He's Too Heavy, He's My Brother

Still reeling from the Whose Bra Is It Anyway situation, I head into the weekend a little uneasy.

But I have desserts and side dishes to prepare for a party we’re attending and kids to reacquaint myself with – habits to unlearn from the week with Lars, bed times to adhere to, routines to reintroduce. It is like breaking two young horses each week. I am forever saying things like “Remember where you are, we don’t eat in front of the TV here,” or “You don’t get your way just because you say you’re sorry,” or “It’s a gorgeous day and I will not spend it in a dark theater eating popcorn and soda and not talking.”

My phone rings. The ring tone is “I Want to Be Sedated,” indicating that it is either my mother or brother.

This can’t be good. I can’t decide which one to hope it isn’t. In my indecision and while I wipe couscous salad fixins’ from my hands, it goes to voicemail.

I take my time retrieving the message. It is my brother. He wants to come over to measure my daughter’s furniture.

As my daughter teeters on the precipice of teenhood, I am about to part with the little girl décor of her room – the room I lovingly decorated in the exact shade of bubblegum pink when she was just a tot of 5 years old. We have chosen a theme – lavender and plum, and girly and Parisian with new furniture just detailed enough but not too detailed to be frou frou. Paris will take care of the frou frou. We’ll have to part with her lovely flower-embellished junior furniture. Perhaps Joe’s 5 year old daughter would like a new set.

I call him back and it of course goes to his voicemail, as all calls to their home do. I am not sure who they think is stalking them and trying to force them to converse. The introductory message is stiff and measured and sounds as though he is reading from a teleprompter. A slow teleprompter.

I offer that we’ll be home for a couple of hours and he can stop by, but we need to be on the road by 1 (actually 2, but I need a little debrief time.)

He calls right back. He’s on the road and he’ll be by shortly.

I cringe at the thought, forewarn the children (my son instantly leaves) and go back to assembling my side dish and dessert.

Joe arrives and I show him upstairs. He is hardly at all interested in really looking at the furniture. I have to force him to write down the measurements. He describes his daughter’s room as enormous but full of crap. He may not be able to take all the pieces. There might be too much crap.

What?

As my daughter prepares a collection of little girl things his daughter might enjoy and he asks for more coffee to put in his Dunkin Donuts cup, he states that he’s brought “this little gem” with him. I am baffled and nearly cover my eyes as he pulls something out of his pocket. You never know with him.

It’s a letter. And quickly, I realize just as he is about to place it into my upturned palm that it is the letter from my sister.

I recoil as though he is about to place a live snake into my hand.

“None of my business,” I say. “That letter is between you and Charlotte. I am not getting involved and I am not about to take sides."

And as we head down the stairs into the kitchen where I could refill his coffee cup and resume side dish and dessert detail, he begins the hours long campaign of trying to get me to read the letter.

And when I have finally convinced him that I will not, he reads portions of it aloud to himself. I remark from the kitchen that I can not hear him above the din of the rolling boil I’ve got going for the couscous and it is a good thing because it is none of my GD business.

And as he hints that he’d like to mooch lunch from me, he also tries to reinvent the facts of the Door-Open/Xbox/Cat-Poop debacle to try to gain a little support for his lame-o position on the matter.

I feel like I am at work. (“I know it was inconsiderate of Mr. Firestone to insult your sexual preferences with his off-color joke, Mr. Perillo, but that really doesn’t excuse the fact that you set his desk on fire.”)

I restate over and over, using different words, and increasingly more simplistic words just to be sure, that I’d made my position clear at the time and it is unchanged. He’d been wrong, whether it was his son who “started it” or not. It was an intrusion and he’d bungled the situation by not handling it with respect for my sister and her family and with an immediate call and a sincere apology.

And then he pulls the Mom card.

The Mistress of My Domain

Sometime when you need a reality check, instead of confiding in a friend and asking if he or she thinks you are making a mistake, or comparing your decision against their moral compass, put it to the ultimate litmus test.

Post the question on your wall on Facebook.


I did just this when I picked up my kids from camp at the end of the week to begin a nice stretch of time with them. Moments after buckling our seat belts, my daughter turned to me and said some of the most dreaded words, " Mom, I have something to tell you and I hope you don't get mad."


I stopped backing out of my space and said, "Should I wait a minute to drive so you can tell me?"


She nodded and continued with the hateful statement, "Dad told me not to tell you because you'd be upset, but I want to tell you. Remember last night when I called you and told you I had been shopping for new shirts? I lied."


And what followed was a story that had so very many things wrong with it that I could never be mad. Not at her. It had me shaking my head and sad to my very soul. I had no idea what to do.


So I posted a question on my FB wall and let my FB Friends be my guide:


What do I say to my (idiot) ex-husband who let his (ninny) girlfriend take MY daughter out to buy her first bra? So far as I know there are no bra emergencies.... Truly I am at a loss. Although a bra burning seems appropriate.

FB Friend/Cousin: Isn’t that stepping into a territory that should be out of bounds for anyone except the lovely lady who brought those growing bosoms into this world?

Me: My thoughts exactly. Clearly my domain. And from the looks of things, I would be the subject matter expert as well.

FB Friend/Cousin: well, somehow, i am quite confident that you will get your revenge. You are the queen of comebacks, aren't you?

Me: I am indeed. Wearing the tiara as we FB. The best part was that he told her not to tell me because I'd be mad. Ummm hello...and I'd be mad because....I SHOULD BE!!!

FB Friend/Male College Friend: Inappropriate!

FB Friend/Female College Roommate: Wtf!!! Um.....wtf!!! Um.........WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT!!!!

Me: I know! It's supposed to be my job. My honor. My chance to inadvertently embarrass the dear girl with a comment audible in other fitting rooms! It's wrong on so many levels.

FB Friend/Female College Roommate: You know, I need to say here that I disliked that bum ever since you were dating and he FREAKED out....I don't remember the flipping specifics but I believe there were things flying out windows included in the mix. Or.....something similar! GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

FB Friend/Girls Weekend Friend: You crack me up.....but you are right...that is SO wrong!

FB Friend/Male College Friend: What you have is a woman who's trying to win points with both a young daughter and her father and it doesn't always make for very good judgment

FB Friend/Another female cousin: UNBELIEVABLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FB Friend/Former colleague: In 5 years your daughter will figure out for herself how weird this was....

Me: And she'll add it to the growing list of very weird things...


The verdict is in. It was wrong. I have a right to be sad. I have a right to feel violated.


The question I can not seem to answer is:


What do I say to my (idiot) ex-husband who let his (ninny) girlfriend take MY daughter out to buy her first bra?


In the mean time, since enlightening the Bad Parent and the Non-Parent with all the ways in which this scheme was a violation of all the written and unwritten rules seems a fool's errand, I did what any good mother would do.


I took my daughter out and bought her a couple of fabulously beautiful bras.

Ma Bell

Well we know it won't be a scathing e-mail.

