I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing

To my mind, the obscurity of To Sir With Love makes it a curiosity when I hear it even just once. And though I love the song, and have since I was a kid, even before it had the significance that it does, I will not download it to my iPod just so it will not become ordinary. It would lose it's power. It would no longer be a beacon for me.

The Train song, is more recent and not so rare, so hearing it just once seems like just a fluke. Just a song on the radio. But when I hear it a few days in a row, it strikes me as meaningful. The first time I hear it, it is just a little wake up call. "Keep your eyes open, Nancy Drew. I am about to lay down a few clues." I usually perk up the senses and try to notice, really understand, what is happening around me. Just in case.

So the morning I went blazing through the parking lot at an infuriating 2 mph, I made a mental note of the song and went on to deal with all the little jests the world of Human Resources had to dish out for me that day. What began as a crap sandwich ended as a crap sandwich, and was accompanied by a heaping side dish of insolence courtesy of my preteen who's already decided I am really embarrassing and pitifully lacking in intelligence, and whose dietary preferences become more and more finicky with each passing day. (Never question why I drink.)

The next day, like the ignorantly optimistic Pollyanna that I am, I bounded out of bed ready to face the bizarre world of human industrial behavior again. I had a great outfit planned and was dressed and was spackling and painting my face when I was joined in the bathroom by my daughter, needing her blonde locks tamed and braided.

I saw her look at my outfit in the mirror and stick out her lower jaw to the side skeptically.

I was wearing a long linen dress (which would look great all day as long as I never had to sit or drive) that was a tea-stained color and covered in cabbage roses and leaves. It was the perfect body-skimming shape with a very flattering scoop neckline. I had a coordinating shrug (The dress is sleeveless and I am still not sure about the politics of bare arms in my office. I am already pushing the envelope by refusing to wear pantyhose until Don, my boss, wears a bra.) I also had adorable kitten heel shoes that were the perfect thing.

"Mom," she began. "Is that what you are wearing to work?"

No, it is something I threw on just to make the coffee and toast in.

"Yes, sweetie. Why? Is something wrong?" I start to look frantically at my backside in the mirror. "Is there a stain somewhere?"

"No, I just thought maybe you'd want to wear something a little less - you know - old lady-ish."

I should have made her walk to school for that. Or threatened to give her a ride in a Hoveround.
Fashion critiquing coming from a 10 year old whose outfit includes Uggs and training bra.

I decided her taste ran more toward Hannah Montana than Charlotte York from Sex and the City and convinced myself that I could get through the work day without any Boy Scouts mistaking me for someone who needed to be helped across the street.

In fact, I was going to amp up the Hamptons look with pearls. I retreated to my bedroom to get them out of their silk-lined little boxes, and there it was again.

On the radio. The familiar opening lament from Train. "I need a sign, to let me know you're here..."

They Want to Arrange a Meeting Between Me and Barzini. On Tessio's Ground. Where I'll be safe.

The day came when we'd have what the Corleones would have called a "sit down." All the homicidal parties sit in various parts of the same building, far enough apart where no one can hear each other's attacks and accusations and go sailing over the edge of reason. And concealed from each other's view so you can be alone with your own murderous thoughts, willing each other to choke on a Tic Tac and wishing you'd brought the voodoo doll and the big pins.

So when all hope was nearly lost and my second lawyer and I (I'd fired my first, totally incompetent.) were talking Worst Case Scenarios v. Litigation, we spent a full day (and a few of my paychecks) conferencing, negotiating, rejecting offers, and finally, against all odds, settling.

It was pretty close to the top tier of scenarios on my lawyers Worst Case list, but nothing unmanageable. I got to keep the things that were important. Sure I had to pay a settlement (the price for being more successful, in spite of all those additional degrees) and had to continue with the child support (even though I know the kids do not really realize the benefit of the support) but I did not have to distribute any of my investments (I am really seriously too old to start over. Hard cheese if he has not planned well.) And, best of all, I got to keep the house. The kids could continue to build a life in the place they'd called home their entire lives. In spite of the fact that Lars did his best to convince everyone that I would never be able to manage the yard work and "old house" problems. (I can fix anything - that is what a check book is for.)

So - we were settled. Bring on the papers. I have my pen poised above the desk, ready to sign.

Elated, I drove home - calling J. on the way to say the two year ordeal had finally heaved its last breath. Buy the champagne and meet me at my house. My house.

I arrived. J. arrived. The bubbly was uncorked and poured.

I decided to flick on the telly to put on some festive music courtesy of one of my 47 music channels. When the screen came to life, the movie channel I'd been watching the night before popped on.

And remarkably, To Sir With Love was playing.

I gasped and looked at J.

The movie, to my everlasting amazement, had just reached the precise moment when the title song is first heard.

The violins were playing. Dad was at hand. And, so it seems, had been all day.

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

So no, there are no wailing disembodied voices in the night, or any poltergeist messages to my children from the TV's white noise, or any blankets strung up on clotheslines to resemble flying apparitions a la the Brady Bunch.

There are just these subtle signs.

There was another such sign when I settled my (acrimonious) divorce. Have I mentioned that divorce, in all its shapes and forms, is about the least fun thing you can ever undertake?

I don't know how my divorce stacks up against anyone else's on the Charlie Sheen Acrimony Scale, but it was one of the most unenjoyable, no-when-we-look-back-on-this-in-ten-years-it-will-not-be-remotely-funny periods in my otherwise enjoyable if not peculiar life.

So when my divorce proceedings reached fever pitch, and we had a last ditch run at settlement (Read that: "Settlement in lieu of painful lengthy expensive litigation that will suck the will to live right out of you and cost your children years of anything resembling happiness) I was cautiously hopeful. And apprehensive. And, well, guilty. Guilty that that SOB with the streety survival instinct , an iffy relationship with honesty, and a serious pain-pills-washed-down-with-beer self medicating problem that left him dark and disturbed and mean, would be taking my money and my time with my children to play Disneyland Dad and subtle little "you can't love us both, if you love Mommy, Daddy will leave" games.

Note - to any of you contemplating jumping onto the Divorce-A-Go-Round: Choose your lawyer wisely. They will all take your money and some of them really are only working out their own bitterness with your situation. Even the most peaceable partings have the potential for bringing out someone's inner OJ, their inner Heather Mills, or morphing you both into a copycat Minnelli/Gest storyline, or worse, the Baldwin/Bassinger fable. (http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/24712537/ns/today-entertainment/)

Your lawyer should keep you focused on two important terms (and not losing all of your muscle mass in the inevitable Marital Discord Diet): "Equitable Distribution" and "Dissolution of Marriage."

