Off the Cuff

I have unyielding appreciation for the genius that was Queer Eye. Arguably the thing that did the most for Gay and Lesbian Rights and acceptance since Ellen came out and Will and Grace moved in.

We know What Not To Wear got their contestants when their fed-up friends or co-workers reported them as having made one too many appearances in public that would incite a riot.

It was never clear to me how Queer Eye found their subjects, but they did always interview a number of enablers for each one who would admit that they would not sit down in his apartment without being up to date on their immunizations, or that they'd prefer not to be seen in well-lit public places while he was dressed "like that," or that they'd "just gotten used to" the smell after they'd given up on the novenas to the patron saint of hygiene. (Is it Wilgefortis? It ought to be. This is the gal who sprouted a full beard and moustache when she learned of her betrothal to some heinous king. She's also the patron saint of women in troubled marriages. Ladies, pay attention! Get rid of the chin hairs and the crappy spouse all in one novena. How efficient!)

Carson's book (we are on a first name basis, natch) Off the Cuff (Published by Dutton) touts itself as being written for straight men and the women who have the dubious honor of dressing them. And it not only instructs them on what a man should have in his closet, (more than just blue shirts, Lars!) but also how it should fit and how it should be made. The hallmarks of a well-made suit or shoe. Cuts, fabrics, styles of shoe, what is meant by the words seat, and rise and inseam. What buttons to button and how much cuff should show. Different knots for the tie.

And it teaches the everyday language of clothes. What words a man needs to be able to walk into a clothier or a tailor and ask for help - or talk to his wife. So when we say things like "Please don't wear that hideous houndstooth jacket to my boss's kids' bar mitzvah," he'll know enough not to look like he simply wasn't listening.

And the book is hilarious. Pee your pants funny. Try to read it out loud without howling. I think it will bring couples together over a very divisive topic, frankly. Carson as marriage counselor. Brilliant.

And so how did we get on this topic? Oh, right. What Not To Wear inspired me to buy makeup. Which I did. And was made over not by a drag queen per se, but by a tall, impeccably groomed, well informed man who was very prettily made up himself. Bought everything he suggested and he threw in a moisturizer just to be nice.

And as bizarre as that may seem, it can not even begin to approach the bizarre quality my life is about to take on. As though inspired by reality TV as well, my mother has decided that she and Bill will drive North.

To join me on vacation. God save the queen.

What Not to Wear

I was recently inspired by What Not to Wear. Inspired by Carmindy, who had transformed a total hag into a stunner - and the only thing she used that I don't have is a burgundy brown shadow to bring out her baby blues. Taxi! Take me to Sephora! And step on it!

Despite it being quasi-Reality TV, I have always been a fan. Of it, and of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Clinton and Stacy and the Fab 5 have been ridding the world of the stylistically inept for years and have been a riot while doing it.

To me it is not just about the show. Not just about being entertained by the subjects' inability to dress like a grown up or decorate beyond fraternity house chic. I don't mindlessly tune in to see which sweatpants-to-the-office-wouldn't-know-a-loafer-from-a-Louboutin-oh-my-God-are-those-pajamas fashion flunky is going to be brainwashed into fashion-consciousness in 60 minutes or less.

I bought the books.

Actually, I bought one book. One was given to me. As a misguided gift.

My ex-husband, before he was my Wasband, returned home from a shopping trip with it. He wasn't Christmas shopping, or Valentine shopping, or birthday shopping or anything like that. He was grocery shopping. At a big warehouse store known as BJs - where you buy everything in bulk, and unless you have a family of 10 (Kate Gosselin, are you listening on the set of your latest show?) or give half of it away, the food will go bad or your kids will grow to hate it long before you've used it all. (I remember my first trip to BJs - I was pregnant. The 5 gallon tub of pork chitlins made me convulse with nausea - especially so close to the tire display where the smell of rubber wafted inconveniently near.)

But BJs has a great book display. Huge selection of titles and rock bottom prices. This is where the famed book of quippy fashion advice came from. It was "What Not to Wear" - the BBC version, with Trinny and Susannah.

Lars came home from BJs and after we had hefted the 10 gallon vat of detergent down to the laundry room, and found a home for the 100 rolls of toilet paper, and managed to wedge the 12 pound bag of frozen meatballs into the freezer, and manipulated the contents of the cabinet to accommodate a 6 pound box of Bisquick, he placed the book on the dining room table.

Not yet familiar with the show, I was immediately offended.

"Who is this for, your mother?" I snarked. No fashion maven, she. Don't get me started.

"No, it's for you," he said, and actually, seemed sincere.

I was skeptical. And wanted to beat him senseless with the enormous bag of flash frozen salmon steaks. This is a man who for some time, when I presented on the stair in a perfectly turned out ensemble, often looked up and inquired, "What are you dressed up as?" or "What are you supposed to be?" or "Are you going out like that?"

All this from a man who only owned blue shirts when we'd met. Hardly in a position to judge.

But as luck would have it, I was in a pitifully bleak reading material situation and decided to give it a look. Good call.

Hilarious. Irreverent. And brimming with good advice. Name your figure flaw and Trinny and Susannah will not only tell you the best and worst blouse, pants, skirt, coat, and neckline for you, they will model it for you too! And tell you where you can splurge or bargain hunt for styles that suit you. Flat chest? Big hips? Stumpy legs? They will have you camouflaged and fabulous in no time.

I liked it so much that I not only tuned in to their show - I tuned into similar shows as well, and upon discovering the genius of Carson Kressley, I bought his book too. Every copy - from the $2 bin at my grocery store after the ladies in Disney jumpers and stirrup pants in my Superfresh obviously failed to see its infinite value.

Hello Out There from TV Land!

Maybe it was the writers' strike.

Not that I believe in striking, I think it is an adversarial way to try to get a point across, but nothing makes you realize the value you place on something someone does for you quite like that same someone depriving you of it.

Like the time I went on strike in my own home and refused to wipe the blobs of toothpaste out of the sink for a week to see if anyone noticed how perfectly icky and gross it is to have to look at when Mom doesn't rub it away while she neatly and politely gets rid of the blob she herself created while brushing....They noticed. They noticed and asked me to clean it. A failed mission.

But during the writers' strike, while all the creative genius voluntarily stuffed a sock into its own mouth, for philosophical reasons I am not sure anyone remembers (Sorry, guys, I have my own issues to contend with.) the less talented, or at least the lesser known, un-signed folks circumvented the whole mess and filled in the schedule with all manner of reality-based TV shows. "We don't have to write!" they must have said. "The material writes itself!"

And it does.

Paris Hilton snoots around the deep South making fun of less shiny more resourceful people. With her friend with whom she shares only one thing in common. They are both famous for no reason.

Bitchy, foul-mouthed, manipulative brides stomp their feet and hold their breath and screech and poke French manicured nails in people's faces until they walk down the aisle on their picture perfect wedding day.

The Kardashians. Need I say more? Keep up with them? Keep away from them!