Mom's true medium is voicemail. A master.

I chat with my sister all the way home from work. It is clearly on her mind that I may be subjected to the wrath of Estelle because she shared some juicy morsels with our mother in the heat of battle.

I am not really as concerned as the average bear about being in trouble. Trouble is in the eye of the beholder. What's Mom going to do? Drive up here to pull my hair?

I do brace myself as I pull up to my house. I am still yakking with my sister and she's asked me to check my phone messages before I hang up. We are both curious - and frankly - a good rant from Estelle would make excellent verbatim blog copy!

I scroll through my missed calls. Not one from Mom.

Not that day.

Not the next day.

And not the next.

Maybe she's going to fire off one of her famous nasty letters. In a nice note card with little birds and bougainvillea on it. Bill's daughter got one in her Easter card of all things.

But a few days go by and there is no letter bomb.

And then suddenly one afternoon the tell tale red light is blinking at me from the hall table when I arrive home, and a quick scroll through the missed calls reveals one from Grandmomstella.

And even with all the distance (thanks again to the Colonies...) and the firm conviction that I have accurately and without embellishment represented the (bizarre) facts to my sister, and the confidence that I have the ability to evaluate right from wrong, separate fact from myth, distinguish rudeness from etiquette - and the fact that I do not actually have to listen to the entire message that she's left at the sound of the tone, I am kind of in a flop sweat.

I pour myself a cold glass of lemonade. Take a deep breath. Blow through the first few messages: from the Girl Scout leader, the bizarre massage therapist that has mistaken my number for someone else's, Tony Roni's who thinks I ordered a stromboli.

And then Mom.

But it is not a tongue lashing. No, it is a heads up call to be on the lookout for a gift I'll be getting in the mail.

"Hi! I just wanted to let you know that there will be a gift coming to you from me from QVC. You mentioned that you were worried about getting dark circles under you eyes and were putting vitamin K or some damn thing on them - but I saw this stuff on QVC and they put it on the model, I think her name is Kathy, and wow! what a difference! So I took a guess at the shade you'd need, it is some kind of brightener- and if you don't like it, you can send it back using the label they give you..."

Thrilla in Manila

It is a noble thing to endeavor to conduct a fair fight with someone. The nature of fighting is adversarial but the fight can avoid being adversarial if you really, really want it to be. Correction: If BOTH of you really want it to be. But a talent for this feat does not come naturally. It has to be practiced and honed, and you must choose to avoid the off the cuff type of comments you are dying to make in an argument. (I know you are, but what am I???) A heated, passionate, worthwhile argument is not restrained on its own. It is lassoed into being so.

They should teach this in all those little pre-marriage classes you (are forced to) take before you walk (unwittingly) down the aisle. Being on the same page about birth control and finances and child rearing are indeed important things. But no one really tells you what you should do when you find yourselves on different pages - except maybe the mediator in your eventual divorce.

Mom, I am sure it comes as no surprise, has never had a fair fight. You can try to keep the disagreement focused and productive and above the belt, but sooner or later (usually sooner) she does one of two things - she zings you or she baits you. And the result is straight out of a Road Runner/Wile E. Coyote cartoon: a match is struck and held to a little trail of gun powder that meanders all over hill and dale before reaching the crates of Acme dynamite. Usually someone hangs up in tears.

How the zingers and the baiting began this time I am still a little fuzzy about. There was quite a lot of ground covered and an unusually high body count.

What is clear, however, is that at some point, some of the more colorful excerpts from "What I Did On My Summer Vacation" came to the surface and it was clear to my mother that my sister and I had rehashed the 3 longest days of my life.

Mom was livid - and had to attack. Attacked me by reinventing history to cast my children and me in an unfavorable light, and to make me appear to have been lying (i.e. "There is no gun. It's a taser!) and to attack my sister by criticizing her life - as in, digs about the little town where they make their vacation home, and suggesting that if there was a gun, and there is not, it would be no worse than her husband owning a motorcycle (Which he does, but Mom didn't know that until the other day. Touche, Estelle!)

Note - When was the last time someone pulled a motorcycle on you in an alley?

What was odd, but not entirely unprecedented, was that she chose to hack away at me through my sister. As if she was supposed to pass along the message.

Which she did in a series of texts, emails, and phone calls to alert me to the fact that the heat seeking missile had a lock on me.

But it didn't.

Reach Out, Reach Out and Slap Someone

A long fun-filled day of amusements was followed by one filled with miniature golf and minor league baseball, and one more full day at the lakeside beach. I was finally getting the restful, peaceful rejuvenation that is the biggest blessing of vacation. I was finally, as Steven Covey suggests, sharpening the saw.

The drive home on Friday was overshadowed with the usual melancholy. Not only is vacation over, but the kids return to their father. The double whammy. They are going through their routine angst. Excited to see their father, nervous and sad about leaving me. It is the biggest thing I regret about my divorce. I made this their life.

My weekend is filled with laundry and lawn work. I am always amazed at what magic Mother Nature has wrought when I have not been there to see the grass grow. And the hedges. Good grief. I bought a saw and finally Paul Bunyan-ed the thick tree-like limbs. Could have used a Big Blue Ox to haul them away. But I didn't. Let's just look forward to some nice, cheap firewood. Got a great workout for my arms. By the time fall arrives I should look like Rambo.

Monday arrives and I am busy catching up on what all of the working world has saved up for me in my absence. Meet with my boss, catch up with a brand spanking new employee, read a thousand or so emails, most of which are not worth the effort to move my eyes back and forth.

And then my sister calls. She'd gotten a call from Mom.

It had started peacefully enough. They all do. My sister was getting ready for work so she did more listening. And make no mistake, Mom's jaws are always flapping at a considerably higher velocity than most other people's. The call ended without incident.

But then there was a call back. Mom called back to comment that my sister seemed to be distant and unengaged on their call, and had been for several calls. The call was not, understand, to inquire if something is wrong. No, it was to complain. As if to say, "I don't like the way you are acting, and I am not trying to understand why your are acting that way, I am simply insisting that you act differently."

And my sister, how dare she, offered the explanation my mother was not seeking.

"Mom, I am quiet for a reason. I am trying to avoid a conversation about politics and am afraid that anything I say will start a conversation I do not want to have. It seems like that is all you can talk about."

"WELL, WHAT IS WRONG WITH TALKING ABOUT POLITICS? IT'S IMPORTANT!"

"It is important Mom, but I have things that are more important to me that I focus on. And I do not want to be forced to discuss politics the way you do. Politics is one of those taboo topics, Mom."

"WHY IS IT TABOO?"

"Well, Mom, it is a subject people have strong opinions about. Have passion about. Like religion and abortion and legalized marijuana and gay marriage..."

"SO WHAT? PEOPLE NEED TO UNDERSTAND WHAT IS GOING ON AND DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! THIS COUNTRY IS GOING TO THE DOGS AND..."