Not "Pillage and Plunder" because you are humiliated by her multiple affairs, this last one being with the parish priest who was giving you marriage counseling.

Not "Evisceration of Your Marital Partner" because after you dealt with his multiple lay-offs and paid for him to go back to school - twice- the second time for some frivolous degree he just had to earn, and decided to pursue moments after the episiotomy was sutured following the delivery of your second child, he became a maniacal whack job and decided he should have 60% of everything, the house, the better car, the kids, alimony and child support, so he can take frequent exotic vacations to convince your kids how much he loves them.

Equitable. (Look it up!)

Distribution (Yes, someone is going to have to part with something.)

Dissolution. (It is just over. Let it be.)

Of Marriage. (Try to remember that you loved each other once, and your kids still do.)

Get out. Pay if you have to. You will get back your happiness. But not until it's over. Let it end.

The Paper Chase

Make no mistake. I was well prepared for court. And prepared for battle with Ne'er-do-well #1. I had a fine attorney. We had crafted a kick-a** position statement. All of my actions and decisions - in all cases, not just this one - were thoughtful, lawful, professional and best of all, defensible.

But as I was headed to the courthouse for the fact finding hearing, I got a call from my attorney who had already arrived. Malcontent 1 had brought Malcontent 2 as a plaintiff's witness.

They were going to lie for each other.

I was suddenly in a flop sweat.

My attorney asked me to pull and copy Malcontent 2's (outrageously thick!) file so we could be prepared to talk about it and discredit her. I had time to copy, sure, but there was no time to prepare. My confidence went sailing out the window. And worse, all the extra copying had left me short on travel time. I skipped the cab and began to sprint the 4 blocks to court. Somewhere I am a YouTube sensation for this.

Huffing and overheated - I was running in heels and hose and a very tailored suit, hello - I stopped for a few seconds to try to quell the hyperventilating. I took the moment to have a little chat with Dad.

"Dad," I said, addressing him directly. " I know I never asked for your help with anything growing up, and that it always bugged you. But Pop,I really need your help today. My professional credibility is on the line, Dad. I need to go into court today and be brilliant. I have to be calm. I have to be articulate. I have to make sense. And I need the investigator to see that I've been honest."

I had sent up the prayer and put it in someone else's hands. I walked the rest of the way to court hoping to calm down and catch my breath. Because nothing says "I have nothing to fear" more convincingly than a disheveled woman in a full sweat wheezing uncontrollably.

The proceedings went beautifully. It was rather like holding my breath for 4 hours but there were no surprises, speed bumps, detours, mystery guests, or Watergate tapes. Sitting across a narrow table from the prickly plaintiff was nerve wracking but it was a relief that there was no "across the table testimony" allowed. I could not address her, and she could not yell at me, hurl insults my way, name call, or make extraneous commentary. I made all all the points I'd come to make and presented testimony credible enough to prove myself to have acted judiciously and fairly and in good faith. Even better, the "witness" never got to cross the threshold. A slam dunk.

I returned from court jubilant. I paused for a moment in front of a nearby church to thank Dad for a whopping dose of divine intervention. I retold the story to my overjoyed boss who then let me head for home early. I'd clearly earned my keep.

And when I got into my car and turned the key, the radio came on. I recognized the violins at once. It was the opening bars to "To Sir With Love."

The Ghost and Mrs. Muir

Again, before you go logging off having decided I am some kind of kook - let me explain. I am not visited by ghosts. There are no wailing Jacob Marley apparitions appearing in my bed chamber on Christmas Eve. There are no ancient sea captains making madcap intrusions into my serene cottage life. Scooby and Shaggy do not pull up in the Mystery Machine to find out who is making all the Fudgesicles disappear from my freezer. It's not like that at all.

I recall the first time I even noticed anything.

When Dad died, I was in a particularly challenging situation at work. (Did I mention that I am in Human Resources? People do the most fascinating things at work!) I had a whole cast of characters reporting to me at the time, but two of them had been uncommonly malcontented troublemakers - who in addition to having a bizarre preoccupation with other peoples' business, were also Mean People. Mean people with no boundaries and fantastical delusions about their own power and importance in the company.

And while I had no respect or admiration for either of them, and was constantly coaching them (Imploring them? Demanding? Insisting under penalty of tar-and-feathering?) to redirect their energies to more productive endeavors, I could never definitively assign blame to either one of them for any of the heinous crimes against their co-workers they were reported to have done - or instigated. It was infuriating. They were very good ass-coverers, and it didn't help that they were in collusion and each would gladly cover the other's (considerable) derriere.

But as the saying goes, I gave them enough rope and each eventually hanged herself with it - just a few weeks apart, and in such a way that neither could even begin to cover her own hiney, much less the other's.

Don't get excited. This is not where I think Dad interceded. This was all a-swirl while Dad was slowly letting go of this world.

But the first one to walk the plank had some grandiose ideas about revenge (she must know Sandy) and used her inside connection with the later terminatee to try to make my life miserable by digging up "data" and providing it for her to use against the company in a half-baked law suit.

Not my happiest moment in the office.

And as if I didn't have enough to deal with, I was suddenly preparing the company's defense. And in the middle of all the data collection, and statistical analysis, and depositions and preparation - my dear old Dad passed away. And while the turmoil at the office was exactly the thing I needed to distract me from my grief, it was enough to shake my confidence. Big time.

A few weeks later I was off to court.

And along came Dad.

Sign Sign Everywhere A Sign

Now, I am not so naive to think that hearing the Train song could not purely be a matter of some mandated play list, dictated by some station executive, and merely a coincidence.

But my sister and I feel differently. Before you roll your eyes and decide we are both kooks, let me tell you, we both have seen plenty of signs that Dad started doing things he'd wanted to accomplish on Earth, but had had to wait until he'd gotten his wings before he could tackle them.

Dad had been a lively, social man for much of his life. A funny, entertaining prankster who prided himself on endearing the little people in the family with good natured teasing. ( I can remember him asking a nephew, who was 5 at the time, "Why did your mother buy you girl's shoes?") He also had a personal mission to prevent any kid in the neighborhood, girl or boy, from going through life throwing a baseball like Mamie Eisenhower. He was a good dancer. He could mimic how our firends walked or talked to perfection. He had the cleanest car and the greenest, most manicured lawn in the neighborhood. He read every word of the newspaper every night and got his hair cut every two weeks. Quite a character Dad was.

