Love Stinks

By the time Casey arrived, I'd made a decision. No, not to open the wine before he got there and have a swig. (Tempting as the idea might have been.) No, he'd narrowed the BYOB selection to two - one a short drive from my neighborhood, and one a short walk in my neighborhood. Both very good. Both (cringe) romantic. I decided I would exercise a little assertiveness and insist on the one in my neighborhood. And that we'd be walking. I needed an escape hatch and needed to be within fast break distance from my house. And in familiar territory. The ability to hop a fence and seek refuge in a neighbor's pantry if necessary.

I answered the door. He was exactly 40 minutes late.

No apology.

And no comment about my house either. Isn't that sort of customary when you enter someone's home for the first time? Nothing. Not even a ham handed "love what you've done with the place." I'll admit it irked me.

I noticed his shirt and shoes right away. Reasonably acceptable if unremarkable. Good. I had been a little worried.

But there was something else I noticed right away. Something I'd not anticipated having to deal with. And something that is a complete game changer, and not in a good way.

First there was a whiff of Altoids. Strong. Minty. Distinct.

And then ----------------- an undercurrent of halitosis.

Hair-raising. Eye-burning. Noxious.

Oh.

My.

God.

Scrambling for a plan of action, I created a distraction for myself. And a salve. I suggested I open the wine.

With my back turned to him I made a lengthy production of opening the bottle. All the while trying to think if there is a Patron Saint of Offensive Breath. St. Listerine? I might have to resort to prayer.

And as if we weren't already off to an ominous start, we sat for a moment to drink our wine. I willed myself to drop dead on the spot but no such luck.

And so, while Casey went on and on, emphasizing every word of his little uninteresting story about how his exwife and he argue over his daughter's orthodontia payment plan (yawn), I positioned my wine so that my nose broke the plane of the nose of the wine, and competed admirably with the heinous stench filling the room.

At least for now.

It's Show Time, Folks!

I have almost no patience for this kind of underconfidence. I don't necessarily care for an egomaniac, but a little swagger is way more appealing than chronic lack of self esteem.

I briefly wonder if it is his mother, Dorleen Muckler or the philandering ex-wife that is to blame for this. Or just Casey. Or all of the above.

I shake the thought out of my head. Not my problem, at least not after tonight. Unfortunately there were about 5 long hours between me and my washing my hands of the whole mess.

I managed to call Casey and speak to him without sounding like I was seething. I am not sure that I'd have described me as "well meaning" at that moment or where this date is concerned, but I could at least act like a well meaning grown up.

He sounded nervous. On his heels. (Cringing yet again.) I told him that if I'd changed my mind I would have called and cancelled.

He could barely form syllables. "OK."

Then I reiterated that I'd need a little extra time.

He offered me an additional 15 minutes lead time.

How anxious is he?

And then I tried to force happy thoughts into my head. Casey may not even like me when it gets right down to it. I may have nothing to worry about at all. This might actually be easier than I'd thought.

I got home and got ready to go. Put on my fabulous outfit. Had time to spare.

The appointed hour and then the revised appointed hour came and went. No Casey.

I checked my phone. He'd texted from the road. (Really?) Traffic. He'd be 15 minutes late.

Fifteen minutes came and went.

And 15 minutes more.

I fought the urge to simply jump in my car and leave. Casey would arrive and it would be a ghost town. This was clearly Fate telling me the date was a bad idea.

I just had no idea how bad an idea it could be.

Dooms Day

I thought about cancelling. I should have cancelled.

But then I decided to brave the storm.

It was a pretty good bet that I was not going to find that I misjudged Casey with my first impressions.

But I needed to go out on a date. Any date. I needed to take this step and get through the mire of nervousness and uncertainty and insecurity and unfamiliarity.

Casey ramped up the texts as the date drew nearer. He was clearly more enthused than I was. If I cringe much more my face is going to freeze that way.

I stifled knee-jerk reactions and held my position of aloofness. Kept my contact to a minimum. I liked him better that way.

And then dawn broke on the day of our date. I could hardly will myself to put my feet on the floor.

Casey, conversely, obviously began the day with a little more spring in his step. Led off with a text to me as I drove to work. I retrieved it as I walked through my parking garage at work.

And nearly chucked the phone over the railing to the freeway below.

It was so completely inane, so utterly juvenile, so unbelievably ridiculous I had to turn off the phone to keep myself from sending back a blistering profane insult.

I opted to torture him instead. Even he in his apparent dim-wittedness had to know the text was a risk. It pushed the envelope even if you are the apparent numb skull that he is. So I didn't answer.

All day.

I thought again and again about cancelling and again and then again thought better of it. I could pick apart any date. He would not be the last I'd roast over a spit. But I really had to clear the hurdle that the very first date since J. represents, no matter how doomed it is.

As poetic justice, I also had a heinous day at work. Full moon crazy. I ended up leaving later than I'd intended, and while I talked on my work Blackberry with my VP, I texted Casey with my free hand and told him that I was running late and might need a little leeway.

He texted back.

"I thought you changed your mind."

I had. I just wasn't changing the plan.

Feeling mean, I let that one hang out there unanswered for a while too.

Texts and Subtext

I think it is safe to say that technology has changed everything. It is especially true that it had changed the way we date.

When J. and I first dipped our toes into the dating pool after our marriages went up in smoke, our soon to be exes were still hanging about the house. We couldn't exactly yammer on all day and night on our phones with each other. Though we would have liked to.

So we texted. Often. Just to say "hello." Just a quick XOXO or a "thought of you just now." Some little gesture.

And of course, the minute the exes had pulled out of the driveway for good, the texting dropped off in favor of burning up the minutes.

There was no such restriction for me or for Casey. And I almost wished there was. Because Casey sent and increasing number of texts. And not just "hi there" or "do you have a minute to talk?" Some of them were substantive. Meant as stunt doubles for actual converstations.

Who does that? I was thanking my lucky stars that I'd not given him my e-mail address.