"Mom, you and I probably voted the same way but I don't agree with all of your opinions and you are always forcing them on people..."

"YOU NEED TO GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF THE SAND! DO YOU REALIZE...."

"Mom, this is exactly what I was trying to avoid. And here we are anyway, discussing politics."

And from there, we were on an express train to Hell. Wearing gasoline suits.

Glide On the Peace Train

It's like that scene in What's Up, Doc. The one where Burnsie (Streisand) has snuck into Howard's (O'Neal) hotel room and begun to take a bubble bath, and he returns to find her there. And Eunice (expertly played by rookie Madeline Kahn) suspects hanky panky and barges in, and chaos ensues. Fire. Vandalism. Food fights. And then all the folks who have made some form of contribution to the destruction have gone home and Howard is left there with his existence in pieces and no hope of ever putting it all back together again in order.

That is the beauty of Mom.

The day is a little gray but perfect for a trip to a Waterpark/Amusement Park and a little post mortem gaiety. There is one a mere 10 miles away and we can get discount tickets so we do not actually have to refinance the house to go in! Woo Hoo!

And while the day is lovely and we have a ripping good time on rides and slides and all manner of spinning things (the very last place a person with vertigo should go...) I am struck by how much easier the day is without having to supervise Mom.

It's like one of your kids having a really rotten kid as a friend. You are never comfortable with him out of your sight but to be in his company is downright torture. No rest for the weary.

My brother had a friend when we were growing up, Brett Newbauer. Picture Cory Feldman in his awkward Lost Boys days - only homelier and with worse glasses. And a perpetually running nose. He was so outrageous he could sometimes be entertaining, and you had to admire his chutzpah, but he was such trouble you were always afraid of what he'd do and how it would rub off on you.

He was a shoplifter...and not a good one, and would lift something trivial and not worth the risk and get caught while you were buying something harmless like a pack of gum. My brother was banned from a few stores for that reason.

He was always mouthing off to people who were guaranteed to tell your mother. I remember a remark to one gentleman that went something like "Blow me, clown!"

My mother took my brother and Brett to the beach one weekend. Brett managed to steal the comforter from the bed. Cha-ching.

And he was bizarre. He was on my brother's baseball team and famously left his position in left field mid-inning, hopped the fence and ran off because his mother had told him to be home for dinner.

And then there is Mom. Can't stand too close because then people hold you accountable for her when she is berating the supermarket clerk for not knowing where the other supermarket by the same name is located. Or charging full price instead of half in a two-fer because really it's the same thing. They give you the "Well, put her back in the straight jacket already and haul her to the booby hatch!" look.

And if you stand too close you might not actually stop yourself in time and clamp your hand over her mouth and drag her off when she begins to confront some random stranger about his presumed political views as denoted by his T-shirt.

But if you leave her alone, there is no way to know what heinous misguided statements or acts she is capable of and therefore there is no hope of defense for the weak and unsuspecting. She has a knack for tirelessly lashing out, however indiscriminately.

So amid the manic crowd of amusement parkers, with all the frenzied dashing from line to line and screaming and shrieking and blood curdling wailing, I find something remarkable.

Peace and quiet.

Good Morning Starshine

J. and I spend the next few minutes redirecting, and calming and listening, and there-there-ing everyone until all are in bed and snoozing. And then we pour a pitcher of beer.

We must plan debriefing cocktails with my sister and her husband. No one should have to own this alone. My need to relate the bizarreness of the last few days to another human rivals that of the farmer who saw the UFO land in his pea patch.

A thought occurs to me, but J. says it first.

"Sweetie, your mom and Bill didn't come here to visit with you and the kids. That was a sidebar benefit. You were really just a convenience. A bunk and a tap room."

I know this is true. And in my heart of hearts, I knew it long before tonight. It's just that every year, between the disappointment that is Christmas and the anticipation of the next visit, somehow the edges soften and the images fade and I believe for a while that it could just be about us sometime.

But it won't be. Won't ever be. Can't be. To light for a moment and be present in the world we've come to live in as adults is too much for Mom to endure on such brief visits. There is no time to be personal, to dig deep, to engage in meaningful interaction with her children. Perhaps she is afraid of what might churn up from the pit. Afraid she might get called upon to relate on some genuine human level. Whatever the reason, the conversations are impersonal, superficial, of no substance. Unless you consider "What kind of cheese is this?" substantive.

After a brief encounter with a pair of bats that seem to be homing for the pitcher of beer, J. and I turn in for the night.

I sleep the sleep of the dead but awaken early to the sounds of Mom and Bill preparing for takeoff. And truly, a DC-10 preparing to be airborne would make less noise. I privately vow to strangle them both if they wake the kids at this hour.

I hear all the details of the 17 point pre-flight checklist...the lugging of the suitcases. The coffee being made in the hated coffee maker. Mom whipping and teasing and backcombing and shellacking the hair with Ackwa-Net.

It is early but I am rested enough that I could conceivably get out of bed to see them off.

But then I begin to hear the familiar refrain:

Billy! Do you have your pills?
Billy! This has to go into the car before that or it won't fit.
Billy! Do you want some coffee now or do you want to wait until we are on the road? Do you want some cereal? A piece of toast? How about a nice bagel? Can I make you an egg sandwich? Billy, you have to eat something. Billy, don't walk away from me, I'm talking to you!

And as she follows him out to the car grousing for record periods of time between breaths, I pull the pillow in front of the clock to block it's LED reminder that it is a new day, and will myself back to sleep.

For Want of a NannyCam

It's the way it always is for me.

I feel guilty. Guilty for leaving my kids with two grown up people I should be able to trust to love and adore them as I do, to guide them through nighttime routines and keep them safe, and to break up the occasional prepubescent squabble.

The problem is, I can't exactly trust them to do any of those things. I know they would never do any harm intentionally, they are just simply not aware of the harm they do inadvertently.

I have no concerns about any tragedies. Mom would not stand idly by if something heinous would happen, a la Nero fiddling while Rome burned. (Let's face it...it would not be my kids in trouble if the house went on fire. Bill is somewhat more, umm, flammable, and not because they don't make flame retardant PJs in his size.)

No, it is more that I worry that the kids will feel unsafe. Like I've left them with the Child Snatcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (which is the movie they've selected for the evening). And because I know this up front, I am sure that I am a rotten mother for going out for an hour anyway.

An hour.
Within walking distance.
With my kids in possession of a phone and 2 numbers by which to reach me.
As if it would take more than a moment's provocation for my daughter to send me a flaming 911 text.

I take a deep breath, put on earrings, and head out for a glass of locally made wine with J.

Once out the door on the way to the winery, I tell J. story after story about Estelle and Bill and their antics, and then J. and I delve into more deep and meaningful territory in a much needed discussion about us...which I cut short because I am sure I need to be home at this very instant.

As it turns out, my instincts are correct. There has been a "to do."

