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.