So as to discourage abundant intrusive substantive texting - which would have eventually driven me batty - I either gave him a one word reply to his long, rambling, verbose texts, or didn't reply at all.

And this is how I learned something about Casey that made me reconsider.

If I didn't respond to a text, he'd get nervous. He'd check his sent messages to see how long ago he'd sent them. I know this because sometimes he'd resend them. Or correct a misspelling and send just the corrected word (cringing again). One time he discovered he'd sent a message intended for me to someone else, and when he realized what he'd done, he'd resent it, this time to me, and then called and tell me the amusing little story about how he'd begun to panic wondering why I'd not responded.

Because sometimes I have something more important to do? Have a little pride, man.

And not only did this seem a little desperate, it was smothering.

I can't stand being smothered.

Excuse Me, You're Standing On My Nerves

Maybe it was simply that with our custody schedules (his is very different from mine) we'd been forced to allow too much time between the invitation and the execution.

Too much time to get to know each other so that there wasn't much left to get to know.

No - of course there is more to get to know. What I mean to say is that I'm not interested to learn any more because what I've learned so far I'm not especially jazzed about.

For instance, I don't like the way Casey talks. He doesn't sound polished. It bugs me that his
i-n-gs sound like i-ns. As in, "If we're goin' I'm drivin' not walkin'."

His "with" sounds like "witt." For example (and this is a direct quote) "My mother is 300 pounds and my sister is 85 pounds witt rocks in her pockets."

And the days of the week are the "dees of the week." Sundee, Mondee, Tuesdee.

He also seems to emphasize all of his words - every one - as though he's making a profound statement about everything. " I HAVE TO GET MY CAR INSPECTED!"

And to put the candles on the cake, he has an overly familiar way of addressing me. Hon, sweetheart, dear, babe.

Babe? Has anyone actually said that with a straight face since that sappy Styx song?

I was spending a lot of time cringing. That's not good.

True Confessions, Part Deux

I was not as enthused about the date as I thought I might be. And I was clearly not as enthused as my daughter, who would be living vicariously through me.

But I believed in possibility.

The truth is, I'd grown up 8 doors away from Casey and at the ripe old age of 12 and a half, I'd had a crush on him. And he had had one on me. We'd hold hands while the sibs ran and hid during games of Ghost in the Graveyard Run Run Run. At least we did until he decided he liked slutty Dorleen Muckler better. She and her skittish sister Barb joined our games of Ghost in the Graveyard one summer and then Dorleen and Casey stopped coming out of the bushes when we were all supposed to be run run running. (Note - Dorleen is now the size and shape of an NFL linebacker and Barb is covered from her clavicle to her little fallen arches with tattoos.)

Maybe there would be something there after all this time. And if not, we'd have a few laughs. We had lots of history to rehash from the safe distance of adulthood.

We made plans for dinner. A BYOB (my idea) of his choosing, and I offered to buy the wine (because if it turned out to be a bad date, I didn't want to be drinking inferior wine, too.)

But from the beginning it was headed in the wrong direction. Only I couldn't quite place how.

We exchanged texts. Not too many - just enough. But something about them wasn't right. They were too familiar.

Sort of icky.

Like we were already a couple.
Established.

Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Bucko.

We talked on the phone fairly reliably but it wasn't like I couldn't wait to talk to him or anxiously awaited his call. I could take it or leave it. There was no urgency. But again, there was a weird familiarity. He didn't feel the need to identify himself when he called. (Is he kidding? As if I'm picking up the phone thinking, "Of course it's Casey! Who else would be calling me?") and if I was the one who'd dialed, he wanted me to understand that he knew it was me without my saying my name. (I know there is caller ID but there is also such a thing as etiquette. And not being too self absorbed to demonstrate a little etiquette is a pretty basic courtesy) Yet, when we did speak, I ended up enjoying myself.

But something about this assumed coupledom bothered me. I couldn't quite place it.

Even as I cleaned my house to make it visitor-ready and planned a perfect first date outfit, I was beginning to regret having made plans with Casey at all.

Is This Pew Taken?

I managed to fake a reverent performance at Mass without incident.

Casey had waited at the end of his pew for us. The kids greet him like an old pal. He's a kid's grownup.

This was not a Hospitality Sunday so we had no destination. Just walked and talked on the way to our cars. It was as easy and breezy as before. I was actually enjoying myself. (Coffee breath concerns handled discreetly with half a piece of Bubbalicious that I'd snuck as we filed out of Our Lady of Condemnation's narrow side aisle)

Enjoying hearing the sound of someone's voice other than my own for a change, I ask Casey if he's like to come to Starbucks with us. We go every Sunday...

He declines saying he is meeting his brother (who lives a block away) and his father (who doesn't live much farther) for breakfast and has plans to watch the football game at some local sports bar.

That takes care of that! Fine with me. Would have been fun but not the end of the world that he'd said no.

He gets into his car and drives around to where I am piling the kids into my own. He's driving a Honda. A new one. But I remembered he'd been driving a BMW before. Guess the mortgage industry woes were more real for some than for others.

He says he'd gotten a new phone and needs my number. This time, we need to actually get our brothers connected. (Had I been insane to go along with that suggestion last time? That would be a full on epic disaster. His brother is an Obsessive Compulsive bean counter who will never leave his 3 bedroom twin home even if money begins to grow on the trees in his yard. My brother is lucky to remember his name and address on a good day.)

We add each other as contacts.

This is the most unromantic thing about meeting someone in this day and age. And technology is so permanent. At least you used to be able to say you lost the matchbook. Now you have to pretend you dropped your Droid in the toilet.

The kids and I roll out of Our Lady's lot and zoom in the general direction of Starbucks, visions of lattes and lemon pound cake dancing in our heads.

My phone buzzes and jingles as it does when I've received a text message. I am driving, and in new found respect for the trauma doctors and nurses where I work, refuse to look at my phone until I am safely ensconced in a parking space and have exited the vehicle. I also threaten to snap off the fingers of any passenger in my car who dares touch my phone before I do.

While we walk toward the dizzying aroma of caffeinated coffee products, I flip open my phone and see that I have a message from Casey.