My daughter went to retrieve her Glee CD from the CD player and found Mom's Raul Malo in there instead. She asked about the Glee CD. And my mother, rather than saying, "I don't know where it is, sweetie, but I know it's important to you, so let's try to find it together," feels as though she is being accused of taking and/or hiding the CD (for which, to be truthful, she has been fairly clear about her disdain) and takes issue with my soon-to-be 11 year old.

So much so that Bill, in his stupor, takes my daughter out to the hammock swing and swings and chats with my child about what a pain in the ass my mother is to live with.

I am never leaving the house again.

A Hunting We Will Go

The next morning we all rise and Mom is nearly manic as she makes Bill his French Roast and his special high fiber cereal with his required 1% milk. Bill and Estelle are meeting Ellie/Elliott by the novelty shop at 9:30 - but Mom is nervous that she won't be able to find it.

We were just there the evening before.

And countless other times on prior vacations.

Must be the booze.

My daughter brightly offers that we'll walk them there and visit the Fairie Garden again.

We scurry by the houses we passed the evening before - and once we have deposited them at the precise location, and convinced them that it is the only parking lot by the only novelty shop and they are the only little old crazy couple in the lot because it is not open for 2 more hours and therefore they will be easy to spot (as if...) we stroll back to the cottage to enjoy the quiet.

J. will be on his way this evening. Have I got stories for him!

The hours pass much too quickly. It is a gray day and the kids and I have been playing Monopoly and have just about finished the elaborate 1,000 piece puzzle. We bring a new one every year, complete it on the dining table and leave it on display for my sister and her family to see, and then add to their growing collection. We are listening to the Glee CDs I have given to my daughter a few days before her birthday.

Soon all too soon, we hear the car on the driveway. Let the games begin.

Bill and Estelle bluster in and we hear all manner of descriptions of this house and that cottage and what terrible things people have done to their interiors and on and on until my face hurts from nodding and smiling too hard and feigning interest.

Bill has a sandwich (assembled by Estelle, natch) and heads to bed for a nap.

My daughter has been awaiting Mom's return so that we can have the tea party she has been planning in her girly little head all day. She sets the table, assembles trays of cookies and brownies and fruit, and pours each of us a tall fancy stemmed glass of iced tea. She is in her glory. That is, of course until Mom lowers the boom.

They are heading out a day or so early. They love the area but they were happiest in one of the half dozen towns they lived in and bolted from 5 or 6 years ago. They'd like to drive there tomorrow and spend the day scouting out homes for sale and then hit their local antique auction the following day. Can we celebrate my daughter's birthday early? And to sweeten the pot, she offers to buy the cake.

I am torn. Happy to be seeing them off early. Wanting to throttle them both for missing yet another birthday. Would it kill them to put a kid's interests first? They are retired! What is the rush?

We pile into the car and I am pissy with my mother as she criticizes the kids' music and acts like she's done nothing wrong. She allows my daughter to pick out an elaborately decorated cake with enormous flowers and leaves and butterflies and an enormous price tag --- presumably as atonement. I ask a favor since cake doesn't begin to cover the amount of atoning required.

"Mom, J. will be here after dinner, " I begin.

"He's not coming for dinner?" she shrieks.

"No, Mom. He's working and he'll drive up afterwards." (Remember working?) "He'd like to take me to the winery for a glass of wine later. Do you think you can manage the kids for an hour or so after Bill goes to bed?"

She understands what I am saying. She'll skip the wine at dinner.

I thank her and we head for home so I can grill steaks (charred all the way through like Bill likes them...) while Bill noses around in my sister and brother-in-laws liquor cabinet plotting his next load. Mom is picking out a movie to watch with the kids (I know what it won't be...) and I sneak around the side of the house to call my sister.

I feel like I've sold my soul to the devil.

Some Enchanted Evening

Bill staggers heavily off to bed eventually to leave Mom and the kids and I to recover from the One Act TragiComedy that was dinner.

We decide to take a walk through the picturesque hamlet - visit the Fairie Garden and enjoy its magic - and of course, swipe information sheets from all the homes for sale right in the borough, and shatter the peace of other people's evenings with Mom's suspicious accusations.

"Oh! Look at this one! Why isn't Ellie showing us this one? Maybe she thinks it's out of our price range. I'll be the judge of that! Maybe I'll just have to make an appointment to see it myself!" (Or maybe "Ellie" lives in the neighborhood and would sooner set herself on fire than show you a house within screeching distance, Mom.)

We stop and get an ice cream cone and browse in the novelty shop. I pick out a few little hostess gifts that will appeal to my sister, and my son finds yet another little birthday gift to heap on his sister. Eventually, if only to eat her ice cream, my mother stops ranting and we head for our cottage, soaking in the sounds of cicadas and night birds, and enjoying the twinkling porch lights on the way.

The kids get into their PJs and choose a movie. We have no cable TV here - we bring a tiny set with a built in DVD player just in case of days on end of rain or evenings when we tire of puzzles and board games early. Tonight it is Napoleon Dynamite.

And from the opening credits my mother has to let everyone know she hates it.

"This is ridiculous."
"How did these people get to be actors?"
"Did you get this movie for a dollar?"
"This couldn't have made any money."
"Are you serious, you like this?"

She is not swayed by my children's belly laughs. Nor is she swayed by the enormous box office success Napoleon Dynamite enjoyed or its impressive video sales figures. She sits in judgement. She is a card-carrying fan of the very high-brow cinematic art form that is the Steven Segal film. And she knows art. She'll tell you the best Christmas movie ever made was the Mr. Magoo Christmas Carol. But Napoleon Dynamite? Crap!

She nearly strokes out when Kip and Lafaunduh's wedding takes place after the closing credits.

I have been trying to distract myself by helping my daughter finish a pot holder on a loom from a craft kit she bought at the novelty shop. I can barely knot off the ends with the Mouth of the South scrambling my brainwaves.

I desperately suppress the urge to scream " WE GET IT! YOU DON'T LIKE THE MOVIE. NO ONE SAYS YOU HAVE TO WATCH IT. BE A GROWN UP, EXCUSE YOURSELF AND GO ONTO THE PORCH TO FINISH YOUR VAT OF WINE ALONE! AND IF YOU MUST STAY, STOP RANTING LIKE A LUNATIC AND MAKING A NUISANCE OF YOURSELF! ONE MORE WORD AND I WILL STAPLE YOUR LIPS TOGETHER FOR ALL ETERNITY!"

Thankfully, she downs the remainder of her wine and heads to bed, her mood suddenly improved by the conclusion of the movie and her recollection that in a few short hours she will be house hunting with Bill and Elliott.

Elliott has no Earthly idea what she has gotten herself into.

Guns Don’t Kill People, Relatives Kill People

The very people who don’t see the need for long distance telephone service, do not own a computer, and who only recently got only a pre-paid cell phone, are now proud owners of a .38 mm handgun that they evidently tote all over God’s creation in their glove compartment.

