his earlobe.
I was on the periphery of her world. An easy snub. In hindsight, J. and I should have anticipated the snub. It would have saved me the aggravation and thousands of words, and J. could have told her to go s*** in her hat when she asked him to read. Then we both could have skipped the whole shindig.
There is one thing that leaves me a little unsettled though. It would have been a glaring departure from the norm for J. to be at this event, at any event, without me. Yet not one person inquired as to my whereabouts.
Perhaps they ignored the elephant in the room and did not ask because they thought maybe we'd broken up. Not wanting to be nosey. Not wanting to harsh anyone's mellow.
But I don't think so.
No. I think no one asked because they knew. In a not so unexpected circling-of-wagons war tactic, Endora had gone out and poisoned the well. A smear campaign against me so no one would find fault in their abominable social faux pas.
Family weirdness aplenty.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Love American Style
The next morning, J. awoke famished. Not eating the Chicken Whatever and replacing it with Necco Wafers and Jujubes had been a mistake. Though he wanted nothing more than to run screaming from the hotel to leave this incident behind, he’d have to join the girls – who were joining the bridal party – for breakfast downstairs. Pancakes with a side of aggravation.
Much to his surprise, the meal was uneventful and quiet – at least until the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Scungili made an appearance before walking across Lot C to board their flight to Disney.
And there, in front of hotel guests and restaurant patrons of all kinds appeared Chuck, wearing the cargo shorts that had become his uniform, flip flops (Eeeww) and a golf shirt (at least he’d opted for a collar). But on his head he wore a top hat. One with Mickey Mouse ears attached.
No word on the presence of a Superman cape.
Waiter! A round of Heimlich maneuvers, please!
The image singed the edges of J.'s brain. He made a note to himself on the table napkin: Call to schedule lobotomy.
Having endured all a grown man can bear, he gathered the gals and checked out of the Hotel du Freakshow. He hit the road and the girls were asleep at once. He was alone with his thoughts.
He wondered how Em was this morning with her whole purpose for living now in the past. She was not a gal to step willingly from the stage into relative anonymity without a fight. She would go on thanking the Academy long after the pit orchestra began her swan song – if it were her nature to thank anyone.
J. glanced at his teen in the backseat. Hair still shellacked into the up-do, snoozing away. Just weeks until she’d be capped and gowned and accepting her diploma.
He shuddered at the next thought. It would not be an outrageous surprise to anyone if Em just had to take one more twirl on stage and announced a pregnancy at the graduation party and reclaimed the spotlight for another insufferably long period of domination.
Because, barring any Freda Payne Band of Gold wedding night drama, or any sheepish admissions to one’s equipment being in disrepair, or even an apocalyptic revelation about one partner or another’s unnatural proclivities, or a penchant for his or her own gender, or a troubling aversion or inhibition of some kind, Em was going to be pregnant before Chuck could land the Batmobile in Mommom’s driveway.
They didn’t strike me as a touchy-feely couple. Or even as having any discernible sexual chemistry. But a mission was a mission. Em would need another project. And a reason not to return to her teaching job in the Fall.
Anything is possible. Em could return from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride having discovered her inner hellcat. Or that it’s a small world after all. Hopefully we’d not all hear about it at her first graduation party as a Scungili. Aaaawww.
J. would place a sizable bet on just-home-from-the-honeymoon Baby News. I had more dubious ideas.
Baby News, my friends, would require Baby Making. And intimacy. And passion. And more physical activity than either appeared capable of. And at least a modicum of attraction to one another.
If the top hat with ears was any indication, we’d be spared the Baby News for now.
Much to his surprise, the meal was uneventful and quiet – at least until the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Scungili made an appearance before walking across Lot C to board their flight to Disney.
And there, in front of hotel guests and restaurant patrons of all kinds appeared Chuck, wearing the cargo shorts that had become his uniform, flip flops (Eeeww) and a golf shirt (at least he’d opted for a collar). But on his head he wore a top hat. One with Mickey Mouse ears attached.
No word on the presence of a Superman cape.
Waiter! A round of Heimlich maneuvers, please!