"Good to see you. That was fun."

I reply. "Yes it was fun."

Before I cross the threshold of the Starbucks, I have another buzz and jingle.

"We should get together for dinner some time."

I am smiling. My daughter, reading me like a book, wants to know why. Asks to see my phone.

"Mom! I told you he likes you! What are you going to write back?"

I tell her what I am going to write and then write it.

"That would be fun too," I write.

And immediately there is another buzz and jingle.

"Yes. It will be."

My daughter is practically turning a cartwheel that I have a date.

True Confessions

I hate to admit this, but I didn't hear a single word Father said from the pulpit that morning.

Between my daughter's suggestions that I spruce up a bit there in the first pew, and my sudden concern that I might have coffee breath, and my son's insistence on baiting his sister, I had a lot of distractions.

The last time I'd seen Casey was - as I'd mentioned, two, no, maybe three years ago. Right here at Our Lady of Condemnation. At the time, I'd been seeing J. for about a year. Things were going beautifully. We'd just met each other's children and there had been no drama or tears or tantrums. We'd taken my kids to the zoo and to lunch and had loved every minute. We'd taken his girls bowling and for icecream and had had a ball. We were anxious to survive the holidays at Camp Divorcee and once the emotional turmoil of Christmas was packed away for another year with the tinsel, we'd introduce the kids to each other.

So when Casey and I had bumped into each other unexpectedly after nearly 30 years, and had started chatting - and then extended the chat into the Hospitality Hour (known in my house as Doughnut Day) - the conversation was an easy, breezy, no pressure gab fest.

We'd caught up on everything we could think of: His parents (divorced when mine were, still alive and still not talking). His siblings (still in the area, one married with kids, one committed to bachelorhood). His wife and kids (kids fine, wife left him for another woman a few years back...ouch). His friends (most of whom I'd known once and never kept in touch with). And then all the same topics from my end...My dad had passed, my mother remarried the year I was married (hers working out much better), what my siblings do to fill up their days, the husband I should have left years earlier. Skipped any discussion of friends. They'd never in a million years cross paths.

And so after a couple of cups of truly hideous coffee, and a combined total of 7 doughnuts, we wished eachother a Merry Christmas, and exchanged numbers so that our respective brothers could rekindle what had once been an inseparable relationship. My brother could use a bachelor in his life.

And that was that.

Except for a random text on Christmas Eve, right at midnight, which read, "Merry Christmas, hon," which I'd immediately assumed was more misdirected than misguided, and had deleted at once without replying.

The Routine and the Ritual

Between my mother's endless lunatic rantings, my brother's general sense of helplessness, and the usual Family Holiday Twist and Shout, I am somehow relieved to realize that even as I dodge bean balls and endure trials in my personal life, many of life's routine challenges just keep rolling along with out interruption.

It's like I'd imagine the cockroaches will be during the Nuclear Holocaust. The world will be melting in a cloud of caustic, noxious God only knows what, and they'll still be scurrying about trying to find a way into your Fruity Pebbles.

And I think for a moment, that maybe I should just go with that thought. So what if my personal life is going gloriously to Hell? Pretend it isn't! The rest of the world is! Like my friend Kate's mom used to tell us, "Smile and no one will notice." I'm going to smile and hope that I don't notice.

So I decide to dive back into some routines I'd let slide.

First Friday night the kids return from a week at Lars's Camp Crazylikealoon, we'll get pizza, have a carpet picnic and watch a favorite old movie. Even a Christmas one, even if it is too early.

Saturday morning will be a pancake feast and the kids get to do the flipping.

At least one night each week, we'll not run from the dinner table to do a 100 independent things but play a board game instead.

And on Sunday, immediately following Mass, we'll go to Starbucks and get frothy things to drink and spend a little time just talking to each other.

Sunday comes and it is a dreary, drizzly yuckfest and no one wants to get out of bed. Not even me. So the dash to Our Lady of Condemnation looks like one of those celebrity obstacle course shows. We skulk into the front row of the church just as Father is telling everyone to be seated. So we, being the only ones still standing, draw some attention.

Including that of an old neighborhood/high school chum, Casey Callahan. He and his family lived at the bottom of the hill I grew up on. He mouths "Hi" and winks. He's a winker.

My daughter immediately recognizes him. We'd bumped into him at Mass a few years back around Christmas. His brother lives in nearby and he'd been visiting, as he was now, evidently.

All of a sudden she's church whispering that I can borrow her lip gloss. And offering me her Juicy Couture perfume. And a stick of Bubbalicious. What else does she have in that bag?

I look at her quizzically and she waves me in for a whisper.

With her king-sized lisp she hisses in my ear, in front of God and everyone, "Mom, he's cute and he likes you."

I am not sure what signals her radar is picking up but suddenly I am self conscious about my outfit and am considering taking her up on the lip gloss thing.

I Say Now, Who Do, Who Do You Think You're Foolin'?

The letter, intended to inform my friend's son that he'd not gained entrance into the National Honor Society, incredulously, was a form letter. And not even a personalized one.

Umm, hello, it's a prep school. Ignoring for a moment that it has a far finer reputation than an impersonal form letter would suggest it has, it has a very small, select student body. How many of these letters could there have been? 6? We couldn't have taken the time to address these boys by name? At least in this situation?

It also had the incorrect date. Last year.

It was also so poorly written, so insulting in its comments, so dismissive of this boy's effort and worth, that I at first thought surely it was a bogus letter written by some smart-ass fellow student who wanted to play a prank to razz the other NHS contenders.

But it wasn't.

And if it were, even a fellow student would not have made the grammatical errors this woman made in her letter. A student making a genuine effort at a prank would know to demonstrate a more impressive command of the written word than that. Because they'd want to be convincing.

Evidently, making a convincing demonstration of her competence was not on this woman's mind. Again, I am baffled at what motivates people. She could not have made even a half heartedly robust effort at turning this into a teaching moment for these boys? She cared that little?