Great.

And my mother, again, cannot help herself. She is too proud of her new status as a gun owner to be remotely concerned about the impression she’s left on my children whose mouths are agape in amazement.

I’d followed the ill-fated string of stories and read between the lines and knew what was in the glove compartment was NOT a special pair of Armani leather gloves.

Couldn’t she have exercised a little judgment and said it was “important papers?”

As in:

“We weren’t comfortable leaving home for so long and driving 9 hours without our important papers. We just feel better having our important papers with us. In case we need them. We know it’s risky carrying around our important papers, but we feel the benefits outweigh the risk and we’d rather have our important papers on hand if there is a problem.”

No. They are so proud of themselves. They are so smart and Fox News has informed them so well that when the s-h-i-t hits the fan, they’ll be prepared. They won’t be victims. No, they are far too smart for that. Pity the fool who tries to victimize them in their home when the looting and mayhem begins.

That little sense of superiority in her mind far outweighs the damage I’ll have to try to undo when my kids go home to their father with horrifying stories about drunken follies and loaded guns courtesy of their grandparents.

I smell a restraining order.

Bill, sensing this topic has a de facto seal of approval since my mother has yammered on and on about it, goes on to tell my overly interested son that the gun is loaded with bird shot, and proceeds to tell him in extensive detail exactly what various effects bird shot would have on which targets – animal, vegetable or mineral – at what distances. Norman Rockwell on acid.

And while he does that and my daughter grimaces in anticipation of her father’s reaction when her brother repeats all the tall tales, I unobtrusively excuse myself from the table, take their car keys from the hook by the door, lock their car remotely, and hide the keys. In a coffee canister which holds the Hazelnut Roast they will not go looking for.

Drunk driving and gun demonstrations, for now, avoided.

An Olympic Gymnast, a Card Shark and a Gunslinger Walk into a Bar…

J. has left me an encouraging message. “Deep breaths, my baby. I’ll be back in two days.”

While the kids go off to take a closer look at their new stuff, I pour a glass of wine, light the grill and call my sister. Mostly for encouragement but also to explain upfront and before she discovers it herself, that I am not the one to have cracked the seal on the Bombay Sapphire or the Jack Daniels Single Barrel and left both with about a shot glass full in the tank (the more expensive equivalent of putting the ice cube tray back into the freezer with one cube left).

She is on vacation too, with folks who are evidently a lot more fun than my vacation companions. She relates to me that last night, out to dinner with her husband and some friends, she was persuaded to order a chocolate martini for dessert. And at somepoint shortly thereafter, my sister executed a perfect yet impromptu Olympic competition caliber, medal round quality, high degree of difficulty dismount from the surface of her bar stool – the martini glass flying end over end toward another table where it was picked off by a fellow patron in a grab that would make Shane Victorino proud. And while she took flight, her brand new wide brimmed hat sprang from her head and landed on the floor in such a way that it caught said martini, the contents now being separated from the glass, artfully and neatly in its hollow. Tens all around.

Our dinner table scene would be equally bizarre but far less entertaining.

First up – Poker! My son, in some recently suggested small sums math exercise, learned the principles of Black Jack. Estelle and Bill, casino veterans, finally have some genuine common ground with my son and decide to further advance his knowledge of the game by sharing their infinite knowledge of counting, dealing, casino tricks of the trade and a few colorful stories about their casino-going escapades.

More chardonnay, please.

And then following one dimly-lit, alcohol-soaked casino thought to the next and the next and the next, the thread eventually leads to organized crime and then to criminal activity. Bill suddenly turns dramatically to my mother and slurs in a whisper loud enough for Mrs. Harris to hear even with her new happy hour earplugs in,

“We are going to have to remember to lock the glove compartment.”

My mother, realizing that the statement is too cryptic to be completely and clearly understood by my minor children, and wanting to be sure that I got the point, feels compelled to joyfully and proudly clarify with a cheerful explanation:

“Bill and I got rid of the taser and bought a gun.”

Driving Miss Crazy

We drive along, my mother interrupting nearly every sentence my children begin. It is as though I have a third child competing for attention. I am constantly stopping the conversation and instructing one person or another to continue and then giving a green light to the other when they have finished. Exhausting.

My mother can not help herself under normal conditions and these are far from normal conditions. She’s beside herself with excitement. Tomorrow she and Bill are set to walk through a dozen or so homes for sale with a real estate agent whose name my mother continually mispronounces.

As we drive through town after town, she remarks “Ooooh! How cute! I wonder if Ellie can show us anything here while we’re in the area!”

“Elliott.”

“What?”

“It’s Elliott, Mom. Her name is Elliott.”

And she’s on the phone to the agent. “Hi, Ellie! It’s Estelle! Can you look at the listings for Hometown? It’s just adorable. We’d love to see what’s here!”

And she returns to ranking on my children’s choice of radio stations, as if they care for a nano-second what she thinks. I change the subject.

“So what else did you see at the auction today? Anything good?”

“Oh! Well. We stopped at the booth where the guy sells guns.” (I am swallowing my tongue. She continues.) “He said sales are really picking up lately – you know with this President of ours and all the unhappy people, it is just going to get worse – and there is going to be chaos and anarchy everywhere you look. And with all the tension and unrest, people are going to need to protect themselves in their homes and….”

“MOM!” I yell – resisting the urge to drive into a pole for the sole purpose of ejecting her from the car.

She stops, incredibly, without my having to explain the wide-eyed horror on my children’s faces.

I am shaking by the time we arrive at the outlets. But shopping will have to be distraction enough for the time being. In just over an hour I spend 2 day’s net pay on sneakers and backpacks and cool athletic clothes for him and retro hippy chic clothes for her and a fabulous outfit for me inclusive of a handbag and earrings as salve for my wounds.

And then it's over.

The arrangement of my mother following directions in reverse has me leadfooting and lane changing like a mad woman homeward bound.

And happy hour bound.

St. Visa, the Patron Saint of Shopping

Dawn breaks on the first full day of vacation with the Lockhorns.

Oddly, it is quiet except for an occasional cicada and the sound of rain gently falling on the canopy of broad leafed trees.

I tiptoe to the kitchen to make coffee and find a note. It’s from Mom.

The note tells me they’ve gotten an early start to the antique auction an hour away. (I am instantly calculating the estimated duration of the peace and quiet.) They’ve made a pot of French Roast (“in that coffee machine of your sister's that I hate”) and though they’ve taken some in their thermos, I am welcome to the (thimble of) coffee that remains in the pot. And the trash I put out last night had been “gotten into” by some wild animal and she’d cleaned it up and placed it in a more appropriate bag but “we’ll have to be more careful.”

Really, Mom? Do you have to document every favor and act of kindness? Shall I leave a nice note remarking that I consider it a gift that I did not smother them in their sleep and they get to live to put their feet on the floor another time?