But his health had failed him early and just when the grandchildren were ripening into little beings he could have some fun with, he began to lose ground in some of his lifetime battles. Gone was the possibility that any Norman Rockwellian grandfather and grandchild moments could actually come to pass.

There would be no camping trips with instructions on how to start a camp fire or how to hook a worm so you could fish for dinner. No Bring Your Grandparent to School Days. No come-let-me-show-you-how-not-to-throw-like-a-girl backyard adventures. No long afternoons at the ball park sharing hot dogs and pretzels and icecream.

And a few years later, when he finally passed, along came the signs that he had not left us altogether, but had taken up the reigns where he'd had to let them go before.

My nephew suddenly became a prize baseball player, throwing strikes from the hill with alarming consistency and Poppop seeming to help the ball over the fence regularly in clutch at-bats. My daughter telling me in the most despairing time in my divorce that it would all be alright. That Poppop had told her it would be. At night. And no she was not scared. He was all around her all the time.

I've had signs of my own. Just to me.

They aren't always obvious. Sometimes it is a stroke of luck or a really good thing that happened and just when I am thinking, "Wow, that was unexpected!'' I get a sign from Dad. Tapping me on the shoulder. The old man letting me know he'd been there. Working his magic.

The Train song gives me a warning. "Pay attention. I am here." But "To Sir With Love" has made its rare appearances after Dad has evidently hovered over some situation I managed to get myself into. It stops me in my tracks every time.

Memories! Light the Corners of My Mind

Like everyone, I have songs that send me back. Sometimes way back.

"Cecelia" by Simon and Garfunkel will always make me smile thinking of my parents as a happily married couple. Whether they were actually happy or not at the time is anyone's guess but that was a song my mother told me she and my father would dance to on regular Saturday nights out with other couples. I'll assume happiness.

And "Rock the Boat" by the Hues Corporation and Paper Lace's "The Night Chicago Died" send me back to the summer between 4th and 5th grade, to the swim club where my sister and I wiled away hours upon hours, day and night after day and night with our little swim team clique. Either song coming on the radio inspires one of us to call the other and hold the phone up to the speaker.

And though I am not likely to ever hear it again, there was a song with lyrics that spoke of Porcupine Pie and Vanilla Soup that brings back an image of my brother with his wildly bushy blond curls that stuck out in every direction in the 70s when it was all the rage to have hair like that. My Dad, with the crew cut that he combed flat so that it was trained to lay down across the top of his head would sing the song and change the words to "Porcupine Hair."

And I have two specific Dad songs.

"To Sir With Love" by Lulu is almost never on the radio. It's an old song from an old movie that I chose to dance to with my Dad at my wedding. He'd requested that I not play "Daddy's Little Girl" as he could not go through it another time, blubbering and emotional in front of 100s of guests like he had at my sister's wedding.

And although it is supposed to be a father's tribute to his daughter, I turned the tables and chose the song as a tribute to him. He'd shouldered the labor oar when it came to raising us (Did I mention that my parents divorced when I was 14-ish?) I liked what it had to say. (http://www.weddingvendors.com/music/lyrics/l/lulu/to-sir-with-love/)

We had lived with Dad, all of us, all the time. And although it was far from Utopia, he did give it his all, with all the tools he had in his toolbox at the time. Just a guess, but I don't think the three of us were any day at the beach either. And at the time, a single father with three kids was as rare as an honest politician, and there was a serious shortage of How-To manuals on the topic, or even friends who could relate. We fumbled through the highs and lows together.

The other song is Calling All Angels, by Train. I vividly remember hearing it for the first time as I was driving to the beach for a weekend with my gal pals at the end of the very week my Dad had moved out of his beloved house and into a nursing home. I felt terribly guilty and wondered if we'd ever truly know if it had been a mistake or the right thing to do. The song begins with the words "I need a sign" and just hearing them had me sobbing to the point of becoming a traffic hazard.

And that is the song I'd heard while inching along the garage ramps. And hearing it a few days in a row always precedes what I'd call a sign. My eyes were open. I would not miss it.

Friday on My Mind

Aaaahhh, The four-day work week. It somehow always disappoints. You get all excited about having only 80% of the week to contend with but then without fail, 100% of the aggravation and 4-alarm emergencies find their way to your door. And suddenly the cumulative effect of 4 days at work is more like 6, when mentally you had prepared for far fewer challenges. And a much smaller steaming plate of s***.

This day began with the usual traffic annoyances. The driver so engaged in conversation on her cell phone that she doesn't realize that she is going only 20 mph while the world would like to be going 40. The bonus prize is that she gets indignant and flips you the bird when you toot your horn to alert her to the fact that the light has changed from red to an appealing shade of green and green actually does mean go and she'd be advised to place her foot firmly on the pedal on the right - and make it snappy, sister.

And of course, there is Mr. I Am The Only One Driving This Morning who drifts aimlessly from lane to lane on a whim leaving most of us to slam on our brakes and spill our much needed coffee in his wake. And Mrs. Let Me Just Think A Minute who just stops in the middle of all the madness - and never at a natural place like a parking space or shoulder. Just wherever.

Today, the cherry on top of what had already been a hellacious commute was the motorist who made his way into my parking garage just moments ahead of me, for whom the 5 mph speed limit seemed just a little too reckless and who took to the ramps at a zippy 2 mph, moseying along in search of the secret elusive parking space that still might remain available on the lower levels. Infuriating.

We were off to a great start. Hopefully not an indication of things to come.

And then I heard it. On the radio. THE song. Or one of them.

There are two songs that will always and forever remind me of my Dad. And every time I hear one of them, it is as though he is tapping me on the shoulder. "I am here. Look for me."

This was going to be quite a week.

Are You Being Served?

Finally, we were all seated around J.'s Mom's table. And oddly, all in our usual places. I had not been demoted to the kids table or wedged into the corner by the radiator. Good start.

We heaped burgers and dogs and barbecued chicken on our plates. Made room for deviled eggs (known in my college apartment as G** D*** Eggs) and corn on the cob. Everyone politely spooned an obligatory just-being-polite-sized blob of broccoli salad onto their plates. (A green thing? A cold green thing? A cold green thing with no butter??!! Was I trying to kill them all?) Cassie's boyfriend was kind enough to have seconds. Bob's a keeper.