And my favorite. America's Funniest Home Videos. Not only does no one write it, they don't film it either! So, an hour at a time, we all get to watch amateur video of Uncle Moe's pants falling down while he dances the Macarena at his niece's fire hall wedding. And a bunch of dudes in wife beaters drunk driving mini bikes off a makeshift ramp in some field until one of them face plants in a pile of manure. And half a dozen adorable clips of junior hitting daddy in the crotch with a golf club, wiffle ball, Frisbee, grill spatula or some other instrument not normally intended to inflict injury.

And now I think, "Isn't that really what I am doing with my blog?" I may not have the chops to crank out a first rate work of fiction, and I may not have the patience - or the interest- to pen a great biography. My material literally writes itself. And finds humor, very often, at others' expense. All I have to do is give it air time.

Feeling less full of myself, I think I'll go find the clicker and tune in to whatever show Kate Gosselin and her kids have been misguided into filming these days.

Reality Schmality

My family must be on hiatus.

While we wait for my brother's response to my sister's letter, which is bound to be as bizarre and entertaining as Nikita Khrushchev's shoe-banging outburst at the UN General Assembly, there is a lull in the entertainment portion of my life.

Against general principle, I turn on the TV to search for some entertainment. (Glee calls to me. Otherwise if it is not football season, the TV is just another thing I have to remember to dust.)

I remember the day we got a color television. (I am that old.) My Dad could not wait for us to see the difference in our afternoon cartoons. We tuned into Kimba the White Lion - which was, oddly, mostly green and white. (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0058817/)

On our 7-channel TV.

My TV has 800+ channels. I am really not sure how many exactly. It is right around the 800 mark that my hand cramps and I stop scrolling.

And what do we need 800 channels for? There is such a drought of worthwhile material, what could we possibly need that much air time for?

I nostalgically long for the long boooooooooop signifying the moment a station would go off the air following the national anthem (and would wake me up so the parents I was babysitting for would not catch me snoozing while Junior went snooping.)

I don't recall when it happened exactly, but it seems as though, like some opportunistic parasite, Reality TV has encroached on Written TV's territory, and like some flesh-eating virus, has taken over the whole thing.

Why is it considered entertainment to watch people's dreams dashed, and to be able to laugh at the comically bad but embarrassingly sincere American Idol contestants in the audition phase?

Dancing with the Stars? Dancing with the Hasbeens?

So you've had a multiple birth. Lots of people have. And you have your hands full with the 6 or 8 or 10 kids in your care. This would be the time to concentrate on figuring out how on Earth you are going to give them the best you have to give as a parent - emotionally, physically, educationally, nutritionally, etc - Not trot them out like some circus act.

Celebrity Rehab? Did we get the releases signed by trading a signature for a doobie? When did someone facing their demons become funny?

And who wants to watch anyone lose weight? (Or paint dry, or grass grow...) I would happily watch myself shed a few, but some fatty who clearly has emotional or medical problems? What fun is that?

And now, just as I am turning into Judgy Wudgy was a Bear and climbing onto my soap box, it occurs to me that perhaps I am guilty of the same sins.

Got a Black Magic Marker

I went to high school with a cheerleader who actually thought that these were the words to the classic Santana tune. As if Carlos Santana would actually sing about office supplies.

I have a talent for deciphering lyrics. All I have to do is sing along mindlessly to a song and they eventually occur to me. (My college roommate and I spent an entire finals week trying to figure out the breathy slurrings of Rickie Lee Jones' "Skeletons." We just had to keep singing it.)

I discovered this rare talent, and the fact that I can read and add things written upside down, in college, majoring in English Literature. I was studying Chaucer and reading the Canterbury Tales in, of all things, Middle English. The written words may as well have been gibberish. Alphabet soup. Scrabble. Anything but actual English. And it didn't help that it was centuries before we developed a hang up about consistent spelling or sentence structure.

But I found that if I sounded out each word phonetically and read the passages out loud, I could listen to what I was reading and actually understand what was written. My roommate didn't have much of an appreciation for the discovery, but I wasn't wild about her ranting in French, either.

So I can figure out lyrics to almost any song - and can remember them for years to come. It is not lost on me that I can still recite the Preamble to the U.S. Constitution thanks to the little jingle the folks at Schoolhouse Rock put together. And who doesn't remember Conjunction Junction What's Your Function? (Putting together words, and phrases and clauses...)

Yet I can't remember what it is my boss asked me to prepare for the budget meeting next week. Perhaps if he'd simply set it to music...

Now I realize that not everyone possesses this rare and utterly useless talent for lyrics. But I am not suggesting that it in any way indicates the strength of one's IQ or vocabulary or anything like that. Some fine, educated folks have failed miserably at this undertaking. It's just one of those things.

I had a friend in college who thought the refrain from Fleetwood Mac's "Second Hand News" was actually "I'm just sittin' here nude, I'm just sittin' here nuuuuuuuddde!"

Odd, but not entirely Salvador Dali.

There was a girl in my freshman dorm who thought Prince (back before he was the Artist Formerly Known As) was singing about a girl who "wore raspberries to bed" not one who wore a raspberry beret. She must have remembered Porcupine Pie.

And I had a roommate in my beach house who thought that when Tina Turner was singing that "All we need is life beyond the Thunder Dome" that she was really trying to convince us that "all we need is Martha Young!"

Who?

This unevenness of skill and ability, for lack of a better way to describe it, is exactly what I think may be the communication breakdown in some families. Some people are just simply not able to hear what you are saying. No matter how many times you say something, or write it, or shout it, or get on your soap box about it, to them, Mick Fleetwood is still sitting in his birthday suit.

So my brother, will never observe what others demonstrate. Will never look around him and attempt to blend. He'll never listen to what you've said, understand its importance to you and make mental notes about boundaries and customs. The countless subtle and overt statements made over and over just ricochet off of his brain and spin off into space where they orbit the Earth never landing anywhere meaningful. He may be trying, he may not be trying, it doesn't make a difference.

And we, unable to comprehend why such simple concepts and instructions can not be absorbed, accuse him of sinister intentions, and continue to rant about the same things over and over. Crazy idea to think that we'd keep putting the same ingredients in the pan and expect a different cake to come out.

So who is wrong here? I maintain that my brother should be held accountable for his conduct, and that of his children, (his wife is another issue altogether) and should comply with conventions of propriety and manners. Tow the line. Play by the rules. Just like everyone is expected to drive on the right. He should too. However, expecting him to understand why he must do so is probably a fool's errand.

He simply can not really hear us. His understanding is limited and finite.

And like him, the cheerleader from my alma mater will always think Carlos Santana has a Sharpie trying to make a devil out of him.

Jokers Wild

So now we wait.

What happens next depends largely on who opens the envelope.

There are a number of plausible outcomes:

a) Joe reads it, flies into a tantrum, and frantically contacts everyone in the family except my sister to rant in lengthy, meaningless, excessively loud run-on sentence fragments.

b) Mary-ellen (yes, hyphenated with lowercase second name...don't ask. I've stopped.) will open it and that hair that looks like it was subject to a nuclear holocaust, (Crayola would call it Kodak Film Box Yellow) will stand on end, and she will erupt in a rage toward my brother that takes on volcanic qualities, and her face will melt off in a scene not at all unlike that one toward the end of the first Raiders of the Lost Ark movie.

c) Mary-ellen will read it and in hissing, spitting, profanity-laced sentences, seethe that this is the reason why she has always loathed my brother's family and this letter is further proof that she is justified in her decades-long campaign to distance their little family from the extended family. Take my wife, please.

d) All of the above.