I make coffee sufficient for J. and I to rev up to face the day with Mom, and his drive home. He needs to get home to return his mother’s car to her before Mass. They’d traded cars for the weekend – she’d needed more passenger room for a trip out with some gal pals, a few of which had recently stopped driving. He also needs to ask her about the blond nylon wig he found in the back seat pocket. And allow himself to be convinced that his cute little roly-poly brunette mother with the ultra-pink lipstick is not going around knocking off banks disguised as Carol Channing.

I see J. off with a kiss and a crushing sense of impending doom. Somewhere between the first and second pots of coffee I get a brilliant idea as to how we might make lemonade out of the lemons the weather and my mother have given us.

I make plans to go and spend the afternoon at the outlets – A day of back to school shopping at its discounted, frenzied best!

We enjoy breakfast on the porch, dress and prepare for a day of shopping. Since we are in a technology-free zone, I rely on J. to look up the directions online and dictate them to me over the phone. We are just about to dash when the phone rings. Mom.

“Oh-what-a-place-you-should-have-seen-the-great-stuff-we-got-a-beautiful-blanket-chest-you’ll-have-to-come-out-and-see-it-we-would-have-gotten-a-gorgeous-armoire-but-it-would-not-fit-in-the-back-of-the-car-Bill-needs-a-little-nap-I’d-love-to-come-to-the-outlets-with-you!”

So close.

They come home. We ooh and ahh over the blanket chest. We hear Bill’s description of the armoire and his one-that-got-away lament. Mom fixes him a sandwich and he heads off to bed. We are on our way.

Mom wants to drive.

I would sooner let Lucy and Ethel drive.

She insists.

I am ready to skip the whole thing.

In the end, I settle for an only marginally less nerve-wracking arrangement. I am driving and Mom is shotgun reading the directions.

There is not enough retail therapy in the world to fix this.

Mother, There is No Other

The good thing about Bill is that he is like a violent summer storm: Unpredictable and harsh but over in an instant.

He tanks up on the booze.
Then Estelle prepares his famed salad and some protein rich dinner that he has to eat so he can take his pills.
Food coma sets in.
Then Estelle helps him stagger up the wooden hill where he falls into bed for the night.

One down. One to go.

But this spindly little tree is not as easy to fell.

Estelle, while assisting Bill to bed and ensuring he is snoring before she leaves, offers to help my kids with their bedtime routine.

But Mom’s way of helping is as misguided and unorthodox as her every other endeavor.

Instead of making her twice-a-year trek and spending the time being the why-don’t-you-two-have-the-last-of-the-cookies-Mom-won’t be-upset-if-I-say-it-was-my-idea-a-few-extra-minutes-of-TV-with-Grandma-never-hurt-anyone type of grandparent, Estelle makes up for lost opportunities to “help” in a way that is unwelcome and harsh coming from a relative stranger. (Should that be capitalized? Relative Stranger?)

So, as I am pouring the last mouthful of wine for myself from a bottle that was full moments ago, I can hear this:

“Oh-my-God-this-room-is-a-mess-I-never-heard-of-a-girl-who-can’t-keep-track-of-her-own-clothes-your-Mom-spent-all-that-money-buying-these-things-for-you-and-this-is-the-way-you-two-treat-them-you- kids-are-spoiled-rotten-I’ll-tell-you-what-I-wouldn’t-let-anyone-have-a-Gameboy-until-they-could-learn-to-make-a-bed-properly-are-these-clothes-dirty-if-they-are-then-put-them-somewhere-where-they-can- be-washed-and-if-they-aren’t-fold-them-and-put-them-away-let-me-see-that-hair-when-was-the-last-time-you-combed-it-no-crying-or-I’ll-give-you-something-to-cry-about-hey-wait-a-minute-you…”

And since she visits twice a year, at this point she is less familiar to them than their school bus driver – and probably has earned far less authority and trust from them.

I can tell from their voices that they are envisioning her sailing over the railing and down the flight of stairs head first.

And frankly, so am I.

If a Tree Falls in the Woods, and No One is There to Hear It Bitch…

I use the logic that if there is no one to tell stories to, no one will tell stories. I make up a ruse so my daughter and I can leave the porch to busy ourselves in the kitchen. Perhaps assembling 100 or so cheese and cracker combinations artfully on a platter is excuse enough.

I am torn between competing impulses:

Call my sister and beg her to join us and thusly offset the cosmic imbalance of the universe.

Grab my children, J., the plate of canapés, and what remains of the bottle of wine and run for cover at my brother-in-laws brother’s nearby house. There is comfort in not having to explain my family there.

Breathe into a paper bag.

Instead, I sneak a peak in the direction of the Harris cottage.

Mrs. Harris appears to have resumed breathing without the Heimlich, and I am trying to convince myself that it was late enough for Bill’s voice to have been disembodied by darkness and that Mrs. Harris will not know it was my sister’s evil relatives that unleashed the rude comment. No dice. I can see her and she me.

Shame is such a heinous emotion. Why did my sister and I get the shame gene and everyone else in the clan did not?

To fan the flames even more violently, when I return to the porch with the platter bearing no fewer than a gross of hors d’oeuvres, I discover that while my logic about storytelling held water it does not apply to bickering.

The Lockhorns are locking horns over their second favorite topic. Second only to politics as defined by Fox News’ slant on them.

Taxes.

Sales tax.
Property tax.
Personal property tax.
Estate taxes.

And for them, the conversation naturally veers precariously off to a topic that makes its home in a location just this side of Hell.

WHO EXACTLY WILL GET WHAT EXACTLY WHEN BILL BITES THE DUST?

And I stand there with a platter of Ritz Crackers and Jarlsberg Swiss willing myself to die at that very instant.

Pinot and Porter and Jack, Oh My!

After I show Mom around the house and she marvels at every room as though they hold the secrets of the Pyramids of Egypt, we decide to join Bill on the porch. Bill has been marveling at the bar selection with the same sense of wonder and excitement.

Mom is nearly manic in her joy at finally being here. The kids, the place, the nearness of the achievement of her goal to lure Bill north for the remainder of their natural lives.

She decides to give my daughter her birthday gift a few days early. Money. How thoughtful to have put so much effort into the careful selection of a perfect gift for the granddaughter you see twice a year.

I try not to read too much into the early gift. I am skeptical about the timing though. Estelle and Bill are supposed to stay with us through the actual birthday. Does this mean they are leaving early?

Since Mom’s birthday is a few weeks away, I decide to give her the gifts she’d prefer I keep in exchange for an invitation to Christmas for my brother. No way. She is getting the birthday gift – or at least the ones I have with me at the moment.

The first is a set of drink holders – the long-stemmed spikes that you poke into the ground, the tops of which spiral around to form a cylinder – perfectly shaped for holding a highball. How practical.