It was time for me to resume observing the dynamics again. Like a National Geographic scientist observing the mating rituals of the Hairy-nosed Wombat. But I had to be sly; the eye wear a la Farrah Fawcett would be too obvious at the table. At one point I went to the fridge to get a refill on J.'s soda. Em was at the stove. I opened the refrigerator door to find far, far fewer cans of soda than normal. And not the variety we'd become accustomed to. I turned to ask J. for his preference and caught sight of Em. I could not help noticing that she had bristled, almost grimaced, at the sight of me just helping myself to the contents of the fridge. Of course Endora's fridge was always figuratively open to the public. Whose fridge was it now?

The Scungilis had their own ideas about serving dinner to their guests. They clearly saw themselves as the host and hostess. They'd gotten an iced tea brewing contraption as a wedding gift and were proudly brewing some peach-mint-green tea concoction to be placed on the table. It was such an odd departure from the norm - not unwelcome; I guzzled down 2 glasses - but an assertion on their part. As if to say "This is the way WE host a barbecue." And the newlyweds were clearly struggling to balance the history and the boundaries, the long held expectations and their preferences, their identity as a couple versus their identity as members of the same old family.

And while most of us were piling our plates with holiday weekend decadence, Chuck had lovingly prepared his bride her own preferred low carb meal - unseasoned and un-sauced chicken and a pile of frozen broccoli boiled to the consistency of oatmeal.

And as he placed the anemic looking little plate in front of her, I saw the first real glimpse of couple-dom. He placed his hand warmly on her back and she smiled sweetly at him as he brushed her hair aside.

It was a whole new world for everyone.

The Galloping Gourmet

I can't exactly say that we were greeted warmly. Perfunctory hellos and some thinly veiled hostility from the sweaty, golf-shirt-as-muumuu clad lawn mowing pinhead.

To make matters worse, as is typical of grandmothers houses, at Endora's there is an astonishing lack of distractions to absorb one's fading consciousness.

J. and I decided to head out toward the pool. The New Mrs. Scungili's two sisters were in the shallow end of the pool engrossed in conversation about a disco song they could not recall the name for, so J. and I rolled up our shorts and dangled our feet in the not-yet-warmed-by-summer water toward the deep end.

So now what?

From behind my oversized Charlie's Angels-style sunglasses, I watched the dynamics. Em, for the first time in recorded history seemed to be engaged in some purposeful activity. Something that resembled cooking - or at least prepping. Her brows were furrowed in concentration.

Chuck finished mowing (but not bagging) the patch of lawn, and following his authoritative greeting, set about de-muckifying the grill in an elaborate attention-seeking production. And then took on de-molding, de-leafing and re-positioning the patio chairs. And digging out the market umbrella and table tiles from the cellar. And of course all the burgers and dogs to order were his to prepare.

And frankly, he seemed a little overwhelmed by these things - things that, to be frank, Chuck would have happily, even voluntarily, perhaps jubilantly done for Mommom last year when he was the ass-kissing fiancee.

But now that he was squatting there permanently - numerous rumors that there is some form of "rent" changing hands are unconfirmed; they probably pay in groceries - and he is responsible for doing all of these joyous tasks as the man-about-the-house, he didn't seem to be exactly relishing the duties as assigned. In fact, he seemed a little huffy that Cassie and Lyla and J. and I were enjoying the pool and catching a few rays while he was working up quite a pair of pit stains over it all.

And the cooking. The self-anointed patron saint of finger food seemed to be enjoying it less for some reason. Last year he'd prepare a dish, basque in the glow of compliments and second helpings, and then regale us with his recall of all the nuances of the recipe (it's all in the fresh cilantro...) all with this infuriating overtone of smugness, assuming everyone thought he was America's most eligible bachelor because he could cook. (Puh-lease. It's going to take considerably more than a succulent chicken fricassee to keep me enamored for the long haul, Bobby Flay!)

Curious. Now that some of these tasks had become expectations, some of the joy seemed to be sucked right out of them. Now that bonus points and extra credit weren't being heaped on Chuck for every colorful vegetable kabob and every artfully carved baked potato garnish, his enthusiasm seemed to be waning.

Not quite what he'd expected, methinks.

Those Were the Days

It was a week filled with, as Archie Bunker might have remarked, "crapola." An in addition to that, the weather had turned from good to horrific. We were having a full on crapocalypse.

But there was a long weekend on the horizon and all we had to do was get through the rest of the week - even though all that was around us could only be viewed through s***-colored glasses.

At least the marathon of late Spring Cullen events would be drawing to a close. The triple crown finally over.

A lot had happened since it began - there had been snubs and stand offs, third party attacks, acquiescence, cordial but brief phone calls, half hearted invitations, shared meals, agreeable discussions, reluctant agreement. It had been a very productive series of events. It would have made any family therapist proud.

But the real test would be Memorial Day.

It was a holiday with no one in the family capable of hogging the spotlight, our Veteran Dads gone now. Would we cling to tradition and barbecue poolside at Endora's? Or would we dispense with all of that after the year we've had?

J. and I had plenty to distract us - a party to celebrate the arrival of the out of town parents of a local friend. All the rained out yard work to catch up on (since the teens in my neighborhood were still apathetic) Tan lines to nurture at the opening weekend of my swim club.

But somewhere between beers with Kate's parents and the collection of 14 bags of yard crapola - J.'s phone rang and his voice mail was the unwitting recipient of an invitation to barbecue at his mother's on Monday for what could be our first real visit since the Squatters came home to roost.

J. seemed unambivalent. We would be going. I planned a side dish.

The weekend was wonderful. We did yard work sufficient to convince the neighbors to stop referring to my property as 1313 Mockingbird Lane. We spent a lovely afternoon drinking MGD bottles with Kate's parents who were passing through on the way to Northern Wisconsin from Florida for the summer and were full of stories about the Packers, pontoon boats and retirement community poolside follies. I trotted out my lily white winter bod and managed not to blister it beyond redemption in pursuit of a San Tropez tan.

And then it was time.

I dressed in tame shorts and shirt that emphasized neither the skinniness of the legs nor the largess of the boobs. I wore pretty but sensible sandals that would stay on my feet if I suddenly needed to sprint down the street to a getaway car. I took the broccoli salad. Left the chardonnay. Regretted the choice.

We arrived at Endora's/The Scungilis' at the suggested time to find and unfamiliar sight: Chuck in a full sweat mowing the lawn.