What can be assumed will not be among the potential responses, is a reasonable, measured, calm, reflective absorption of the material facts presented, followed by a phone call offering to peaceably discuss how the broken familial bonds might be restored.

Not a chance.

Whatever the response, it will be the kind of thing YouTube was invented for:

Slapstick.
Haphazard.
Unrehearsed.
The participants having no idea how hilarious their facial contortions and unbridled emotions can be to people removed from the situation.
Even funnier if set to music. Preferably John Phillips Sousa.

And then, when the fur has stopped flying, and the cushion stuffing has floated to the carpet, and the bric-a-brac lay in smithereens on the floor, and the cat has gone into deep cover beneath the barcalounger, and the children have fled to their friends' homes where cooler (and presumably better groomed) heads prevail, my brother and his wife, together or alone, will begin to plot their responses.

His will lamely endeavor to be a retort of some kind.

Hers will bear all the hallmarks of a full-blown counter attack.

Revenge always seems so much sweeter at this stage in the game.

Our Gal Sal and her Mail Bag

Game on, and it appeared my brother had brought a sling shot to a gun fight.

To my sister's advantage:

3-digit IQ? Check.
Vast vocabulary? Check.
Agile command of the English language and ability to make a point? Check.
Willingness to verbally hack him to collops? Check.

He had opened Pandora's Box and there was no stuffing the ugliness back in.

My sister, possessing a PC and having full facility with the use of email as a communication tool, did not have to sharpen and resharpen half a dozen pencils to compose her response. She sent me an email of the draft response, which was clearly a stream of conscious rant that Dennis Miller would have been proud to have spewed.

Blistering.
Articulate.
Succinct in its description of quite a number of infractions (clearly designed for him to painfully relive).
Brilliant.

But he, not having an email address or regular access to a computer (How do their kids survive middle school assignments???) would have to receive his response in the same way in which his had been sent. In a printed letter.

My sister sent the pages to print and then carefully folded and stuffed and addressed and stamped the whole shootin' match, and then gratifyingly placed it into the mailbox.

I can only imagine his trepidation upon spotting the envelope in his mailbox. The mystery would have to gnaw away at him... would it be good news or bad news? Maybe he'd just bring it into the house and think about when he would open it... in a moment of reflectiveness, and solitude, and far from the madding crowd he calls his family.

Or perhaps, his shrew wife plucks it from the mailbox or the dining table and has no such trepidation. And never having been a big fan of either of Joe's sisters, upon reading it, embarks on an apocalyptic tear that can be heard the world over.

Giddyup!

So Take a Letter, Maria...

Address it to my wife...
Say I won't be coming home....
Gotta start a new life...

That is actually the letter my brother should be writing. Or having his secretary write. If he had a secretary. The thought of which makes me giggle. On the inside where it counts.

No, like my mother often does, mostly because she does not have a computer (Why on God's green Earth would I want one of those things???) and therefore, does not use e-mail (and therefore has never realized the satisfaction of pounding out a scorching message and letting it fly with a pulverizing stab at the send button...) and neither does he, he is writing a letter to my sister to tell her what is on his mind. (Hopefully not much, there is not much space.)

Confrontation is so much more fair when done face to face. It is so hard to truly dismantle someone while having to look at his face; see his eyes. People are much braver seated at a desk with a pen and a sheet of paper. Or while firing off a nasty-gram via e-mail. Or on the phone with some faceless caller...think for a minute how briefly you hesitate to hang up on the telemarketers who ring your line during Sunday dinner.

But when you write a letter, you have to carefully commit your thoughts to paper. Something about scrolling them out makes them real. And licking the envelope and sending it off to be delivered eventually by strangers (it still amazes me that 44 cents gets a letter to your door in about 2 days...everyone's door. All the time.) leaves you with a sense of mystery and anticipation. Did the other person get it? When? Should they have called by now? Will they write back?

And the written word is so permanent. Come on, we still have letters that Ben Franklin wrote! If a carefully crafted little tidbit of hate mail came your way, you would not save it to someday wave in the face of the gravelling author? E-mails are deleted. Phone calls evaporate into thin air. But letters? They endure!

So evidently Joe has written a doozy - not apologizing but stating that he'd not realized what he'd done was wrong. It is the How to Say It Without Saying It for Dummies letter of half-assed apologizing. As if to say "Had I known it was wrong, I would not have done it, but I didn't, sooooo an apology reeeaaaaalllllly isn't suitable, ya dig?" (Read that: Don't hold me accountable, lady. I am just a moron.)

Had he stopped just there - right after that paragraph, my sister might have cast it all aside saying to herself that he is an idiot and will always be one, and we just have to calibrate our expectations to the Joe Scale of Social Decency.

But he didn't.

He had to go and blame her.

And the words on the page, scrawled in the third grade style script, with entirely too much pressure on the pen, were on fire, the flames of Hell itself now ignited.

Mission Impossible

Let me explain my mother.

As if such a thing can be done.

She is a swirling unpredictable combination of Goldie Hawn, Joanne Worley and Aurora Greenway of Terms of Endearment fame. Little bits of zany, and hippie chick, and comedienne, and staunch Republican (just to keep her tenuously tethered to Earth). Larger than life itself. Capable alternately of great acts of kindness and unthinkable public humiliation. Good or bad, you keep her close so you can see her coming. Like the locusts blowing in during some Biblical apocalyptic episode. She is exhausting.

But while she is baffling in her frenzied tear from opinion to opinion, from this plot to that scheme, one address to the next, and her oddly fickle collection of people worthy of her friendship and loyalty, Mom knows her own agenda. And she is driven to achieve it.

And here is where the latest side show with my brother has been an inconvenience. Mom has focused all of her energy on accomplishing one truly important mission and is fully cognizant that it is a wildly unpopular idea with her husband. She wants to move North *gasp* to be nearer to her family.

She also knows that while she would gladly embark on a solo mission, to do so would be a huge distraction, not to mention, a little hard to finance.

So she needs his buy-in. And to get that, she needs to make a very convincing argument, and make him think it has been his idea...not something she has manipulated in a carefully staged coup.

And if it is going to be his idea, all the notions that are counterintuitive to it must be muffled, suppressed, made invisible, brushed under the rug, concealed with smoke and mirrors, so that he does not remember why he never liked the idea in the first place.

At least until the ink is dry. Then all the warts can come out.

So engaging in an loud, divisive argument where sides are taken and lines drawn in sand, would remind him of at least a half a dozen reasons he should be running screaming in the other direction. He'd be calling real estate agents in Key West.

And here is where Mom is a brilliant tactician. Instead of her usual lobbying and filibustering, she stepped gracefully into Switzerland.

Without getting caught up in the details and the drama, she simply told my brother to write my sister a letter apologizing for his latest goof and by all means, don't argue with her. His responsibility, his letter to write. You made your bed, yadda yadda yadda.

Don't bother me. I've got a plot to hatch.

The Agony of Defeat

I think this latest blunder on my brother's part could be a tipping point for my mother. Perhaps it is the 1000th cut...and now the tide has turned forever.