The image singed the edges of J.'s brain. He made a note to himself on the table napkin: Call to schedule lobotomy.
Having endured all a grown man can bear, he gathered the gals and checked out of the Hotel du Freakshow. He hit the road and the girls were asleep at once. He was alone with his thoughts.
He wondered how Em was this morning with her whole purpose for living now in the past. She was not a gal to step willingly from the stage into relative anonymity without a fight. She would go on thanking the Academy long after the pit orchestra began her swan song – if it were her nature to thank anyone.
J. glanced at his teen in the backseat. Hair still shellacked into the up-do, snoozing away. Just weeks until she’d be capped and gowned and accepting her diploma.
He shuddered at the next thought. It would not be an outrageous surprise to anyone if Em just had to take one more twirl on stage and announced a pregnancy at the graduation party and reclaimed the spotlight for another insufferably long period of domination.
Because, barring any Freda Payne Band of Gold wedding night drama, or any sheepish admissions to one’s equipment being in disrepair, or even an apocalyptic revelation about one partner or another’s unnatural proclivities, or a penchant for his or her own gender, or a troubling aversion or inhibition of some kind, Em was going to be pregnant before Chuck could land the Batmobile in Mommom’s driveway.
They didn’t strike me as a touchy-feely couple. Or even as having any discernible sexual chemistry. But a mission was a mission. Em would need another project. And a reason not to return to her teaching job in the Fall.
Anything is possible. Em could return from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride having discovered her inner hellcat. Or that it’s a small world after all. Hopefully we’d not all hear about it at her first graduation party as a Scungili. Aaaawww.
J. would place a sizable bet on just-home-from-the-honeymoon Baby News. I had more dubious ideas.
Baby News, my friends, would require Baby Making. And intimacy. And passion. And more physical activity than either appeared capable of. And at least a modicum of attraction to one another.
If the top hat with ears was any indication, we’d be spared the Baby News for now.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Mary and Half Pint, Or Nellie Oleson and Half Pint?
The wedding waged on and my weekend with the kids was underway at last. I was so excited to show them the dorm where I'd lived, the dining hall (where I'd packed on the Freshman 10) the buildings where I took my classes. I felt like my Dad with all my "When I was here that was an orchard" and "this building wasn't here when I was a student" and "We played frisbee where the library is now" statements. The town had evolved from a cute little hamlet into a thriving college town with restaurants, brew pubs, boutiques and vintage shops all inviting our patronage. The kids had plenty to see and do and I loved the nostalgia of it all.
While we were on our ghost hunting walking tour through the historic town, J. called from the reception. Our storyteller was mid-story and the tension was building so I clicked the call directly to voice mail. Then on one of the next more walky than talky parts of the tour, I picked up the message. J. had said nothing but he had clearly been moved to place the call by the song being played. It was one we'd claimed as our own - one we always thought we'd have for our first dance some day when time and money and custody issues and extracurriculars and other vicissitudes of life subsided, however temporarily, but just long enough for us to get ourselves down the aisle. And it was not just playing, it was Em's dance with Tim. The very man she'd so publicly dissed not an hour before.
I could feel J's disappointment. We'd find another song. One that isn't scorched with the searing images of Em dancing as graceful and light on her feet as my refrigerator, fakey smile frozen in place for the photo ops alone.
J. made one more call to me. Not long after the last call but long before the reception was over, he'd handed his older daughter a copy of the hotel room key and given her her latitudes and limits. Then he said his brief goodbyes and ascended to his room for the night.
He related one final story to me. The one that made him take leave of his obligation to stay. The Maid of Honor (Maid of Horror?), Em's sister Cassie, had presented Em with a special gift. For the two years Em and Chuck had been engaged she'd worked on a beautiful scrap book chronicling their life together. By all accounts, it was a gorgeous book - lovingly prepared and no expense spared on pictures and beautiful paper and trimmings and such. It was something Cassie was clearly proud to present to her sister. So personal. Such a gift from the heart. And the presentation so genuine. Sister to sister.
And Em, the starlet to the end, simply and flatly accepted the book, muttered "Thanks" and placed it to the side. Cassie held her smile and walked away. J.'s heart broke for her.