This was going to be a very different visit, for sure.

Bless the Beasts and the Children

Kiddos in bed. Lunches packed. Backpacks reviewed. Jammies on. Nothing left to do but dial. (And pour myself a little wine – which I did before dialing. No need for any tell tale clinking on the call.)

“Hi!” I said brightly. “J. tells me you made a long overdue phone call. I want to hear all about it. But first – how was the concert?”

The approach worked. Disarmed by the opportunity to gush about a grandchild, Endora was happy to talk.

Concert was lovely. She was so proud. It was a very enjoyable evening, that was, except for the deplorable conduct trotted out for all the world to see by Sandy and her merry band of idiots.

And there friends, we regained some semblance of common ground.

Unified in our love for J. Aligned in our contempt for his ex-wife. Comrades in our desire to return the derision 10-fold. Equally confounded as to how she gets away with it all.

She clucked and “Well, I never!”-ed through her description of Sandy's atrocious sideshow. (All that was missing evidently, were clowns in miniature cars with squirting flowers on their lapels)

I “You go, girl!”-ed and “Amen to that!”-ed through her recap of the torching phone message she’d left.

We fantasized out loud about the innumerable ways we’d like to return the overtures Sandy had made recently, and in years gone by.

We lamented that people like Sandy rarely suffer the remorse and introspection such retribution is intended to elicit.

Sandy was a lost cause. Beyond redemption. A malignant narcissist (http://narcissistic-personality.suite101.com/) with a penchant for blaming J. for standing in the way of her attainment of true happiness. Even as he leads a discreet life in a separate home with a completely detached and distinct focus. She was his little cross to bear. His crown of thorns. And his girls’ as well.

So long as there was Sandy, there would be “dealing with Sandy.” And so long as we’d be dealing with Sandy, there would be insults and injury, degradation and disgrace, law suits and public records, threats and go-ahead-and-try-to-stop-me gambits to contend with. Seemingly there is nothing capable of giving her pause or compunction.

She was singularly focused on destruction and vengeance.

And it was patently clear:

The only way to defend or deflect would be to have a singularly united front.

Our realization on the phone was palpable, yet for now, remained unstated.

Return of the Saint

It is a profound and simple truth about sibling rivalry: Nothing erases your transgression faster than a more heinous and unforgivable act performed by your sibling. Her filching vodka from the liquor cabinet for enjoyment at the prom eclipses your sneaking in the second floor window by way of the pear tree, hours after curfew, and pretending to have been asleep in your bed the whole entire time.

And that same truth applies to lots of other grown up situations that do not in most cases involve anyone’s siblings. Your missed deadline at work pales in comparison to your co-worker sending an inadvertent all-users email remarking how fat the CFO looks in that skirt and, hello, doesn’t she realize that she is not 20 anymore? And what’s with that hair?

I am the first to admit that it will be pretty darn tricky to try to erase from everyone’s collective memory the fact that I had a screaming hissy fit showdown with J.’s mom and said things that were, albeit clever and very entertaining in hindsight, umm, a little hard to forgive. Not that she didn’t dish out a few insults of her own that went straight up under my fingernails, but she is the family matriarch. She’s got the villagers on her side. It’s an uphill climb for me at best.

But I have to believe that we all would like to forget that episode. Even if it is as indelible as the unicorn tattoo that seemed like such a good idea after the 4th margarita that night in Cancun. I have to believe we are all looking for an opportunity to forgive…if not a reason.

And then along comes Sandy. The unsuspecting boob who just can’t help herself.

Sandy was naive enough to think that J.’s family would actually take her side when she announced their pending divorce. As if! Just like the Queen Mum sided with Diana even when all the world could see the Prince was a philandering dolt?

Evidently she’s not any more socially enlightened these days, as she seemed to be perfectly comfortable shelling out her uniquely degrading treatment of J. in public and, perhaps more importantly, in front of his mother.

So Sandy’s hissy fit, complete with clenched fists and breath-holding and foot-stomping (and these are some feet designed for stomping!) carried out for all the Catholic-school-concert-going crowd to see, inclusive of J.’s mom, was just the tide-turning thing I needed. And she played into my hand without provocation. Moron.

Of course, J. called me at once to relay the sordid details. Endora took another route and made a phone call. Left one unforgettable, unforgiving, tersely worded, shaming message. Touche.

She, very proud of herself, repeated the whole thing to J. And J., anxious to milk this coup for all its potential worth, suggested she tell me about it herself. She was sure I’d have no interest in what she’d said, but J. disagreed.

“Mom, she is completely supportive of me. I am sure she’d be pleased to hear about your call.”

And with that, he committed me to calling her once the kiddos had gone to bed.

High Anxiety

The meal was awkward but not completely unbearable.

The Caesar was fabulous and I scarfed down every last bite and some of J.'s veal, and thereby managed to have my life spared. The kids kept things light so there was no overt violence, no interrogations about any unseemly comparisons I've made between Endora and several universally loathed people, no gushing about the wedding, and no yelling. (Except for the benefit of the bad ear.) I over-contributed to the payment toward the meal and tip, collected my progeny, and left through the door from whence I came, this time not waving like a dork, but still managing the maintenance of physical distance. No hugs and kisses goodbye for anyone but J. and the kids.

The next night was his tween's spring concert. A blossoming flutist, she had a solo in the flute piece. A big deal for sure.

But alas, I would not be able to attend, my tweens having numerous obligations themselves. Such is the life of a family in two households. There is only dividing. No actual conquering.

So that night, as was customary, J. would attend the concert, and so would his mother. And his ex-wife. And several dozen of her closest family members, all of whom looked recently sprung from the Psychoneurotic Institute for the Very, VERY Nervous. (Complete with regular gas lighting by Nurse Diesel.) Miserable affects, nervous twitching, attire dictated by thrift shop availability, and tragic footwear. They arrived shortly after school ended to save choice seats - and to place kitchen chair cushions on the entire front row, presumably to mark their territory and prevent hemorrhoids.

And there they would all sit, and under normal circumstances, would give the appearance of actually tolerating one another so that no one, especially J.'s tween would be wise to the fact that there was actually murderous thoughts pinging around in many of the heads sullenly dangling above the front row of folding chairs.

But this night, Sandy could not help herself. Even in the cool aftermath that follows the blistering flame out after a stunt like she had recently pulled, she did not have the typical moment of clarity, or the usual remorse. Those without a soul sometimes do have that lucidity - but not from guilt. It is usually a moment of reflection when they realize that there are those who will not see their purpose or their justification and who will judge them. Harshly. And maybe even distance themselves a little. And those people will have to be cast off. Pity.