High time.

The list of gaffes goes on for miles. Some of them are famous. (Don't even get me started on the topic of toenails and orange juice. I still cringe.) My sister and I have entertained our friends for years with the stories. For every holiday, there is the requisite Joe story. It is like Page 6. Only with considerably less money and uglier clothes.

There was the time he was 3 hours late for Christmas dinner because his stay-at-home wife had to wrap the gifts at the last minute (what, the holiday just snuck up and bit her on her sizable ass?) and he'd left his wedding ring on top of a file cabinet at work (what?) and had to go back and get it. Leaving a room full of toddlers and grade schoolers chomping at the proverbial bit.

There was the time I overpaid him to mow my lawn...and he mowed down the tree I'd just planted. Even though I'd put a little fence around it. And left a note. With a diagram.

And when we were cleaning out Dad's house to sell it when he went to the nursing home. Joe, instead of doing his part, managed to get his ancient mother-in-law and miserable sister-in-law to do his part for him, because he has children (And we don't? Who might these little people be running around our ankles?) and they managed to "help" by defrosting the freezer by leaving the door hanging open while they go off for a nice lunch and water floods the kitchen.

And the collection of items - none of them of particular value or anything - but items he admired in my home, and asked, incredulously, if he could keep. Who does that?

Or the myriad times he arrived at my house at some inopportune time - and let his children run rampant about the house unattended, breaking priceless heirlooms left and right and smearing God-knows-what on the walls of the stairwell. While he expected me to not only provide meals and beer, expected me to jump up and serve them to him.

Or the Christmas after my daughter was born...when he came for dinner with his family, and expected me to have an extra highchair for his 15 month old...when my 16 month old and 4 month old would clearly be using the two I have...and got indignant at the lack of hospitality. But thought the perfectly natural solution was for his wife to nurse their child at the table - in front of everyone - my aging father, step father, cranky old aunt and very nervous husband included. Please pass the Valium.

Or the time he came to visit and I offered to order pizza for us...and he decided to adhere to some suggested dietary restriction...and ordered some complicated and very expensive dish of his choosing because he couldn't eat the pizza...and then he ate the pizza anyway and took the other meal home. And I paid for everything.

Still, I am not quite sure that this is truly his death by 1000 cuts. (and BTW we passed 1000 decades ago!)

I am not at all convinced that Joe's time has come. That his get out of jail free card has expired.

No, I think Estelle's life really is at a crossroads. I think she has major decisions to make and issues to handle. She has to convince and cajole her husband to agree to some major decisions she has made in her own heart. She needs him to go along with her. And she is not arguing from a position of strength.

And to foolishly back yet another one of my brother's hare-brained howlers with her usual vigor and persistence and defensiveness would further weaken her position. This fish she could clearly throw back.

And as easy as that, she has abandoned the good ship Mama's Boy.

Man overboard.

So Get a Witch's Shawl On, A Broomstick You Can Crawl On

Not the expected reaction.

My sister senses that there is more to the story - concealed from view by by our friends Virginia, DC, Maryland and Delaware. Again, thank God for the colonies.

While Estelle rants in a ragged, ravaged by years of smoking, possibly wrecked beyond redemption by white zinfandel, sobs (OK, admittedly no one sounds like Nora Jones when they are crying) my sister redirects the conversation.

This takes years of practice.

She tells Estelle that while she is sure it is remarkably more comfortable to believe that our sister-in-law is the spawn of Hell and the one true reason for all the wackiness we endure from that corner of the family, that she is naive and delusional to dismiss the notion that our brother is a prime contributor to the ongoing antics. He initiates some of it himself, and he is culpable for the actions of his family for not expecting, insisting, demanding more respect, more familial communication and more decency. His failure to act is an error of omission. But it is his error.

Estelle remarks that her life is falling apart. (Hats off to the colonies, once again, for the distance they provide from said disintegration) And hangs up.

My sister dials my number to relay the inane conversation. Five minutes in, Estelle is calling me on my cell. I am too enthralled in conversation to even consider picking up (I think Call Waiting is the height of rudeness) but steal a glance at the impossibly small screen to see it is Mom calling.

I tell my sister, who flies from connectivity yelling for me to call her back.

But I've missed the call.

I wait for the chime at the end of an extremely long winded message. But it does not come.

I start cooking dinner. Wonder what to do. I feel awful that Mom is upset. Yet I do not want to enter into some conversation intended to rally support for my idiot brother at my sister's expense. I will not bash. I have her back. My brother is wrong, and my sister is right. Few things are ever this black and white.

But it is my position in the family to be the one who says what I think. I am the classic middle child, truly fitting in nowhere and comfortable with the uneasiness of it. I, as they say, "can get away with it." It is by no means pleasant, but I am flogged a little less, and forgiven a little sooner for my dissenting opinions. I just need to be convicted in them.

Over the din of simmering pots and pans, I dial my mother.

She answers on the first ring - and I launch into my greeting. "Hi Mom. What a day!"

And oddly, her mood is bright and sunny with no sign of drama.

Better open the chardonnay.

And Now for Something Completely Different

The scene is familiar.

Estelle lives far enough away that she can not simply hop into her car, careen over hill and dale ignoring all customary driving conventions, to barge into your home and tell you exactly what it is you are going to do.

But she'd like to do that. Only she is prevented by our friends Virginia, DC, Maryland and Delaware. Thank God for the colonies.

So instead, she wields a big stick from afar...and takes an overly aggressive position simply because she knows she can not control what happens here, and though she should not be able to influence or exert any authority over her grown children, she can not quite give up on that. So perhaps threatening and persecution will work. Give it a try!

So upon hearing the details of the latest travesty, instead of focusing on the breach of trust committed by my brother, zooms well past that, and goes to the end game...where she knows and fears all this storytelling is leading.

Now normally, she'd turn into Grendel's mother and lash out indiscriminately hoping to hang a claw on some sensitive nerve, putting her opponent on her heels so she doesn't get all cocky and full of her own self righteousness and make some brazen proclamation about severing all ties with the Flying Circus under my brother's Big Top. Before you go and get all holier-than-thou, let's point out a few flaws of your own you might have forgotten about!

A little humility can be very disarming in an argument. Mom has a black belt in this war tactic. And let me tell you, it is always such a pleasure to relive all the missteps in your life - as though you were at the pearly gates debating your worthiness for admission. Sorry about that time I said "shit" in church when I unexpectedly ran into my prom date and looked like a hag!

But today, Estelle does something new.

She cries.

They Really Are a Scree-am

It's like in the movies - when the local police are handling a crime scene investigation quite competently and the FBI shows up and just takes over. You know how the police feel. They are doing a fine job, but the Big Guys show up and they have to give up their position.

That's what it's like with Estelle weighs in from the Sunny South.

My sister has had issues with my brother before. She has only recently begun to include him in any family affairs at all. His long and disappointing record of social and other misconduct has created a No Fly Zone. A persona non grata order. A No-Shoes-No-Shirt-No-Service sign. All that is missing is a moat with ravenous snapping crocodiles doing laps around her home.