I can only imagine a similar gift between my sister and me. The people around us would have faded into nothingness as we immersed ourselves in a sister moment. Paging through the book, howling at the memories, weeping at the very gesture of the gift, so thankful to have the life we shared.
And that's not because my sister is so special. (Though she is.) It's because she is my sister. To appreciate a gift from the heart, a person has to actually have a heart. Clearly this pair of sisters was one heart short.
While we were on our ghost hunting walking tour through the historic town, J. called from the reception. Our storyteller was mid-story and the tension was building so I clicked the call directly to voice mail. Then on one of the next more walky than talky parts of the tour, I picked up the message. J. had said nothing but he had clearly been moved to place the call by the song being played. It was one we'd claimed as our own - one we always thought we'd have for our first dance some day when time and money and custody issues and extracurriculars and other vicissitudes of life subsided, however temporarily, but just long enough for us to get ourselves down the aisle. And it was not just playing, it was Em's dance with Tim. The very man she'd so publicly dissed not an hour before.
I could feel J's disappointment. We'd find another song. One that isn't scorched with the searing images of Em dancing as graceful and light on her feet as my refrigerator, fakey smile frozen in place for the photo ops alone.
J. made one more call to me. Not long after the last call but long before the reception was over, he'd handed his older daughter a copy of the hotel room key and given her her latitudes and limits. Then he said his brief goodbyes and ascended to his room for the night.
He related one final story to me. The one that made him take leave of his obligation to stay. The Maid of Honor (Maid of Horror?), Em's sister Cassie, had presented Em with a special gift. For the two years Em and Chuck had been engaged she'd worked on a beautiful scrap book chronicling their life together. By all accounts, it was a gorgeous book - lovingly prepared and no expense spared on pictures and beautiful paper and trimmings and such. It was something Cassie was clearly proud to present to her sister. So personal. Such a gift from the heart. And the presentation so genuine. Sister to sister.
And Em, the starlet to the end, simply and flatly accepted the book, muttered "Thanks" and placed it to the side. Cassie held her smile and walked away. J.'s heart broke for her.
I can only imagine a similar gift between my sister and me. The people around us would have faded into nothingness as we immersed ourselves in a sister moment. Paging through the book, howling at the memories, weeping at the very gesture of the gift, so thankful to have the life we shared.
And that's not because my sister is so special. (Though she is.) It's because she is my sister. To appreciate a gift from the heart, a person has to actually have a heart. Clearly this pair of sisters was one heart short.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Father Knows Best
At the appointed hour, J. made his way to the reception hall and found his seat at the table with all the other unescorted guests and a few familiar faces. It would not be totally unpleasant.
He sampled the hors d’oevres (pedestrian), skipped the salad (always), devoured the crab cake (well above average), and gnawed on a confusing chicken Florentine thing for a while before giving up altogether. He made no mention of red bliss potatoes. There were a few whimsical touches – for instance a Penny Candy table, resplendent with its display of jelly beans, and Dots, and Swedish Fish. But throughout the evening, the overpowering thought slamming into his frontal lobe was “My sister remortgaged their livelihood for this?” It was an ordinary room overlooking Parking Lot C, (again, designated for European flights), mundane décor. Linens, flowers, all unremarkable. The DJ was entertaining. The service was top notch. Everything you would expect, but nothing unexpected.
Em’s father rose to make a toast to his oldest daughter on the biggest occasion of her life. Tim, normally reserved, and never the center of attention, proved most eloquent. In fewer than ten minutes he captured the joys and pains and humor of having been this child’s father for 25 years. Not at all a canned speech, but heartfelt and filled with anecdotal tales of the life that led her to the day. Everyone was openly emotional and dabbing their eyes. Well, almost everyone.
There sat Em. Practiced smile, hair wrestled into an elaborate confection, gown bustled and cinched to her form (Dexatrimmed-to-the-point-of-emaciation as it was), and wholly unaffected by the sentiment. Rolled her eyes. Gave him the “move it along” gesture.