If Sandy had had that moment, she had crushed it in its infancy. And as if to build support for the deplorable actions she'd taken, she chose to continue the affront in public. Right there at the concert. In front of family and friends. And the entire woodwind section.

And fortunately for me, in front of J.'s mother.

Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli

It took all my concentration to will myself to refrain from spinning around and racing toward the bar.

"Bar tender! A Car Bomb! And keep 'em coming!"

I stifled the shear panic and surveyed the battlefield like a 4-star general. J. was seated at the head of the table. The seats to his immediate left and right were unclaimed, and one next to one of those, flanking his sister's territory, as well. The kids took the tandem, my daughter, the one with Estelle's DNA on that second X chromosome, assuming the position next to Sheila.

The remaining seat, surely the Booby Prize. Right next to J. --- but unfortunately wedged between him and Endora. I inspected the seat surface for tacks and arachnids before tentatively lowering myself into the chair.

I scanned the table surface for potential weapons. I had a clear exit strategy if the serrated knife that had been plunged into the crusty loaf was suddenly wielded against me from across the table. But the scalding cup of tea at Endora's place could easily disfigure half a dozen exposed parts of my body. Doomed. I was doomed.

The bonus feature to this particularly enervating seating arrangement was that I was next to Endora's "bad ear." My attempts to make light, pleasant conversation seeming foolish since every statement needed to be repeated. Said at first in conversational dinner table tone, and once more in drive-thru-window tone. I desperately tried to send the waitress a telepathic message imploring her to switch out my iced tea with a Long Island version.

We ordered - there were a variety of parmigianas, and pastas and sides of fries with grilled sandwiches - and I ordered a chicken Caesar salad, which truth be told, is my favorite thing on the menu. A heaping plate of lettuce, tossed with dressing and sprinkled with cheese, and then laden with grilled chicken and homemade croutons is as satisfying as any veal cutlet parmigiana or lasagna or sausage and pepper sandwich. Truly it is.

But when you are trying not to get yourself bludgeoned to death by an angry mob while dining in a public place, it is probably not a great idea to flaunt the fact that your figure defies your age (and the fact that you carried two babies to term) with its unfair slimness by ordering the heart-smart meal, all while seated at a table with a couple of chubbettes. Especially envious disapproving chubbettes who have a bone to pick, so to speak, with the world of skinny b****es, especially those who sometimes forget to eat. (I am not one of them. J. says I eat like a condemned man.)

With the simple act of ordering, I had inadvertently started the descent into Hell. There was only one way to turn back - Scarf down the meal and part of J.'s too, and when it comes time for cake, take a deep breath and do not dare ask for "just a small piece." Piggishly ask for big one, one with a big sugary, grainy rose on it, and finish the whole damn thing, hogging down enormous bites and maniacly scraping the plate for any speck of icing I might have missed.

And refrain from mentioning any plans for any type of exercise later that evening. And for the love of God, no gym equipment. Survival may depend on it.

I Dream of Jeannie

The next day was J.'s birthday. We had promised to meet him and the girls at a restaurant near his home to celebrate once more. (Given the events of the past few days, I didn't care if he wanted a motorcade and fireworks. We would accommodate.) My son was an easy sell - cake and the opportunity to see the NHL playoff game surrounded by 11 different flat screen TVs? Count him in!

My daughter was a harder sell...she was a gal with a budding social profile and there was another Middle School Orientation tonight. We stood in the bathroom, adjusting various things in the mirror and chatting.

"But Mom," she said. "The kids are encouraged to attend with their parents!"

"But, sweetie," I said, mimicking her. "You went last week with your class! This is for kids who don't already have a brother in 6th grade and whose parents don't know the ropes!"

"Derek doesn't have a brother in 6th grade" she said softly. Oh. Social Butterfly wanted to be the tour guide for 5th Grade Class Hottie. Can't say it wasn't a brilliant idea.

But still. "Honey, Derek is really smart and cool and confident. He won't be there with his parents. But I bet that snot-nosed whiner Alice will be."

Mission accomplished. Back to primping.

She looked at me in the mirror and seemed to be admiring my outfit. Had to admit it was quite cute. Tailored pencil skirt with an off-kilter plaid and oversized button closure. Coordinating twin set. Black roach killer pumps. Chunky jewelry. Perfection.

She stepped back and took a full length look and asked, "Mom, is it 50's day in your office?" I may as well have been wearing Mom Jeans. Cropped acid-wash Mom Jeans.

Wore the Laura Petrie outfit anyway and went to work, and immediately afterwards, like a bat out of hell, I raced home, inspected faces and hair and the condition of outfits, jammed the kids and J.'s gifts into the car, and went back out into the Wacky Racers episode that had been the evening's rush hour.

Forty minutes later, we squealed into the parking lot, huffed out of the car and into the cool darkness of the restaurant. I spotted J. from the bar and walked toward the dining room.

And as I drew nearer, my eyes adjusted. I approached the table to find it surrounded by not only J. and his girls, but Endora, Sheila and one of the nieces.

If only I could nod my head and blink and simply vanish.

Dr. Bombay! Dr. Bombay!

Maybe if Dr. Bombay did not appear, a little Bombay Gin in the lemonade would work!

Deep breaths. Serenity now. Serenity now.

Busy hands, busy hands. The best way to calm yourself. Busy hands. Shred the cabbage for coleslaw.

Maybe this was a good thing. Unless there were disguised family members casing the neighborhood in unmarked cars and watching our every move so they could know when to converge on the house for a home invasion, it was just me and J. and the kids squaring off with Endora. I am sure even she would realize she was outnumbered in any kind of preconceived attack. The chance of "funny bithneth" was minimal.

And since she was the only guest, I could rest assured there was little chance of any real confrontation in front of the kids. No chance of a "So, about that 'fat old hen' comment you made..." interrogations.

And as for my other normal fonts of angst - my tenuous reputation for cooking and cleaning... There was little if any time to perform any last minute White Tornado act, so the house would be As Is. And cooking - half of it was J.'s - his birthday, his favorites.

But still, I wouldn't mind Dr. Bombay being on hand. Perhaps with that reviving gin and lemonade.

We made a (potentially life preserving) decision to eat inside in the A/C and out of the late afternoon sun...which would surely help with the beads of sweat forming on my upper lip and hair line. Pretty.