And suddenly I am turning into a she-wolf myself. I am completely appalled that a letter like this went to any young person, let alone a young person whose parents shell out a king's ransom in tuition and other sizeable gifts every year to send their kids there. I would expect more from that school. I would expect more from a public school. I would GET more from a public school.

My first thought, however irrational, is to pick up the phone and confront this so-called teacher. Was this letter intended to have the boys considering going home and sticking their heads into their mother's ovens?

It is at this point that I stop and remind myself that I am not my mother. And I am not this boy's mother, either, hello.

Instead, I use my words. Words are in my wheelhouse, even if they aren't in Senora's. I compose a thoughtfully worded, direct email to my friend suggesting that she write a letter, and I suggest statements and ideas and "opportunities to improve" upon the way this situation had been handled for her use in the letter:

Get the date right and for God's sake proofread.
Greet the students by name.
Commend the students for completing the rigorous application process. Applaud their effort.
Provide meaningful feedback on where they could improve their chances of gaining admission the next year by cultivating this skill or that, or focusing on this core value or that leadership opportunity.
Offer to shepherd them through this year with a eye toward next year.

But the letter that had already made its way into these young mens' hands had already achieved a D.
Discouraging.
Disengaging.
Disheartening.
Devaluing.
Dismissive.
Degrading.
Disgusted.

I am completely disgusted.

I could go on. I am sure my friend did. I am not sure what Fate has in store for Senora, but it is a good bet she is not on the National Honor Society committee any more.

Loves Me Like a Rock

I am forever astounded by other people and the care and concern they take with various aspects of their jobs. As in, no apparent care and concern whatsoever.



It is my job to be this way, being in Human Resources, but even when the people in question are not in my company's employ, I wonder about their motivations. And wonder what their Human Resources person is doing about it. And wonder what random thoughts of befuddlement are coursing along their synaptic junctions. And wonder if I should give them a call, a little friendly collegial advice.



The situation in question pertains to a dear friend of mine whose son I have known since birth. I consider him as close as my own. I beam with pride at his (myriad) successes, suffer his (thankfully few) losses, and endeavor to support him and coach him and guide him to the extent that he'd need me to. Or allow me to, for that matter. I adore this kid. And his mother.



The boy, let's call him Griffin, goes to a top flight prep school whose reputation is as long as the drive up the hill to reach the hallowed halls a select few boys call home for 6 years. They come to school as boys, learn to become men, and along the way, become the refined, upstanding, dutiful, successful, socially graceful people we all hope and pray on a stack of Bibles all of our boys become. Our girls too, for that matter, but this is a boys' school. Let's stay on point.



So, Griff was invited to apply for the prestigious National Honor Society at the end of his sophomore year. Very nice accomplishment in its own right.



He did not get in. A huge disappointment. Especially since there were many hurdles to clear, and Griffin seemed to clear all of them admirably, with the possible exception of the very subjective interview, which everyone knows is a wild card. I interview for a living and know every tactic and buzzword, and I am generally as uncertain as the next guy when I've finished being interviewed for something. There is simply no telling.



Griff learned that he didn't get in on the authority of some underground informant. This sent his mother into a typical she-wolf tailspin. Griff expressed that this was especially disappointing since he knew who got in, and knew that those kids were in a class together where the teacher told all of the students what questions they'd be asked at the interview.



I'm sorry. Did someone just describe what my Honor-Code-endorsing college would have called "UNAUTHORIZED AID" and would have failed you for having accepted?



My friend is understandably pissed. She calls me.



She asks my official interviews-for-a-living opinion.



Now I'm pissed. These kids are all inexperienced interviewees! They don't know what they want to do this weekend let alone how to tell someone about what impact they intend to make on the world around them. The kids with the questions clearly had the edge; had the benefit of asking their parents for ideas and rehearsing their answers.



My friend shares an e-mail exchange with me. It is between her and the Spanish teacher who evidently had the responsibility of making the decision as to who got in and who did not.



Senora dismisses, even poo-poos the value of having known the questions. No impact. (Of course she'd like my friend to believe this. To acknowledge the benefit would mean a lot of re-evaluating and reconsidering. What a pain!)



Lo siento, Senora. Not buying it. The kids with the questions would have, at a minimum, a swagger, a lack of nervousness, a preparedness that the others did not. It's like performance enhancing drugs only the academic version.



We are discussing just this when she is presented with The Letter.



And I can hear her hair bursting into flame.

Trick or Treat, Smell My Feet

At neck-breaking speed we have run head first into The Holidays way ahead of schedule.

My mother should consider running an airline.

But since we careened over the river and through the woods, and leapfrogged over Thanksgiving and straight into Christmas, we nearly skipped right over the pure entertainment that is Halloween.

Halloween is arguably the best holiday of all, and arguably the least appreciated.

It is a nearly pressure free holiday. No one gets rattled by the approach of Halloween. No one, with the possible exception of my neighbor, who throws an elaborate neighborhood party every year with outrageous decor, and a gourd hunt, and pinatas and contests, leaving no stone unturned and outdoing herself year over year. And maybe those folks who are so utterly without creativity that the notion of a costume gives them the vapors.

I love a holiday where the point of the decor is to be more scary than pretty, and where a little tackiness is perfectly acceptable if not desired, and dim lighting hides the fact that your house is a little dusty. And no one expects to walk into your house and breathe in familiar holiday scents courtesy of $18 candles. Rotting pumpkins on the front step suffice. Dollar store candles in 50 cent garage sale lanterns and ceramic pumpkins purchased at 70% off at last year's craft store blow out are the perfect touch.

No one actually cares what you give away at the door. Of course every kid knows the exact longitude and latitude of the neighbor who gives out full size candy bars. But no one feels the pressure to compete. I have given away everything from Blow Pops to Fun Sized whatevers to glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth and not a single kid has looked even slightly disappointed.

I don't rate the costume effort, they don't rate the loot. It is a pretty even deal.