The man who was honored to give her away, who refinanced his future and those of his other children, who quietly wrote myriad checks to all manner of people so that every connubial stone could be turned to pretty, pink, poofy, perfection, was standing there, his heart on his rented tuxedo sleeve, toasting his first born in a most genuine, and sincere manner, with a speech to which he’d clearly devoted considerable thought and dedication, and she could bring herself to make that type of juvenile, disrespectful demonstration of complete disdain and ingratitude? Disgraceful.
J. remarked to his older daughter when they bumped into eachother reaching for the M&Ms at the Penny Candy table. “Oh, Daddy, that’s not all she’s done!” she said in the “you-won’t-believe-it” voice she usually reserves for slutty classmates and drunken prom dates.
She went on to tell the story of the out of town bridesmaid (the one with the baby, we presume) who had not been present for any of Em’s (countless) fittings. When Em put on her gown that morning, the gal became choked up at the sight of her, magnificent in her bridal regalia. She gushed at how beautiful she looked. And Em, either out of conceit (Of course I’m fabulous. What else would I be?) or feigned boredom (Oh you peasants are so funny. It’s just another $5,000 dress!) screwed up her face and openly shamed the gal for her sentimentality.
And there were hours still to go before this particular princess tuned into a pumpkin.
He sampled the hors d’oevres (pedestrian), skipped the salad (always), devoured the crab cake (well above average), and gnawed on a confusing chicken Florentine thing for a while before giving up altogether. He made no mention of red bliss potatoes. There were a few whimsical touches – for instance a Penny Candy table, resplendent with its display of jelly beans, and Dots, and Swedish Fish. But throughout the evening, the overpowering thought slamming into his frontal lobe was “My sister remortgaged their livelihood for this?” It was an ordinary room overlooking Parking Lot C, (again, designated for European flights), mundane décor. Linens, flowers, all unremarkable. The DJ was entertaining. The service was top notch. Everything you would expect, but nothing unexpected.
Em’s father rose to make a toast to his oldest daughter on the biggest occasion of her life. Tim, normally reserved, and never the center of attention, proved most eloquent. In fewer than ten minutes he captured the joys and pains and humor of having been this child’s father for 25 years. Not at all a canned speech, but heartfelt and filled with anecdotal tales of the life that led her to the day. Everyone was openly emotional and dabbing their eyes. Well, almost everyone.
There sat Em. Practiced smile, hair wrestled into an elaborate confection, gown bustled and cinched to her form (Dexatrimmed-to-the-point-of-emaciation as it was), and wholly unaffected by the sentiment. Rolled her eyes. Gave him the “move it along” gesture.
The man who was honored to give her away, who refinanced his future and those of his other children, who quietly wrote myriad checks to all manner of people so that every connubial stone could be turned to pretty, pink, poofy, perfection, was standing there, his heart on his rented tuxedo sleeve, toasting his first born in a most genuine, and sincere manner, with a speech to which he’d clearly devoted considerable thought and dedication, and she could bring herself to make that type of juvenile, disrespectful demonstration of complete disdain and ingratitude? Disgraceful.
J. remarked to his older daughter when they bumped into eachother reaching for the M&Ms at the Penny Candy table. “Oh, Daddy, that’s not all she’s done!” she said in the “you-won’t-believe-it” voice she usually reserves for slutty classmates and drunken prom dates.
She went on to tell the story of the out of town bridesmaid (the one with the baby, we presume) who had not been present for any of Em’s (countless) fittings. When Em put on her gown that morning, the gal became choked up at the sight of her, magnificent in her bridal regalia. She gushed at how beautiful she looked. And Em, either out of conceit (Of course I’m fabulous. What else would I be?) or feigned boredom (Oh you peasants are so funny. It’s just another $5,000 dress!) screwed up her face and openly shamed the gal for her sentimentality.
And there were hours still to go before this particular princess tuned into a pumpkin.
Monday, May 3, 2010
First Comes Love, Then Comes Marriage
The new Mr. and Mrs., their I Dos said, began the long parade down the aisle and onto the steps of the church. Here at least one groomsman broke rank and lit up an evidently much-craved Marlboro and opened a beer he must have concealed in his cummerbund or in one of the planters by the columns outside the church. Drunk Bus indeed.