Out of deference to my mother, (and after being worn down by the incessant pre-holiday haranguing last year) my sister had cautiously, tepidly, reluctantly extended an olive branch and had included my brother and his family in a few carefully controlled family events. He was, as I recall, grateful to have made some progress in this situation. He wanted desperately to repair the damage to the relationships, but I knew it would be short lived. Because I know my brother and I know human nature.

He still had not accepted even a sliver of responsibility for his offenses and his contribution to the damage done. He genuinely had convinced himself (or allowed himself to be convinced...) that his shrew wife was the sole source of all the tension. (I will gladly be the first to confirm that she has proved herself to be the most hideous, offensive, unbalanced choice of spouses my brother could have made - like Sandy with a lower IQ). But in the absence of some acceptance of his culpability in the journey that led us to this point, his behavior, his nature, he, himself, were the enemy. He would not be able to help himself, because he'd felt no responsibility to change, and therefore his true colors would show themselves soon enough.

And as the first half of the calendar year winds down, and the All Star break ushers in the second half, Estelle's thoughts turn quite naturally ahead to the holidays - and she will use her August birthday to ask "Please, for my birthday, will someone plan to invite your brother for Christmas?" (without adding, "because Bill will not darken his door so long as his beastly wife could come charging out of her lair to pounce!")

To nip that in the bud, my sister calls my mother to let her know in no uncertain terms, that no matter how many teary, hand wringing pleas there are, our brother will not be welcome at the holidays. Start making alternate plans now.

And of course, that statement is owed the support of an explanation.

And this is where closing arguments become important. Arguing with the Master is not for the poorly prepared, or the faint of heart. And the Mouth of the South is poised for a fight.

The Addams Family Started When Uncle Fester Farted

The golfers and their handlers and their fans and oglers and caddies and media people have thankfully left the course for the day. There are a few greens keepers (or whatever the pseudo-professional name for them is these days) still walking around the periphery of the property with things that look like common rakes but are probably called something sounding more specialized. (Multi-pronged, long handled aerating basal meristem transporters)



At some point during the inane conversation with my brother, I'd managed to ascertain which door was left unlocked, and that it was not standing open. It was one that faced the backyard and the course, so an easy entrance for any wandering golf enthusiast with sticky fingers or a small bladder.



I walk in and assign my children their respective duties - She is to find the cat (hopefully inside the house...) and he is to make sure the XBox is turned off and not heating up leaving burn marks on the furniture.



Cat found. Check. XBox off. Check. Cat poop in family room by ping pong table because he was stuck in there when the intruders left. Check.



I call my brother-in-law and make sure I know how things are supposed to be left. (The cat poop not really a question...) In the mean time, my daughter (the aspiring veterinary student) offers to responsibly pick up an stow the cat feces. My son finds and disposes of an empty drinking glass in the living room, and flushes the toilet left to stagnate in one of the bathrooms. Nice.



My BIL and I discuss options. My sister is sleeping blissfully unaware of the latest developments and he is contemplating making a call to my brother himself. I agree that perhaps a call from someone other than a sister or mother would make an impression. If he calls, it is business. If my sister or mother or I call, it is just one more thing we are being bitchy about.

We discuss how to lock and secure, and I reassure him that he is not being crazy about the intrusion. J. has a key to my house and still calls when he is going to stop in while I am at work and he is on the road to an appointment. It is common courtesy, even if the person is welcome (and frankly, J. is free to watch my TV and use my computer...he also regularly picks up the mail and empties the dishwasher in return)

My BIL remains calm and calls. He explains to my brother that he is very concerned that he would violate a trust like that, and further that even an hour after discovering he'd been busted (in a phone call from me) that he'd not called to apologize for the faux pas.

And by then my sister had awakened from a much needed nap, had been briefed on the sordid details by one of her boys, and was ranting in the kitchen while the men spoke, figuratively speaking, anyway. And my brother, being a social nimbus, couldn't resist his adolescent urge to make a disparaging comment about her --- to her husband, hello.

Never a smart move - even less so when you should be begging forgiveness and are not yet.

The first shots of war are across the bow and it looks like it's going to be a bumpy night. We already have a triangular situation worked up and in motion. Next stop, Estelle. Which side of that DMZ she fortifies will make all the difference in the world.

The House is a Museum, When People Come to See 'Em

My brother-in-law and I decide that I will make a call to my brother and attempt to understand the situation, and advise if there needs to be a 911 call or a drive home from the cottage or recon mission from me. Or all of the above.

I dial my brother's cell. We exchange pleasantries in which I ascertain that he is not at my sister's house at present...and then I ask if he was at her house. Of course he was.

I back into the situation...did he leave the house unlocked, because someone is playing with the XBox...

Silence...then stammering.

He is in a flop sweat. Are there hidden camera's at the compound????

He admits that his son was bored and went into the house (how I don't know...maybe he is a cat burglar in training) and began playing with the XBox. Then he had to use the facilities (Do we still not understand "go before you leave the house" at this age?) And well you know.

It is clear to me that they helped themselves to a heaping helping of hospitality - and did not expect to leave any tracks.

He tries to use the "we are all family what is yours is mine and what is mine is yours" defense.

I cut him off and tell him that much like it was rude and intrusive for him to key into my house while I was at work last year, just because he knew where the spare key is hidden (or was hidden, it has been moved) and to log onto my computer and poke around on the intranet all afternoon and eat my groceries and drink my ice tea, because he had to get away from his shrew wife and had nowhere else to go, it is unwelcome and obnoxious and a violation of trust to simply enter our sister's family's home under those circumstances.

Had there truly been a "situation" and he really needed to gain entry to the house, could he not have called? And if that were the case, under no circumstances should he have been playing video games, or exploring the contents of the fridge, or rifling through the mail - and for God's sake flush when you leave.

He tried to blame the intrusion on his 11 year old. As if he has no responsibility for his actions.

An idiot says what?

He tells me that he in no way "needs the hassle" and is not even going to discuss it.

Enough said. I click off the call and redial my brother-in-law. Who by the way, despite being very angry, has the calm and reserved demeanor of a priest. In my mind, I am clunking heads. It must be the difference in our parents. Someone ought to study that.

I offer to go to the house and to ensure that the escape artist cat has not left the premises, and that the doors and windows are secure, alarm set and all appliances are off. The property is crawling with all manner of opportunistic golf enthusiasts ogling the latest philandering golf phenom, and it would not be outrageous for my brother to leave a door standing open, calling to sociopath intruders.

The kids have had about enough of the pool and are bursting at the seams from snack bar atrocities. We collect our things and flip flop to the car to pay a visit to my sister's house.

I am happy to do so - but want to wring my brother's neck for the turmoil he has again left in his wake.

Our Very Own Uncle Fester

I have a couple of simple truths that I maintain are true in all cases, no matter what the situation, or who your family is or where you work, or whatever. I've mentioned a few of them here in this blog.

One of my longest, oldest, most tried and true statements is: There is one in every family.

One that needs more. One that disappoints. One that stands out from the rest in some way that makes you squirm. One that sucks the life out of the rest of the family. One you are always explaining away. One you don't mention in polite circles. There is always one of those. No matter who you are, or where you are from, or how privileged you may be, there is someone in your family that to some degree, fits that description.