And it gives me a chance to see neighbors I never see except when we blow by each other on the street on the way to work or other obligations. See new babies. Remark at how big everyone has gotten. Get up to speed on who is pregnant, divorced, on the verge of death, selling their house. Mrs. Kravitz's the world over LOVE Halloween.

But best of all, and I realize this is a personal opinion, is the absence of the pressure that is usually brought about by a holiday for which there is a traditional meal.

With no meal - and what would that be? Eye of Newt Stew? - there is no need to invite anyone - or be invited anywhere, and have to accept or decline or wonder why you weren't invited or who else might be invited and all that crap. So no one gets pressured into "having Halloween this year" and enduring all the nonsense that befalls all of my other family holidays.

It is truly a beautiful thing. Because in a small family like ours, there is nowhere to hide. There is just my sister and brother and me. It is a glaring omission if one of us decides not to invite one of the sibs. And the uninvited sib clearly knows, too. It is a pressure large families don't have. My mother was one of nearly a dozen kids. No one could possibly have been expected to invite all the sibs and their spouses and their kids. No one has that much furniture! So a few sibs would obviously do a portion of the inviting, and someone would draw the short straw and get stuck inviting the misfit sibling. But with crowds like that, his or her obtuseness would surely get drown out by all the other familial noise. Another beautiful thing.

So, I put my mother's latest harangue out of my mind, put on my Little Edie Beale Grey Gardens outfit, practice my "Mothuh Doorlings," light a few Dollar Store candles and enjoy the Trick or Treaters.

For once the cobwebs have been cleared and the pumpkins eaten by squirrels and the fun-size candies all consumed, the games begin.

It's A Wonderful Life, I Think

And thus begins the months long gyration we go through each year to make pretend that everything is hunky dory at the holidays.



When it is abundantly clear we aren't. We all know it and so will everyone else, because once the backdoor slams shut on Christmas, we'll go back to ignoring each other for the better part of the next 365 days plus one for Leap Year.



And so the scheme - as hatched by the ever-plotting master of deception that is my mother is this:



My life is more or less my own on the morning of Christmas Eve - Wake up - squeal with joy - tear open truck loads of loot - squeal some more - nosh on cinnamon rolls and hot cross buns - (washed down with a bucket of coffee if you are me...) until about 10 am.



At 10 I will leave the warm and fuzzy comfort of my cashmere bathrobe to shower and dress, and then bribe my children with caramels to get them to leave the mountain of gifts to do the same.



All so we can make Happy Happy Joy Joy faces when my brother and his ill mannered children infiltrate.



I am not referring them as "ill-mannered" with my nose in the air like the queen would describe the stable boy. I am saying it because I am trying to avoid calling them names.



They come by this oddly out of step behavior honestly so I am trying not to be too harsh. Or at least not misdirect my harshness. It belongs to Joe (and his WhatEverHappenedToBabyJane wife.) Not only do they have shining examples of respect and manners like the Open Door/XBox/Cat Poop debacle, they have everyday examples that would set most people's hair aflame.



The R-rated mouth on their mother (giving Mom's pal Ozzie a run for his money...)



The weird entitlement with which Joe and then, of course, his progeny, open all of your cabinets and refrigerators, and after examining the contents help themselves to whatever calls to them.



The trail of debris that follows each member of the family as they explore every nook and cranny of one's home.



Odd social behavior. Like the time I appeared in my backyard with a tray of lemonade to find that my brother had found the golf clubs I'd borrowed from Charlotte and was chipping golf balls over the heads of our children, the balls clearing the hedges and landing on my neighbor's yard.



And perhaps the worst:



He does not leave. At least not voluntarily.



And I have told my mother this: I will physically eject him from my dwelling with brute force before I let my sister and her family drive around the block even once trying to avoid a nasty haranguing confrontation on the holidays. Whether he arrives at 11 or at 12:45, at 1 pm he turns into a pumpkin and must vaporize so I can welcome the family that truly fills my family's holidays with joy. I can only accommodate to a point.



I get it. I am not generally the finest example of maturity in the room, but when it comes to this holiday situation, if I am the only one who can stomach pulling off this feat of social tap dancing, I will do what I can.



But understand that I have my limits, and despite my demeanor, they are not as far flung as you'd think.

The Ghost of Christmas Past

Mom's tone is different now.

She's abandoned the Joy Behar-hating, decorum-demanding, table-pounding tone she'd had earlier. She's trying to cajole. She's buttery and smooth and even bargaining by offering me antiques from her house.

Really? Has it come to that?

We've tread this path before. About two years ago. The first time I was facing Christmas morning without my kids. And to make matters worse, without J. because his custody agreement stipulates the opposite of mine. Nice.

I forget what the last subplot was, but I do remember that Joe and Charlotte were Hatfield and McCoying it through another holiday season and my mother was trying to shoehorn in a visit with my brother, again, at my house.

I told her I would welcome him (making a mental note to invite my friend Kate who will roll her eyes and drink chardonnay with me so that I do not shrivel up and die) but that I intended to go to Charlotte's exactly at 1 pm, as that is when her Open House began, and I wanted the kids and I to spend time celebrating with her family and her wonderful eclectic collection of friends.

Joe could come, but on my terms. He could come at 11. And even if he is late, and he always is, he has to be actively leaving my house no later than 1 pm. Coat on, car started.

Joe, I may have mentioned, is a crappy guest. Eats and drinks everything that isn't nailed down, lets his kids whirl through your house leaving chaos and destruction and goo in their wakes, and then never takes a hint to leave, even as you are buttoning your coat to leave yourself.

Mom suggested that, "as a help to me" she'd stay behind with Joe and his kids when I went off to Charlotte's and she'd straighten up a bit, visit a little more. It would be a shame to give Joe "the bum's rush."

A shame? Excuse me?

And when I went flying into a diatribe of my own about Joe always being accommodated at someone else's expense, and his taking liberties with my home, and for God's sake, often taking my things, and no, he could not park his fat ass on my sofa all day while I am trying to salvage some semblance of a holiday with my children, she told me I was selfish. Told me that she'd skip the visit to my house, didn't need to see the kids. Could return the gifts. Thanks for nothing.