And because she has always loved country music, and the artists she likes are all dead and are not producing anything new – a CD of the only quasi-country artist I actually enjoy and think she will, too – Raul Malo and the Mavericks. We put on the CD (Mom pours herself the first of several pints of wine) and we take seats outside on the porch with Bill and his pal Jack Daniels.

Mom and Bill regale us with stories which are coherent and entertaining albeit loud and of iffy subject matter at this point in the evening. The sun has begun to sink low in the evening sky and folks have begun to come out onto their porches to enjoy the waning hours of a beautiful day.
And suddenly Mom is on her feet inviting my daughter to dance to “Here Comes My Baby.” And just a few Texas Two-Steps into an otherwise joyful scene, Bill bellows to my daughter, “Watch yourself, sweetheart. Grandmom isn’t wearing a bra!”

Oh good. Mrs. Harris is choking on her 5 pm martini across the way.

Exactly one hour into the visit and we have our first social blunder. Probably not a record, but darn close.

Welcome to Walton's Mountain

The kids and I arrive and unpack. It is peaceful and uneventful except for one thing.

I forgot my suitcase.

I call J. We’d laughed earlier because last year I was 35 minutes into the 75 minute drive when I realized I’d left the suitcase at the foot of the stairs. The kids had harassed me all day about it today and stood like sentries to make sure I’d placed it in the car this year. The only difference was, they are bigger this year and have bigger things. I’d had to pack a separate suitcase for me. And had left that one – where else? – at the foot of the stairs. (Things like this happen to me. When I was a child, I left one shoe in a hotel or rental home on every family vacation.)

Thankfully, we are staying at my sister’s and she has a spare pair of PJs I can wear. J. offers to move his Tuesday visit to the following morning so I do not have to make an irrational panic-fueled trip to the local outlets for things I have an abundance of at home. I love to shop, but pressured bathing suit shopping with my pre-teens in tow hardly sounds like fun.

He’ll be here by 8 am – in time to help me meditate myself to peaceful acceptance of the End of the World.

The next morning, J. calls me from my house. The suitcase is in the car, he’d retrieved my camera, and he’d offered to pick up a couple of things the kids might want but had left behind. And within 90 minutes, we are toasting bagels and brewing coffee and frying freshly sliced bacon and swinging in hammocks and hammock swings enjoying the beauty of lakeside mountain living.

We spend the day at the lake – swimming in the cool fresh water, going off of the trapeze swing, swimming out to the mid-lake decks to hang with the other pre-teens testing the limits of their independence.

And suddenly, hours earlier than anticipated, I see Estelle and Bill squinting from the snack bar deck and waving wildly at us. The kids rush to greet them. We are about ready to pack it in anyway and need to let them into the house. I leave the serenity of the beach to guide Estelle and Bill to the cottage like the victims leading their predators right to their doors.

Bill hound dogs his way through the house and discovers within minutes the precise locations of the beer on tap, the stash of wine and the liquor supply. As I helped my mother carry in their luggage (and boxes of things like Bill’s French Roast, his Vidalia onion, a bottle of special order creamy Caesar dressing, a half a pack of his preferred brand of hot dogs, etc.) I can hear icecubes clinking into glasses.

Happy hour has arrived. And there is nothing happy about it.

On the Road Again

We are on our way.

Following a frenzied day of appointments (my periodontist is trying to get my gums to retrace their steps) and responding to last minute work crises (there are sooooo many life and death recruiting situations...bloodshed, thankfully, has been avoided) we pile an astonishing amount of stuff into the deceptively small interior of my very large SUV, and cruised
out of the neighborhood...stopping twice --- once to get the topical itch lotion for my daughter's bug bites, since she is the dietary preference for all manner of vermin ----and another time to pick up a disposable camera to replace the digital one I left charging on the kitchen counter.

It is a gorgeous afternoon and we'll be in our lush, green, dewy destination before nightfall, just in time to see the twinkling lights come on in all of the quaint little cottages as we meander through town.

The record breaking heat wave that has choked and parched all the plants and lawns across the northern US has finally broken. My yard is withered and brown, yet the weeds continue to thrive, growing rampantly between the cracks of my patio pavers despite gallons of weed killer.

But leaving that behind, we head out into a cloudless, sun-lit warm day with no humidity and a light breeze. Gorgeous.

And as if on cue, Mom rings my cell phone. Little rain clouds form in my head.

"Hi, Mom," I say. She is baffled that I know it is her. It is not the ring tone of doom that gives it away. I do have her name programmed into my phone. A little warning and a deep breath go a long way in situations like this.

We chat brightly for a moment and she, as always, brings up the weather. I tell her about the wonderful day we're having and how thrilled I am that the weekend is anticipated to be magnificent.

And then, in my joyful anticipation, I forget my audience and say the following:

"So the Clintons must be thrilled. If it is this beautiful here, it must be a picture perfect scene in New York. Chelsea is getting a dream weekend for her wedding in spite of the heat wave." Talk of the former First Daughter's wedding has dominated the news these last few days.

Mom connects the 3 degrees of separation (there could have been 2 dozen degrees of separation, she still would have synaptically connected all the dots) and bites on an opportunity to rail against the Progressives. In her opinion, turning the country into a Socialist state, spreading everyone's hard earned money around, taking from the rich and giving it to the lazy, blah blah blah.

And since I do have to devote at least one brain hemisphere to driving, I think I have missed some critical piece of conversation and ask what we are talking about.

"Those ridiculous Progressives!" she barks.

"Oh. I was talking about Chelsea Clinton's wedding."

"Well, he's one of them too!"

"Who? Mezvinsky?"

"No! Clinton! He wants to take everyone's money and spread it around!"

I am still confused.

"Mom, the public isn't paying for Chelsea's wedding. The Clintons are. It is a private affair. He's not taking anyone's money and spreading it around. (To whom? The caterer? Vera Wang? I am totally baffled how anyone's wedding, no matter how big and elegant, can be a political movement.)

"I know," she says. "I am just saying that that is what he is all about."

I anticipate that for the next week, all casual conversation will lead to a political rant. Whether it is a comment about the weather, frustration with the 1000 piece puzzle we are completing, talk of an anticipated trip to an amusement park, or the question to grill or not to grill, all roads will lead to Perdition.

I interrupt my mother's ongoing diatribe about the President.

"Mom?" I say, to get her attention. "I am making a rule. No politics this week. None. Not a word."

She acquiesces.

But something about the tone of her agreement is reluctant enough to make me think she's plotting a workaround.

Can You Tie 'em in a Knot, Can You Tie 'em in a Bow

I hyperventilated through my last week at work.

Wrapped up a few projects. Put a few on ice. Assigned a few people to babysit others. Marvelled once again at all manner of human nature on parade through my working life.

In every job I've ever held, there has been at least one person that I've worked with - okay, not exactly worked with. (Worked around? Cooperated with? Tolerated?) who, every time I see her, is so distracting with her personal qualities that I completely lose focus and want to Google Clinton and Stacy for an intervention. Invariably the woman can neither control her rantings nor dress herself. The little thought bubble above my head constantly flashes "She will make a great crazy old lady some day." I envision green patent leather slip-ons, red lipstick smeared all around her mouth and a bra on the outside of the blouse. Marlboros and highly opinionated public rantings.