There is one person (at least one, some families have a few...) who fits that description in their own family, for their own family's standards. The person might be very talented and high functioning by other people's standards, but they are the misfit in their own circles. Hell, the Kennedy's had Ted.

And there are those who fit that bill no matter what circles you run in.

Enter my brother. Nice guy, (admittedly debatable, but I'll leave it at that) but as we know, nice only gets you so far in this world. And you'd have to be really really really nice to overcome multitudes of other shortcomings. At some point, you have to demonstrate a little talent. Or take control of the reigns and run your own life responsibly. Or, convince everyone that you could navigate your way out of a paper bag without a GPS or a call to your mother. My sister and I live in perpetual amazement that our brother has managed to get to his age without having cleared an astonishing number of these socio-developmental hurdles. He is a pair of cement shoes on our collective emotional buoyancy.

He recognizes no boundaries. He has no decorum. He only marginally comprehends most adult interactions and situations, no matter how uncomplicated and free of subtleties, and he has no ability to manage even the simplest most straight forward vicissitudes of life. A simple erroneous parking ticket may drag on for months and rack up fines and penalties before he can manage to either get the attention of the person who can correct it or pressure my mother into making a few loud, irreverent phone calls. ( I swear he is the reason she chooses to live 9 hours or a plane ride away)

Don't even get me started on the three ring circus that was the purchase of their first home. It nearly sent me into premature labor.

Today, he's managed to cross another line - and true to form - deny any responsibility for his actions. I swear, if you give him the benefit of the doubt and treat him as though he is not a child, he freaks out, wants to make sure you do not get comfortable with THOSE expectations, and has to royally, gloriously, outrageously, even defiantly, demonstrate his complete inability to handle the pressure. Today was one of those days.

There is a huge media frenzy taking place this week. It's a golf tourney with all the shiny golf elite involved, and it is being played at a course that quite literally abuts my sister's property. Her home and yard are wildly attractive on the best of days. This week, they are the Holy Grail to anyone who has ever taken even the most modest interest in golf.

She has welcomed people to her yard, given them permission to park, cooperated with neighbors who have planned to entertain with the tourney as the main attraction. J. and I are welcome, and so is my brother.

But understand that my sister is not a big fan, has an out of town family reunion weekend to participate in, and will not be home for all the brew ha ha. House is locked, alarm is set. Yard is open, but the house is off limits. We have all been duly informed. Go before you leave the house.

But my brother knows no boundaries and assumes those tidbits of information are a sham...meant for others to abide by but clearly his to ignore.

And while my sister is toiling away in her Summer home deviling eggs, and chilling wine, and carving watermelon, her son gets a call from a friend at home.

"Dude, are you on XBox Live?"

"No," replies my youngest nephew with the artfully disheveled hair. "I am at the cottage. Technology free weekend."

"Thought so. But dude, someone is on your XBox."

Someone is in their house? With throngs of people crowding the properties surrounding the perimeter of the elite course, my nephew is very concerned, and mentions the call to his father. Who in turn calls me.

Does he call the police about an intruder...or do I call my brother to ascertain that it is not him first?

I am unflappable and calm. There is no intruder. Some Lilly Pulitzer clad golf enthusiast has not broken into my sister's home and made him or herself at home a la Working Girl.

I know it like I know my own name. It is my idiot brother taking liberties he is not welcome to take. Again.

I Scream, You Scream

Stuffed to the point of bursting with overpriced ice cream, we get a sundae to go for my son and head for home for our "return to Mom's house" ritual.

At some point during the weekend my children return joyfully, exuberantly, thankfully to me, we make sure to partake in a number of rituals that reassure everyone that life has not changed that dramatically in the week we were apart.

One of the rituals meant for all of us to enjoy is the weekly viewing of the show Glee - which I have set my TV to record no matter when it plays. Tonight, we are re-watching the season finale.

Have you seen it? It is the blisteringly funny, clever, quirky, wildly entertaining story of a high school glee club, brimming with talented "students" who are surrounded by teachers and family members who are each colorful, and quirky, and a little crazy, quite hilarious, and surprisingly genuine - all of them - in some textured, vivid, palpable way that makes them seem relatable and real and oddly familiar. And the singing, which takes place in stage performances, and in stage-musical-type interludes, is extremely entertaining. We all love it for what I am sure are very different reasons.

I could just FF through the recorded commercials but I don’t. (They can put a man on the moon but the TV technology that can search and record a show any time day or night that it is shown on any channel whether or not the TV is on, can not program itself to skip over the overly loud sales announcement for the little gizmo that turns any phone into some kind of homing device?) But I allow the kids the time during the commercials to get into their PJ's or refill their glasses or get the papers I need to sign from their backpacks. And my mind is wandering. (I’ve muted the shouting enthusiastic endorser for the phone thing) I am reflecting on having come full circle…from the division of the wedding snub…to the shouting match…to the Sandy offense…to being personally invited to Endora’s house for a family event. It is truly remarkable how it has all played out. The bizarrely awkward chasm that had formed closed nearly completely. Who would have thought it would go this way at the end? Dad must have called in a lot of markers on this one.

The show is back on – the kids have returned to their spots on the sofa – she sitting to my right, hooked in my arm with her legs swung over my own, and he on my left, leaning into me (and every so often poking her foot with his just because he can and he knows it will annoy her) and the Glee kids have gathered to pay tribute to their teacher – because they’ve been told that their club will be disbanded because they failed to win or place at competition.

And there they are – the violins. My favorite TV kids are gathered on stage singing To Sir With Love. It is spectacular. I am trying very hard to conceal from the kiddos that tears have formed in my eyes and have begun streaming down my face.

And as if that weren’t sign enough that Dad was at hand, the story line in the show turns so that the Glee Club does not have to disband, and now the teacher wants to pay tribute to the kids in return for their lovely tribute to him.

Almost as though Dad wanted to make it perfectly clear, that after all my looking and reflecting and wondering about where he might be working his magic, that I’d been right about what I determined to have been the work he had done, the teacher, unbelievably, removes a ukulele from its case, and begins to sing the very song J. and I had made Our Song, the song we’d decided would be our wedding song. Someday. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V1bFr2SWP1I)

My daughter recognizes the song instantly and looks up at me. She sees my tears, but is not concerned. It has all started to make sense to her too.

The Birds

Nonetheless, I actually considered getting a parakeet.

My daughter called me at work one day to warn me that she had assembled a fairly substantive argument and would like to engage me in a debate about the reasons she should be allowed to get a pigeon.

I could not imagine where she'd found anything remotely favorable in support of pigeon ownership.

When I arrived home and prepared to be debated with by my tween, she became hysterical at her own mistake. She'd meant to debate about the benefits and joys of parakeet ownership. Not rat-with-wings ownership. She'd done her homework. She knew there were problems with birds carrying illnesses. I agreed to go to a pet store to learn about parakeets rather than just refusing outright.

I'd had a parakeet as a child. Pete. Petey. Petey Parakeety as I recall. At least until we got a cat, (Morris, very original) and the gerbil (Daisy) and the fish (Pish) and Petey all had to go, and I gave Petey to the girl across the street and she renamed him Caesar. And he remained Caesar until the day he keeled over on the perch.