That situation eventually worked itself out. But only because I held my ground in spite of her tearful phone call campaign to all manner of people. I insisted that I get to celebrate with my kids in a way that preserves all that is good about our holiday traditions as a family, and if it was so important for her to spend quality time with Joe and his kids, she could be a grown up and go visit him at his house, and her husband could too. It was simply not my job and not my priority to choreograph the dance she had to do to keep the peace. I had much more important priorities, and just because I was putting on a brave face did not mean I was not dying inside.

And this holiday season is shaping up to be just as fraught with the potential for disaster. It was coming like the dawn, looking like a blizzard.

The Family Circus

She's plotting. My mother is plotting.

Do all matriarch's do this?

I realize it is terribly inconvenient to have some kind of family rift when the holidays arrive. But the horse has left the barn with that in its saddlebag and she's not coming back.

It is what it is. And so what? It could be worse. None of the three of us could be speaking to each other. What would she do then? Aside from the regular garden variety heartache that would cause any mother, logistically speaking it is not exactly a Houston-we've-got-a-problem SNAFU.

Had my mother more patience, or even more time, she could simply visit each of us in our own homes. Breakfast with this one. Cocktails and dinner with that one. Catch up with the third for dessert and bring a nice pie.

The plot is thickening like a nice pudding...

Turns out Bill, bless his little Jack Daniels soaked heart, will not, under any circumstances, for any reason, even to retrieve my mother from their burning residence, set foot in my brother's house.

My mother says it is because he can not stand my sister in law.

Easy to understand, for sure. And well documented! There have been more than a few dinner table scenes where I have squirmed through his diatribe about his loathing for her even as she sits two seats away at the same table.

But I have it on good authority that he's not exactly keeping up a thriving pen pal relationship with my brother either.

However, Mom can't exactly admit that to anyone out loud.

And therein lies the dilemma.

Joe, and at least his kids (as far as my mother is concerned the shrew can sit at home in her bathrobe doing her last minute whatever it is that she actually does all day) have to go somewhere to see my mother.

And since my sister's foot is firmly planted in the stance she has taken about Joe ever setting foot into her home again after the Open Door/X-Box/Cat Poop Debacle, there are scant few remaining options.

In fact there is only one.

And the little cloud of doom has positioned itself squarely over my head.

Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer

Not an ideal holiday situation but not as bad as it could be. It's not like I have until 8 pm to get the kids on a plane to their father's house 6 hours away. It's a 5 minute car ride.

And so what if we celebrate a day early? Presents are presents! And I am certain that the guy across the street who works shift work for the electric company has had to do this once or twice, and the Nurse Practitioner whose daughter and son are friends with mine has had her share of holidays observed on more convenient dates.

The point is, that you celebrate, and celebrate as a family. Our Christmas Eve tradition started when Charlotte was the only one who was married (not even my parents were anymore!) and the only one who had to try to juggle several competing family traditions and make sure everyone got a peak at Junior on his first Christmas. Our family traditions conformed to her practicalities.

And now, more or less, I ask that they conform to mine. I do not give up my children on Christmas Day by choice. It is something I have to do. It is right for the kids (and right for Lars as if anyone cares) and so so what if I hate it. I have learned to appreciate what time I do have and celebrate moments. And Charlotte and her lovely family help me enjoy them to the fullest, and celebrate joyfully, and in a way that doesn't scream "Wow, the holidays really suck for everyone now that you and Lard Ass aren't married anymore!"

And here is where we detour into the Land of Misfit Toys.

My mother will be making her brief, annual pilgrimage north for the holiday festivities, Bill in tow, their cars laden with packages, their souls laden with baggage.

She will not stay in any of our houses, though my sister and I, like Pavlovian failures, continue to offer every year. They will stay with friends I'll call the Lushes, who apparently entertain with such wild abandon that holiday celebrations in their home take on a quality on par with gravity's pull.

But, (now come on, you knew there would be one) she fully expects that in the visit that will last not a minute longer than two-and-one-half days, and will be orchestrated and choreographed more so than the Nutcracker Suite, she will be afforded a visit of some predetermined length with each of her children and her grandchildren, at a location and setting that meets criteria that not even Aretha Franklin is diva enough to request.

It is precisely at this point in our conversation where I want to hangup and enter the Witness Protection Program.

Here Come Santa's Claws

And with a singular stroke of genius, I somehow moved the conversation with my mother from the fiery bowels of Hell to safer, more familiar territory.

The tactic? I told her to "vote with her feet." A term I use in HR all the time. When people don't like something, like their boss, their benefits, their bonus check - they vote with their feet, and walk away. Find a new gig with an emotionally stable boss, or more robust benefits, or a less measly bonus structure.

I told her that if the ladies of The View were so very offensive, and so universally loathsome, so over-the-top outrageous, rather than sitting there in clutch-the-pearls horror, aghast at the nerve of them, people should change the channel. And if enough tight-assed little old ladies did exactly that, Whoopi and her gal pals would find their contracts going unrenewed and their show off the air. Problem solved without an act of Congress.

This idea seems to get some traction with Estelle. I see a sandwich board and a picket line in her future.

So, having survived the hailstorm of First Amendment Rights debate, but only barely, I was oddly relieved to be tiptoeing through the tripwires of Planning for the Holidays.

Excuse me while I pour a little Scotch into my French Roast.

The holidays are complicated when you are me, and we are us.

We've already established that I am divorced. And have the custody agreement designed by a Special Master who has the sensibilities of a pit bull. This year, the overnight into Christmas morning belongs to Lars, so I only have Christmas Eve, and only until 8 pm sharp or Amber Alerts will be flashing on highways across America, to celebrate with my children.

So Christmas Eve will come and the kids and I will bound out of bed pretending it is Christmas and have a perfectly lovely Christmas morning, one day early.

And since Charlotte and her family always celebrate with our family on Christmas Eve, because Christmas Day is with her in-laws, we've got a lot to pack in in a dozen or so hours.