We sat. And we passed the bowls and platters and condiments. Dinner was underway. I angsted over adolescent breaches of manners. Apologized for cold butter (even though cold beats putrid any day of the week in my book). Regretted the absence of wine. Prayed for dinner to end without incident, and if it could not end without incident, that the incident itself would be swift and decisive. Preferably deadly.

Once the children had scattered in search of scooters and bikes and video games, I was happy to leave J. and his mom to talk while I cleared dishes and made a lengthy production of loading the dishwasher, scrubbing pots and pans until they sparkled, and lovingly storing leftovers. The safety of a familiar task a welcome asylum. Busy hands.

Then as it grew dark, Endora prepared to board the Vroom Broom for home and it became awkward. Even more so because my kitchen is the size of a minivan, and well, so is she. We made no eye contact. I offered her leftovers. She refused. She offered to help in the kitchen. I refused. J. kissed her goodbye. I waved like a dork.

And she was gone.

The checkered flag was waving.

Too soon to call a truce, but a baby step in the right direction.

Becoming Don Knotts

So I faked it. I put on an Oscar-worthy portrayal of a woman completely calm and in control of her faculties while a potentially aggressive predator threatened. I gamely set about being engrossed in and consumed with the task of properly picking up and storing the damn lawn darts. (Which under normal circumstances I would have left right where they were out of hopeful anticipation of another round, and of course, sheer laziness.

I considered chickening out altogether and going in the side door on the opposite side of the house from where J. and his mother sat. Too obvious. (Again, there are enough bad manners citations out there being discussed over Early Bird Specials each week)

So, lawn darts in my hands to steady them, I walked toward the proper door without making eye contact until absolutely necessary. (Those day lillies were sooo interesting!) When I'd gotten near enough, I simply forced a polite smile and said "Can I get either of you something to drink?"

After getting refusals from both of them in unison, I walked through the door, and when I was safely out of veiw, began to breathe again.

So now it was just me and the kids in the house - and I needed to tell them that Mommom was here --- which would surely be met with mixed reviews. Not being my first day as a parent, I controlled the situation by telling each kid casually but privately. It was summer afterall, and the windows were open, so any kind of loud protests by my children would heard the world over.

At one point, J. asked that his tween come out to chat with Mommom. I gave Endora and her granddaughter a wide berth, but noticed through the kitchen curtains that J. had disappeared. I looked around the yard and in the garage before deciding that he'd vanished, and was probably stuffed in Endora's trunk suffocating while I boiled water for corn on the cobb.

So I went to my house phone and dialed his cell, hoping against hope that I'd hear it ringing nearby. It was not. He picked up on the 3rd ring. He was not in Endora's trunk. He was at the hardware store!

Stifling the urge to scream obscenities at him for leaving me alone with the Boogey Man, I inquired as to the urgency of the hardware emergency. His explanation, by the Grace of God, made sense given the recent threats and aggression from Sandy, and he said he'd be home in 5 minutes, could I heat up the grill.

Of course that would require me to walk by Endora several times. Damn him his hardware store crisis.

I walked by the first time. Offered drinks on the way back.
Walked by a second time, this time with matches because the ignition would not spark (natch). Offered that everyone could come inside since it was so hot. (and Endora was wearing pants and a cardigan sweater!)
Went out a third time to put the table cloth on the picnic table and raise the market umbrella.
Walked by a fourth time to check on the grill temperature (Where the hell was J.????????) and bumped into him on the walk. He was smiling.

"We have another guest for dinner," he stated with hopeful expectation about my response.

"Great!" I said with uncertainty and feigned joy. "Glad to have you. Let's eat inside where it's cool."

And I am less likely to faint from all of this.

Not So Cool McCool

There was yard game we had as a kid - one that only the parents were allowed to play, that everyone seemed to love to play for hours at every cookout and pool party, even long after they were taken off the market for being too dangerous and causing too many irreversible injuries.

The game was called Jarts. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawn_darts)It was not unlike Horseshoes in that you tossed an object toward a target some distance away and got points for accuracy. But there was something considerably more exciting about tossing the heavily weighted darts with their brightly colored fins spinning as they flew. They stuck in the ground with a satisfying "thunk" and defiantly held their position. There was no chance they'd get knocked out of the ring or bounced by another jart landing on top. The kids had to stand clear while the grownups played. Since I can tell from the family 8mm films that the game often included cans of Schlitz and my ancient bucket-hat-wearing grandfather, there were still plenty of errant throws and Jarts piercing nearby lawn chairs and charcoal briquette bags. Perhaps the mystique contributed to my love for them. You always covet the forbidden. And at the age of 10, Jarts was about as forbidden a thing I could think of.

That morning I'd gotten the new version of the game for us to play as a distraction. It is called Lawn Darts, but there are no darts. Where there had been heavy steel tipped darts before, now were heavy, bulbous, rubberized balls that bounced around once they hit the ground and were subject to being knocked out of the ring by other rolling and skittering "ball darts."

But the kids never knew the banned-by-the-Consumer-Product-Safety-Commission version, so they were happy to play. I was closing in on 21 in a game against my son when I saw Endora's car casing the neighborhood through my wildly untamed hedges.

And my heart was off to the races. But being points away from victory in a hard fought game with my son allowed me to delay "noticing" for a few minutes and give J. a chance to realize his mother had arrived.

She came a foot or two down the walk and I greeted her from across the yard. I got no response. She went immediately to J. They took a seat on my patio (on benches among the dandelions) and became engrossed in conversation.

My son having edged me in the last toss of the game ran victoriously into the house. And I had my first real pang of awkwardness.

There I was on the lawn, lawn "dart" in hand, J. and his mom oblivious to me, and I had to walk past them to get into the house. I was overcome by the strangest most unfamiliar sensation.

I had no idea what to do.

There's Got To Be A Morning After...

The next day I awoke with a crushing sense of panic. What kind of temporary insanity had I been stricken with to have made such an overture? And is there something I can take for it?

Was I ready for this? Were my kids ready for this? I know my house is not ready. (Whose house is mother-in-law ready without notice?)

It was a stinking hot day - with piddling little on-again-off-again showers that left everything just wet enough that I could not mow my lawn (or mow the 8 inch weeds growing through the cracks in my patio for that matter). I also could not get rid of the hedge trimmings I had left in piles to dry before attempting to bag them. In short, my lawn looked like that of the Addams Family.