But when I was a kid, pet ownership was easy. We just wung it. Pets didn't get regular checkups and tuneups and hair cuts and dental appointments and pedicures. We washed our dog in the drive way with the hose and with Prell and gave him Dentyne or a York Peppermint Patty when his breath stank.

Now, to even adopt a pet (we called it "buying a pet" or being "followed home" by one) you have to successfully clear all manner of hurdles. Home inspections, credit checks, character evaluations, psychological exams, reference checks, background investigations. It would be easier to break in and steal one.

When we approached the aviary at the local pet store, my daughter immediately launched into a diatribe about their care and their features and how you tell a girl parakeet from a boy parakeet (it has something to do with a blue beak...if only today's young people were as simple to categorize), and I grabbed a pamphlet to get the low down on what a "responsible" pet owner will have to do so as to avoid pet abuse accusations and PETA protests on my lawn.

Did you know that a parakeet should be allowed out of the cage for some unspecified amount of time every day? Every day! Now I realize that this is, when you think about it, not unlike letting your dog out to pee every day, but at least a dog has a pretty good likelihood of coming back when you whistle for him. And peeing outside is completely acceptable, and in fact, the preferred peeing arrangement. But a bird? Flying around my house? Peeing? And what chance do I have of getting him back into the cage once he has tasted freedom and is flapping around my home turning it into a cess pool?

And did you know that you can't just bring your parakeet back to the bird specialist at the store to get his or her claws clipped to a safe, reasonable (and presumably flattering) length? You have to go to the veterinarian/manicurist! Every time! I don't even do that for my own nails!

But my favorite caveat about parakeet ownership, according to the brochure, and the pale, flabby, apron-wearing pet store clerk with the flat affect and halitosis, is that if you cook using non-stick surface pots and pans (Is there any other kind????) you should cease to do so, discard them at once and get pans that encourage sticking. (Where from? An estate sale for some recluse who hasn't left the house since the Truman administration? E-bay? The Salvation Army?) Because the non-stick variety produce fumes that are extremely harmful to parakeets (OMG and I let my children eat food prepared on these toxic surfaces???!!!!) and they could develop chronic illnesses.

Really.

I replaced the brochure in the little slot by the aviary and suggested brightly that we get a treat at a local cafe where the ice cream is so outrageously expensive that you need a home equity loan to get a hot fudge sundae.

The parakeet is temporarily forgotten - out of sight and out of mind. Next, a trip to a llama farm.

Please Don't Eat the Daisies

My daughter wants a pet.

Actually she wants lots of pets. She also wants to be a veterinarian and is considering becoming a vegan (if only shrimp were not so scrumptious). I think this is typical tween female behavior. Life is all puppies and kittens and kindness and who-could-forgive-themselves-for-putting-their own-selfish-interests-ahead-of-that-sweet-innocent-piglet-and-eat-that-BLT at that age.

How would she have survived the times I grew up in with all the posters and propaganda and protests about the damn baby seals?

She has pets. At her father's. The long promised Daddy-will-get-you-a-puppy-at-his-house puppy finally materialized, after the fish and gecko came and went, and the guinea pig could not satisfy the commitment.

She wants a bird. Or a hamster. Or a llama.

I do not. I do not want to invite anything into my home that is not going to someday use the toilet independently or cook for itself, or which cannot be relied upon not to gnaw my sofa and loveseat to shreds during a thunderstorm. Or who will never not need me for something every single day to survive. It is bad enough that my children don’t listen to me. I can’t begin to imagine the enduring frustration of life with something for whom my words will always sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher.

If I ever cave, or if I am ever the unwitting heiress to some beloved friend’s pet something-or-other, I know exactly what will happen. I will fall immediately and irretrievably in love with the little fuzz ball and will feel nothing short of gravity’s pull toward it…and will begin a terrible habit of coming immediately home from work to feed it, will skip nights out with the gals because it will feel abandoned, eschew all hotels that discriminate against pets because I can not leave it at a kennel while I go to the Outer Banks, and will spend pounds of money making sure it has proper veterinary attention for all manner of illnesses, worms, nail clipping, teeth cleaning and whatever else the veterinary racket deems it would be abusive to ignore.

My mother Estelle was the same way. And her “don’t you dare bring that puppy home and let me fall in love with it” practicality was earned honestly. She must have known she would leave. And to leave yet one more thing might just be the straw that broke her camel's back.

There was a dog that lived near us known as Snowball. Snowball was an oversized, exuberant, slobbering, uncontainable St. Bernard who was the well-known, good-natured menace of the neighborhood. Snowball would often appear in one’s yard, having bounded energetically out of his own yard with half of his chain attached (the other half still affixed to the tree) in pursuit of the mailman, and would get distracted by children and swing sets and stick ball games. He’d invariably have several articles of clothing – a brassiere or a blouse or some delicate thing – stuck to him or his chain. And would previously have dragged his chain round and round his yard in his own “dog mess” as Estelle would have called it. The “messes” being roughly the size of a human head. Mom loved this dog.

But Estelle, hoping to save her line-drying laundry one day as she saw Snowball galloping in the distance, went outside to bring it all into the house. She was the neighborhood fashion maven in brand new, blinding white hip hugger bellbottom jeans, which she paired with a lemon yellow mid-drift bearing top, hoop earrings, and some poofed up cap that held her hair up under it with just little “tendrils” (as she called them) peeking out. If memory serves, she was wearing wedge sandals that were unreasonably high to be clopping about the house in.

And in the middle of her laundry rescuing effort, Snowball spotted her and came a-running. Round and round her he bounded, overjoyed to see his friend. And as he did, he tied Estelle’s knees tightly together – all the while smearing “mess” that was embedded in the chain links all over the prized jeans.

I don’t remember a funnier scene from my childhood. But I do remember understanding finally my mother’s resistance to pet ownership. Sometimes things, even if you love them, are much easier to love when they are in someone else’s yard. No messy physical entanglements to deal with, and no messy emotional entanglements either.

Father Knows Best, part deux

I am on high alert. That song is going to keep popping up everywhere until I have figured out what Dad is trying to show me. What have I missed? Where are his finger prints? Where did he sprinkle the pixie dust and why am I missing it?

I need to slow down and reflect. But when?

Along comes Fathers Day. And I take the kids to Mass. Now I might find a time to reflect.

Father's homily is much like the one he delivered on Mothers Day. He is honoring fathers for their noble, difficult, often thankless job raising their children responsibly and thoughtfully and lovingly. He is acknowledging that the day may bring sorrow to some - because a father or a father's child is separated from them in some way, or one has died, or there is some other kind of brokenness.

I am dwelling on that when the visiting priest takes to the pulpit to talk about an organization that feeds the hungry in some place that sounds perfectly hideous. My daughter the bleeding heart is digging through my purse because she can not believe how slow I am at whipping out my checkbook when a mere $35 will feed a family of four for three months so they do not have to eat the little crackers they make out of mud.

But I am back on the brokenness thing. And that is where I find Dad's fingerprints.

They are here all over this latest family brokenness. Not that he caused it. No, he's not malicious . Prankster, yes. Monster, no.

You've heard the encouraging little statement, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." (or as J. says, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade, and then go find someone to whom life has given Jack Daniels.")

