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.