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.