And thoughts of her lead quite naturally to my own mother. Still a fashion standout, but becoming one that stands out for the peculiarity of the whole package.

Open-toed sandals in the dead of winter.

Penelope Pitstop Pink metallic toe nail polish. Always.

Hair whipped and teased and backcombed into a meringue and sprayed deftly into place with a giant, environmentally unfriendly can of Aqua Net. (Which she calls "Ack-wa Net." Sends my sister sailing over the edge every time.)

And the piece de resistance.

No bra. Or as an alternative, a bra that appears to have been purchased at the Dollar Store, so that it gives the cumulative effect of not wearing a bra.

On her last invasion, ummmm, visit, my sister took her shopping. It may have been for birthday gifts or some such thing she needed specific direction to accomplish - but they were fortifying the economy together for a few hours one day last year.

And after watching the "girls" compete for space and evidently, attention, for an hour, and after numerous unsuccessful attempts at stearing her toward the bra and panty department where one might find a dazzling yet supportive item that would appeal to my mother's fashion sensibilities, my sister took control of the situation and drove directly to Bra-lelujah.

There they were met by a seasoned salesperson-slash-fitter who unwittingly lured my mother into a fitting room where she tried on a variety of high-end garments. Mom was impressed with the fit and the support for sure. Not so fond of the "outrageous" prices.

Mom, some bras actually work for a living. We will happily compensate them to do so. And besides, you are not being asked to pay for this so-called luxury. It is a gift. Please accept the gifts of lift and separation with grace and humility.

My sister and the salesperson negotiated as though a hostage's life hung in the balance.

But in the end Mom not-so-flatly refused, and marched out the door to blacken eyes and stop traffic for another day.

Throw Mama from the Train

I have a few days of runway before leaving on vacation...and Estelle has started to send up flairs.

The Lockhorns are coming! The Lockhorns are coming! One if by land. Two if by sea. Three if by broom.

Like a beacon in the Old North Church, Estelle has warned us all. Clear a path. Make no attempt at resistance. You are powerless to deter, defend, disagree, dissuade.

The first warning shots hint at things to come. Small things. Warm up bummers. Subtle little reminders of the nuances that were the first to fade once you started breathing (and drinking) again after they left the last time.

Am I bringing any coffee? Is it flavored coffee because Bill will absolutely not drink flavored coffee.

It's my vacation. If I want to drink coffee that tastes like otter pee then I will. I'm not really sure I can quicken my pulse over Bill's coffee fussiness. And please. Let's not pretend that the smoking hasn't killed off his few remaining taste buds. I am tempted to slip him a mickey and serve him the wildly outrageous hazelnut bean I bought. Like he'd notice.

"Now, you know Bill has to have a salad with dinner." (How would I know that? They live 5 states away. I would not know if he was on life support much less his dietary hang ups.) Truth be told, I did buy quite a lot of salad ingredients. Because I like them. And my kids like them. Not out of deference to Bob's issues with irregularity. Estelle offers that she will bring a bottle of whatever obscure salad dressing Bill insists upon because it is not likely to be found at Ma and Pa Haussenpfeffer's Plain and Fancy Commissary. Good thinking, Estelle!

And because she is powerless to stop herself, because she has fallen under some mind-altering spell...a whammy she inadvertently subjected herself to by staring mindlessly for many too many post-retirement hours at the television...she reminds us that she will not curtail her inane political rantings. Even on vacation.

Insanity evidently, does not take a vacation.

My daughter shares a birthday with the sitting President (and Billy Bob Thornton, and the Queen Mum, and a wildly entertaining friend of mine, who sadly left this life far, far too soon) She draws a little bit of 11 year old pride from that. (I totally understand that. I shared a birthday with Pope John Paul II - it makes you think that you share some of the same magical cosmic fairy dust.) And since this birthday is on the horizon, my daughter is beaming.

And because my mother has no ability to filter, and because she can not understand an 11 year old's reverence for the first President she will actually have real memories of, and because she is Hell bent on removing him from office by any means necessary, she makes a comment.

"Geez, I hope you don't turn out much like him."

And my daughter wilts.

And I want to knock my mother from her broomstick and beat her senseless with it.

King of the Road

I leave on Friday with 2 kids, a car, a cooler, 2 suitcases, 17 floatation devices, 3 novels, a backpack full of middle school summer homework (what?), a 1000 piece puzzle, an undisclosed amount of wine, and a laptop. This is when I am most thankful to not have a dog.

We are driving to a charming little hamlet my sister and her husband hold near and dear, and which I have come to love myself over the years. My kids call it the quietest place on Earth. And it may be. Until they arrive.

And even if I manage to keep their voices down and the pre-pubescent bickering from reaching a fever pitch, I have exactly one day of lush, green, peaceful, dewy, mountainous lakeside existence before the peace is shattered into smithereens by the arrival of Estelle with Bill in tow.

Even if she doesn't make a sound, the very arrival is cataclysmic. She could cut the engine and roll into town, creep in on little cat feet as has been said about the fog, tiptoe silently through the tulips...but even if I were sleeping, somehow on a cellular level (and I don't mean I'd be warned by the villagers by a call to my cell...) I'd know she was there...and my hair would suddenly be on fire, and my brain waves scrambled, and I'd be stripped of my ability to speak.

This is the power of my mother.

When we were kids, like all little girls, my sister and I would often explore the contents of her dresser drawers. Not the boring ones with clothes in them, the ones with pictures, and scarves and belts and jewelry. It was always an adventure. The dangly baubles. The hilarious cat's eye glasses. The belt made from big square metal links that dangled down toward your thigh. But what struck me were all the watches. Lots of them. All beautiful. All dead.

I asked my mother about them one time. She said that no watch ever lasted on her arm more than a month or so, so she stopped wearing one. She said that someone told her that some people have more "electricity" running through them, and they overpower the watch.

Oddly, she also got shocked every time she used the iron. Any iron. I thought it was just an excuse. (Then it happened to me...)

I do not claim to be an expert (or even a novice really) about Electrophysiology, but in an odd way, what she said makes sense. With all the electrical impulses in our bodies telling body parts what to do, I suppose she could have an overload. She is quite literally a live wire.

And maybe keeping this in mind would be helpful in managing the days that will follow. Somehow it will guide my decisions and reactions when she has been running - and running at the mouth - for such an unfathomable duration, that my nerve endings are jangling and my hair is on end.

Perhaps periodically, I will have to move away from the static electric field that surrounds her, and let the overloaded circuits run off a little energy.

Maybe not. I have no idea really how to deal with this particular natural phenomenon. I do know this though:

If we are caught in a thunderstorm, we will not be standing under Estelle's umbrella.