Normally we'd celebrate at Charlotte's, but I will host this year, so that too much drive time doesn't leave us feeling rushed and cheated.

Simple enough, right?

Don't go betting your Christmas Club money on it.

In Order to Form a More Perfect Union

Somehow a benign discussion about my nephew's hair turned into a speech that could have easily taken its place at the podium on The Mall last summer with Glenn Beck.

Mom is just flabbergasted that people get away with saying the things that they say to each other, and on TV! The disrespect! The foul language! The topics! We need to take a stand. Stop accepting it!

I am sorry. Did I miss the part where my mother became a nun?

She detoured down a rat hole with The View in her cross hairs. Something about Joy Behar insulting someone she respected on TV and what a disgrace that is.

I vaguely recall hearing some right wing ranting on Facebook about the same thing...from some people I'd guessed were in my mother's political and chronological age camp. I really didn't pay it any attention. People are mad at Joy Behar for making a crack at someone else's expense? The last time I checked she was a comedienne. Isn't that kind of her job?

In an attempt to de-escalate, I said, however ill-advised it may have been to have done so, "Mom, it's a stupid TV talk show. Who cares what anyone says at 11 o'clock in the morning when no one is home to hear it?"

"Oh," she says. "So you are accepting it too." The challenging tone in her voice was frightening.

I took on the tone I use when I intend to talk over someone until they've decided they need to shut up because all of their carefully constructed arguments are not being heard.

"Mom who cares what a comedienne on day time television says so only the little old ladies and the pre-schoolers can hear it? It is a talk show, not an election debate! It's The View! It's supposed to be thought provoking conversation among a bunch of women who have - imagine that! - wildly different points of view. On politics and religion and movies and fashion and all kinds of things you may or may not actually give a hang about. Do you care what Joy Behar thinks? Do you even watch The View?"

Of course she doesn't.

My mother may be the only person to get truly rattled by something someone else said they heard.

Or didn't hear. She is also completely incensed that something about Ozzie Osborne aired and surprise, surprise, Gomer, he dropped the F-bomb.

Not that you heard it. It was bleeped out. But you knew what he was saying.

Yes, and I know that all the major league baseball players are adjusting their crotches when I am not looking, too. Knowing it is happening doesn't count as crossing the line of public decency. The FCC would certainly object if it did, long before my mother could.

So it is odd, that my opinionated mother, my mother with a pressure cooker of a head bursting with 1,000 points of view, and my mother with the colorful language, and self-righteous outspokenness about all things, thinks there should be a limit on our First Amendment Rights.

But not really.

What she really means to say is that other people's First Amendment Rights need to be infringed upon. She couldn't possibly mean her own. You can't criticize a sitting president for instance, unless of course it is a sitting President she'd like not to be sitting there anymore. Like our current one. Then he's open season. But criticize Glenn Beck and someone is going to lose an eye.

Mark my words, if this country ever does get to a point where we are curtailing any of our freedoms of speech, my mother will be the first to be arrested, and will be grousing indignantly all the way to the pokey.

We the People

My mother has become a kook.



I was chatting with her the other day, deftly avoiding all the land mine topics like politics and gun control and my brother.



Or so I thought.



I mentioned a funny story involving my nephew and a tradition at his prep school....one that has probably endured for decades and which the administration knows of but is not really in a position to take a stand against, and if it does, it is sort of the same position universities take against hazing. They don't support it, make a public statement against it, but are powerless to prevent it. And there is no kid on the planet who is going to admit having participated, so it simply did not happen.



I am not saying that my nephew was forced to run naked down Main Street carrying a school flag and singing the fight song.



No, the seniors on the football team ambushed him and buzz cut his hair before the last game of the season. They pick a sophomore. They picked him. The artfully disheveled pop-star hair I've mentioned before was an easy choice. If they had to pick a sophomore to buzz cut, it was not going to be the kid who already looked like Sgt. Carter from Gomer Pyle or the wimpy kid who is going to whine to the Head Master. It was going to be Pretty Boy Floyd who has the chutzpah and the swagger to go to school the next day without having been to the barber to fix the amateur cut (that, let's be honest, was not intended to look good - razored to the scalp but left with the long flowing bangs...pretty)



If I were my nephew, I would wear that hair like a badge of honor. It is an honor to have been the one. It is a rite of passage. An invitation to the dance. Initiation to the elite club. Very cool. Even if it does sort of derail his mother's plans to take the family Christmas card photo in three weeks when everyone is home for Thanksgiving...(Hello, Photoshop?)

My mother thinks differently, natch.

And went on a rant that began with the words "I tell you what I'd do! I'd march right up to that school and let me tell you, they would get a piece of my mind! That's just not right. I've about had it with putting up with other people's behavior..."

And despite my attempts to interrupt, redirect and ultimately terminate the conversation, Mom went sailing down the slippery slope of political reason and crashed head first into a hissy fit that went stomping into the mine field that is the notion that we should, gulp, amend the U.S. Constitution to, of all things, limit our First Amendment Rights.

And all I could think was. "Please someone limit Mom's freedom of speech at once, and do make sure that we have curtailed her Second Amendment Rights to keep and bear arms before we attempt to do so."

But that was not to be done.

Ladies Who Lunch

I've discovered something about myself.

I don't like to eat with strangers.

Let me explain (because most of you probably have a little thought bubble floating above your heads which reads "Who does?")

I recently had to have lunch with someone for a specific purpose. We'd never met. And to my mind, since I rarely devote any time at all to accomplishing nothing more than just lunch, and certainly not an hour, I was not particularly enthused about having to do this. So, I psyched myself up for it by treating it sort of as a practice date. Without the flirting, of course. Time to dust off my non-work related conversational skills and re-engineer my automatic tendency to evaluate someone. I had to remind myself that this was not an interview. I was not trying to decide whether this person was a yes or a no depending on what he's accomplished and his fit for the organization. It was not that kind of meeting. I needed to get to know this person as a person. Just like a date.

I am not good at this.

I am admittedly a very intuitive person. I form relationships very easily and quickly and effortlessly.

