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.