The bridal party went off to smile and say “cheese” and J. had a little time to kill. He called me while I wended my way to my college town, the kids in tow, anticipating a great stay in the quaint little town I’d called home for 4 years. The ceremony over, the worst was about to begin. At least he had arranged to spend the night at the hotel where the reception was planned – right there on the flight path of the European departures. Perhaps the jet fuel fumes would help him sleep…and at least he had an escape hatch if the squealing and gaiety got to be too much. Again.
Check in at the hotel was madness. J. was in line next to his mother and sister – and in front of an out-of-town bridesmaid, holding her luggage and a baby that appeared to be closing in on his first birthday. Gurgling, cooing, smiling. J.’s Mom remarked “What are you doing to do with the baby during the reception, dear?” The “THIS IS A NO-KID WEDDING” neon sign flashing in the thought bubble above her wash and set head with all the subtlety of a search light.
Or so it seemed.
The young mother sportingly replied “Oh, we’ll be fine. Ralph is here and he’ll be up in the room with him so I can do my bridesmaid thing.”
To which Endora replied, incredulously, with a sentence that began with the words, “Well, if he wants to come and join the party, there’s no reason to alternate, I’m sure no one will mind…”
And with that, J. spun around looking like the possessed kid from the Exorcist, sans pea soup. His turn to give the “Oh no you won’t!” look. Endora got the point and trailed off like Aunt Clara with her baffling and hilarious verbal amnesia. (http://www.tv.com/bewitched/show/140/cast.html)
J. privately swore that if so much as one kid appeared at the reception wearing anything other than a pint-sized tuxedo or the mandated raspberry sherbet frock, he’d be having words with his still blubbering sister.
He checked in and went to his room – far, far from the block – and waited for the starting gun for the games to begin. He’d be seated at the Dirty Dancing table, so noted by a picture of Baby and Johnny.
How ironic. Nobody puts Baby in a corner. No, we just let her trample on and insult everyone in her life on the road to matrimony, and send her parents to the poorhouse. Maybe someone should have considered putting Baby in a corner two years ago.
The bridal party went off to smile and say “cheese” and J. had a little time to kill. He called me while I wended my way to my college town, the kids in tow, anticipating a great stay in the quaint little town I’d called home for 4 years. The ceremony over, the worst was about to begin. At least he had arranged to spend the night at the hotel where the reception was planned – right there on the flight path of the European departures. Perhaps the jet fuel fumes would help him sleep…and at least he had an escape hatch if the squealing and gaiety got to be too much. Again.
Check in at the hotel was madness. J. was in line next to his mother and sister – and in front of an out-of-town bridesmaid, holding her luggage and a baby that appeared to be closing in on his first birthday. Gurgling, cooing, smiling. J.’s Mom remarked “What are you doing to do with the baby during the reception, dear?” The “THIS IS A NO-KID WEDDING” neon sign flashing in the thought bubble above her wash and set head with all the subtlety of a search light.
Or so it seemed.
The young mother sportingly replied “Oh, we’ll be fine. Ralph is here and he’ll be up in the room with him so I can do my bridesmaid thing.”
To which Endora replied, incredulously, with a sentence that began with the words, “Well, if he wants to come and join the party, there’s no reason to alternate, I’m sure no one will mind…”
And with that, J. spun around looking like the possessed kid from the Exorcist, sans pea soup. His turn to give the “Oh no you won’t!” look. Endora got the point and trailed off like Aunt Clara with her baffling and hilarious verbal amnesia. (http://www.tv.com/bewitched/show/140/cast.html)
J. privately swore that if so much as one kid appeared at the reception wearing anything other than a pint-sized tuxedo or the mandated raspberry sherbet frock, he’d be having words with his still blubbering sister.
He checked in and went to his room – far, far from the block – and waited for the starting gun for the games to begin. He’d be seated at the Dirty Dancing table, so noted by a picture of Baby and Johnny.
How ironic. Nobody puts Baby in a corner. No, we just let her trample on and insult everyone in her life on the road to matrimony, and send her parents to the poorhouse. Maybe someone should have considered putting Baby in a corner two years ago.
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