The house was clean but certainly not neat thanks to the exuberant return of my my kiddos - and their backpacks, projects, hobbies, library books, and frequent wardrobe changes.

My kitchen had been clean, but as I usually do on the weekends that the kids return, I'd started to prepare the week's meals so that every evening did not take on the appearance of a Chinese Fire Drill. And my kitchen looked, well, lived in.

J. was feeling horrible about all of the latest events (the proximity to his birthday was not helping!) and he wanted the company of those he could count on. He decided to spend the day at my house - not just come for dinner. We would shop for the necessary groceries once he got here. At what hour dinner would actually make it to the table was a wild card. This was good news and bad news.

Good news because there was no specific time for Endora to work around and/or avoid. And the chances that she'd stop to see J. on her way to or from her other party were good. At least for him.

Bad news in that when I called Endora back with the non-specific specifics, it would look like I was trying to avoid inviting her to dinner. And weren't there already enough stories about my appalling lack of manners out there on the Blue Hair gossip circuit?

But I called. And got the same cool reaction. My heart quite frankly, was beating in my chest the entire time, but like every seasoned Human Resources professional whose had tons of conversations they'd rather never have started but needed to complete, I very matter of factly, politely and succinctly delivered the message, checked that I'd been clear, and then said goodbye.

And then began breathing into a paper bag.

Fractured Fairy Tales

Understand that Sandy needed little motivation to rape and pillage. The slightest discrepancy with her version of perfect world order and complete domination would often lead to nuclear meltdowns. J. recalled one particularly explosive, full-throttle hissy fit inspired by his return from grocery shopping and the discovery that he'd purchased the wrong size box of Cheerios and the 50 cent off coupon had not applied (much less doubled! Gasp!)

***Note - Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth. (And hello a little help here...why do we say that?) I would have gladly paid full price for all 8 bags and a delivery fee for someone to have voluntarily taken on the grocery shopping for me - and in fact, might have had a lovely filet mignon and glass of Merlot waiting at the end of the trip.

But whatever drove Sandy to this madness, however admittedly short the trip, her sycophant family (ahem, AKA "support system") was seated at her (considerable) feet, "There, there Sandy"-ing and "We're all here to help" -ing her until her hormonally imbalanced rage could subside to normal human levels.

And now J. needed his "support system." But what Sandy had done was so reprehensible J. was hesitant to talk to anyone about it. It's hard to admit that you were once married to someone capable of such hatred. Sometimes even your friends don't completely understand. And who wants to make that call? "Hi there! It's J. Sandy's at it again and this time she's publicly humiliated me and discredited me! Wanna grab a beer after work and catch up?"

He'd called his mother, and she was appropriately horrified but still a little distant.

He needed me for sure. And although I have great faith in my abilities, in this case, he needed more than me.

So I took a deep breath.
I picked up my phone.
I called his mother.

The call went immediately to voicemail, natch. But it was not Endora's voice on the message as I'd been accustomed to hearing. And it was not the Squatters squealing in their newly wedded euphoria either.

I was a little out of practice at calling this house since the screaming match, so I hung up without leaving a message and checked the number.

I had in fact dialed properly.

Uh-oh. Damn that caller ID.

I took another deep, cleansing breath and dialed again.

She answered. Coolly.

I steadily greeted Endora and identified myself (omitting the last name). I remarked that I'd intended to have J. and the girls for dinner the next day to celebrate our birthdays, and in light of what's happened, I was sure he'd love to see her. He needed his family around him. Would she like to join us?

She replied, still coolly, that she had a party to attend but would try to come. What time?

I told her I was not clear on the details yet, but would call her again the next day with the time.

We got off the phone without any fanfare or drama...and then I properly exhaled, for the first time in months.

Love is...

So Sandy had stomped across our world with her big, wide, sturdy feet one more time. She'd broken new ground with this maneuver, however, and we were scrambling to regain our balance.

Our turn to wring our hands. These were uncharted waters for us both. We needed advice. What do you do with someone who justifies breaking all the rules?

When I was a kid, a local dairy had a campaign where their sour cream (for dips and chips before we worried about things like cholesterol) was packaged not in jars or tubs but in juice sized and pint sized glasses. With plastic lids and little cartoons on the side. We collected dozens of them in our house (What was with all the dip?) and they became part of our drinking glass collection - right along side the jelly glasses with Tom and Jerry and Peanuts characters depicted on the side.

The cartoon for the sour cream company was called "Love is..." and bore cute little simple renderings of two young people, one male and one female, in varying stages of courtship, often looking pie-eyed or coyly at one another.

And completely naked.

How odd that seems today. I will spare you the political commentary.

But the point is, the cartoons had cute little pictures and says that finished the sentence "Love is..." (http://www.loveiscomicstrip.com/catalog2.php)

Love is ..the little things.

Love is...being together every step of the way.

Love is...come rain or shine.

Love is...not the wrapping but what's inside.

Perhaps we should start a sour cream container campaign for Sandy's benefit specifically. Let's call it "Love is not..."

Love is not ...blaming your spouse for your inability to be happy about anything and that in spite of a very nice life, you've become a bitter old hag with frown lines. (Bring on the Frownies - www.frownies.com/)

Love is not...using divorce proceedings to exact revenge for your disappointment with how your life has turned out, when really you've just reaped what you've sown.

Love is not...using every available means to ensure your spouse's certain misery for all eternity, just because your are pretty sure that is your fate.

Love is not...being incensed at the fact that your former spouse has found love and happiness when you have failed to have so much as a single second date.

Love is not...using your powerful parental influence over your children to encourage insolence and alienation toward their other parent when all other attempts to destroy him have failed. People like that should be forced to spend a long weekend in a juvenile detention center to witness the power and destruction of bad parenting.

Make no mistake. I am not suggesting that divorced couples should or even can, as a rule, love each other. It is pretty darn hard to even be in the same state most times.

But when all the papers have been signed, time should, as it is said, heal all wounds. And while there may not be love, there once was. Enough to invite children into your life together. And so long as there are children, there is a connection. You to them and them to your former spouse. And the more prosperous, fulfilling and peaceful that former spouse's life, the better your children's lives, for the time they share it. How nice for them to know that Mom or Dad is doing okay --- and they will do okay, too, by some sort of emotional osmosis.

It is safe to assume that we all love our kids. So therefore, all the Love Is Nots are off the table when it comes to the other parent. Period.

If only the sour cream company could make it so.