When I want to. When I am not genuinely interested, not so smooth.

And this is probably why I have historically always dated people who have at first and for some time been my friends. People I've been out with socially and found that I've liked. People whose humor makes me belly laugh. People who, over time, I've found to be clever, and kind, and charming and admirably intelligent. People who gradually start to have an appeal that I can't ignore. Pretty eyes. Nice smile. Melodious voice. Nice shoulders.

People who have already passed the first rounds of interviews and are now pretty close to getting the job.

First dates with people like that are a breeze. There is no awkward Mystery Date quality when he arrives at the door. For either of us. We already know we like each other.

So when I met this stranger, who by the way, ignored a confirmation e-mail and showed up unannounced where he wasn't supposed to meet me, I was a little nervous.

And then annoyed. His cologne was overpowering. He stood a little too close when he shook my hand. He asked me to validate his parking.

I wanted to feign a grave illness or a building fire or a hostage situation.

When we were seated at the restaurant he proceeded to go on and on and on with no end in sight about "the kind of guy he is." The kind of entrepreneur. The kind of image. The kind of husband, father, coach. I stifled the urge to check my blackberry for disaster drill messages.

Every time the waiter came, he began to order for himself and then remembered I was there and let me order.

Oddly, the thing that sent me sailing over the edge of reason was something small. When the food came, and he and I both reached for the pepper at the same time, he took it. I gave him a pass thinking that maybe he'd not noticed that I had reached for it, too. But he had noticed, because when he was finished peppering his meal, he handed it across the table to me.

This meeting was not entirely social, but does that mean everyone gets to abandon conventional social graces?

The encounter was not a total loss. We professionally accomplished what we had met to get done. No harm, no foul. I kept my expressions of horror under wraps.

But for sure, if this were a date, it would not have been followed by a second one.

Work and Work, Well Those Cars Never Seem to Stop Comin'

And what makes some of this upheaval and confusion and waffling so very difficult to deal with, I'm finding, is that other challenges and trials of life keep right on going on about their business and distracting me from the real work of really dealing with it.



And reminding me that I am dealing with it from a position of weakness. The person who has held my hand through thick and thin and stood beside me or behind me or threw himself in front of me is not there to do that. Or even to listen to me whine about it. Because that just wouldn't be right.



Some distractions are good distractions. When I was walking the bed of hot coals we call divorce, I was consistently grateful for the distraction of meaningful work. (To be clear, I am not including the time I was served divorce papers while seated next to the Chairman at a meeting and about to make a significant point about something of considerable import...My ex-husband and his attorney have special reserved seats in Hell for that.)



Work is the type of distraction that makes me feel like things will all work out for the best. For many of us, work is a comfort zone, a place that reaffirms our competence and abilities when we are otherwise feeling as informed and in control as if we've been asked to scrub in to perform brain surgery during a transatlantic flight to Madrid. (Unless of course you ARE a brain surgeon, but you get the point.)



It is the other distractions that send me into a tailspin. The extra things. The things I have no brain space for and not a single unfrayed nerve ending to deal with. The clogged toilet. The kid with the throw up virus. My car having the mirror side swiped off of it at the curb. My mother asking me to run out in all my spare time to get some random thing she can't find in her department store in the south and deliver it to someone else for her. (This is where I swear I am going to buy her a computer and make her learn to use Google when she visits for the holidays)



My brother, Joe, who does not fall into the category of person described above who takes comfort in reassurance and sense of purpose meaningful work provides, has asked me (for what is probably the 100th time in our lives) to re-do his resume.



I need this like I need a tree to fall on my house.



Now, I am not a moron. I completely understand that as the Human Resources person in the family, I am like the queen who holds all the mysterious keys to the secret doors to the kingdom. But really, in his forties, isn't Joe in the best position to describe what he does best (is there such a thing?) or even what super duper impressive things he's been doing since he began his last job and I did his last update? And as such, shouldn't he have included in the e-mail to which his resume was attached, which was written in ALL CAPS mind you, some little blurb that at least included where he is working and his current job title and what a person in that position is supposed to do while on the clock???



And this my friends is the type of distraction I am talking about. So small. So inconsequential. Yet so annoying and fraught with the potential for disaster. And sadly, with just enough heft (you know my mother is behind this...) that it tips the scales to the Dark Side and I am on the verge of a psychotic break. It is the thing that snaps my camel's back in two. The extra plate I've not learned to juggle.

I am one step ahead of a moving train and about to get creamed.

And Now the End is Near, So I Face the Final Curtain

And as with anything extraordinary, some flaws eventually became visible to the naked eye - even with the glare of all the shiny, opulent wonder of it all.

But the honeymoon was long and enduring and kept its foot on the gas. It was quite a ride and it logged a lot of miles before the tires began to bald.

Subtle changes - then gradually more - and then enough to make us question - but only question.

And then question some more - and again. And then again - and soon enough, more often than not.

It doesn't really matter who called the time out, or waved the checkered flag or which one of us was brave enough to close our eyes and say the words no one wants to hear.

But we'd come to that bridge and we had to cross it. Though neither of us got across it without wanting to throw ourselves off of it a few times.

And on the other side now, I flit like a manic hummingbird - frantically going from Pollyanna hopeful anticipation, to Droopy-Dog-grim dread and avoidance, to desperate Stage 5 clinginess, to nobody-loves-me-but-this-cheesecake self pity.

And I endure bouts of self examination...

Do I look too married?

Do people assume that I am?

If I join one of those social clubs will I feel like a loser out with other losers?

What kind of vibe do I project? Desperate housewife? Cougar? Widow? Do I look like a fun person? A bitch? A rare book collector? A lunatic bunny-in-the-pot psycho?

Do I look my age? My IQ?

What do people assume about me?

And while solitude really does have its merits, solitary is not my lifestyle.

But the truth is, even if I were out 4 nights a week surrounded by friends, J. set the bar very high. So high only he can clear it. Or only he can reliably clear it every time.

People are going to have a hard time measuring up.

Is there such a thing as being emotionally overindulged?