I think Dad took this latest horror with J. and Sandy and made us some lemonade.

The widening chasm between J. and me and all the various members of his family had appeared irreparable. Broken. But the unthinkable cruelty heaped on J. by his former wife has been so sad, so awful, so incredulous, that it has pushed us all to our limits, and remarkably, unbelievably, UNTHINKABLY, toward each other.

My Dad grew up with J.'s mom. Did I tell you that? They were lifelong friends. It would have been his proudest moment and his greatest disappointment to have had me go toe-to-toe and dominate in an argument with Endora. The rift that grew between us would have made him very sad.

Neither of us is without sin. And both of us are proud, feisty, take-no-prisoners, self-righteous MOTHERS.

So it would have taken a common tragedy - a Sandy-sized attack - to snap our heads around to the realization that there are bonds and commitments and loves that unite us more strongly than anything that could tear us apart.

So it is there in church, thinking about brokenness, that I find my sign. Dad, and maybe J.'s dad too, took the sadness and misfortune and challenges that had recently befallen us, and helped us to turn them into something peaceful. Gave us a reason to reconsider our feelings and actions, and compelled us to do something good.

I am startled to realize that I have been so consumed with my own thoughts that I have literally gone through the motions for the last 20 minutes. The Mass has ended and we are going in peace. Father is processing out of the church and the closing hymn is starting.

And remarkably, it is Dad's very favorite hymn, How Great Thou Art.
"O Lord my God,
When I in awesome wonder
Consider all
The works Thy Hand hath made..."

Thanks, Pop. I got your sign.

Up Up and Away

I live near a city - a good sized city, not some little pseudo-city. We have complicated and various public transportation systems. We have a mayor and a City Hall. We have sports teams. Major League sports teams. And television stations and universities and lots and lots of hospitals. And a zoo. A zoo with one particularly aggravating attraction.

A hot air balloon.

The zoo balloon takes a safety check "flight" each morning before the zoo is open to the public - a public that includes bored stay-at-home moms, old people with discount cards and a need for exercise, PETA fanatics, and school, camp and tour groups - who all want to take a ride in the enormous balloon that floats above the city and the river at a height that makes it all seem pretty.

I drive on a major thoroughfare through this city to another state altogether every working day. And in the spring, only in spring, every day, just as I come around one long curving section of the road, everyone in front of me taps the brakes, just for a few moments, but just long enough for everyone behind them to tap the breaks as well, and to throw off the rhythm of rush hour. (Isn't the point of rush hour to be rushing? Why on Earth would we be breaking??)

And what I have come to realize, is that this joyous springtime phenomenon is caused by the balloon hovering over the road during its safety check flight. It sits dormant all winter (probably deflated and impotent all in a pile in some field house) and when spring time comes, the inevitable safety flights start, and so does the break tapping thing. We come around the curve and "Oooooh! Aaaaahhhh! Look at the pretty balloooooooon!" We are all for a moment mesmerized by the balloon. Balloon gazing.

As luck would have it, J. knows the safety guy at the zoo. (Natch.) On the 20th time this month that I have been forced to tap the breaks, slow to a glacial pace, and sometimes even stop, I hit the Blue Tooth and dial J.

"J. will you tell your friend that he really needs to pick a time that is not rush hour to do the damn safety flight? It is a safety hazard for the motorists! It is like it's the Hale Bopp comet and everyone around me is a Heaven's Gate cultist!" He laughs and stays on the phone with me long enough that traffic has resumed a normal neck-breaking speed. We hang up and I turn on the radio.

"I need a sign..."

I call J. back. He does not pick up. He is on the phone.

A moment later my phone rings. I assume it is J. It is not. It is his mother.

And she is inviting us to her house on Sunday to celebrate Fathers Day and J.'s niece Cassie's birthday. The cover is off the pool, and she's baking a cak, and bring the kids, it will be loads of fun...

I am stunned. And speechless. And I realize that I am now the one tapping the breaks and throwing off the rhythm of rush hour.

Band of Gold

The song stopped me right in my tracks. Or well, it stopped my shoes anyway. I walked right out of them. It happens sometimes.

It strikes me as odd that I never hear either of these songs part way through. I always always always hear them right from the beginning. The violins or the I Need A Sign. It can't be a coincidence.

And I feel compelled to listen to the entire song. Even if it means being late for work, or my daughter grousing that her hair still needs to be braided, or delaying reprimanding my son for playing that stupid video game about bullies before he is dressed and ready for school. I found something to do that would keep me in my room for the rest of the song. Donned the pearls, made the bed, and then went back to the jewelry box. I removed the chunky ring I'd placed on my middle finger and reached for the gold signet ring. Because it was my Dad's.

It is a gold ring that once had my Dad's initials engraved in it...or may have. Time and wear have rubbed the surface nearly smooth and the delicate scrolling is barely visible. I found it in Dad's jewelry box after he died. Not that he wore a lot of jewelry, he was a watch-and-single-ring man. (My mom tried to get him to wear a gold Italian horn once with an open collar shirt. And Earth Shoes. He probably would have worn a skirt first. I have the horn in my jewelry box, too.) Let's just say it was a box intended for jewelry but actually housed a lot more than that.

Letters from friends who had died long ago. Keepsakes from a job he loved for over 30 years. Goofy stuff we'd made for him in school or Brownies or camp. And this ring. I have no idea who it belonged to. I'd never seen Dad wear it. It could have been his dad's, but he had been estranged from the family long before he died. His beloved grandfather died young too. But my Dad was a Junior so if they are his grandfather's initials they may not be Dad's initials. It could have been his brother's ring. He died when I was very young, but I would think that one of his 5 kids would have gotten that ring. I can't be sure who it belonged to first or even if it belonged to anyone before Dad. I've always just guessed. My Dad has but one living sibling and she hasn't a clue about its story and neither does my mother. I have no idea whose initials really were engraved on the top. So the ring is a puzzlement.

But it makes me feel like I am carrying some part of him with me. Because it was his. In some way. It was special enough to be in The Box. Like some kind of worry stone, I love to rub the smooth surface of the ring's face (which does not help the legibility of the engraving problem, by the way) And it fits so perfectly...on my right thumb.

I have a strong sense that things carry some essence of their owners. That some part of them transfers to the things they owned and loved, and by keeping the things near you, you carry them with you. I always reach for a cameo ring that belonged to my mother and grandmother when I am interviewing for a job. What could be bad about having the energy of two tough, smart, resourceful ladies with you on a job interview?

And I always feel like thrift shops and estate sales have such lively memories bouncing around in them. From the prior owners. Of all the things. Like this desk where I am writing. I got it at an estate sale. It is ornate and interesting with lots of little drawers and compartments and a pretty little skeleton key (that I have already locked inside it - twice) and I wonder if years ago, someone like me sat at this desk, with the writing surface pulled down, writing a letter, long hand, on pretty perfumed paper, to her husband who was away in the service. Whatever happened to her? Or to him?

With the song on the radio, I am sure that Dad is near, and wanting to hold him nearer, I place the ring on my thumb, listen to the morning DJ voice over the last remaining strains of Calling All Angels and head back to my impatient daughter and her awaiting head of hair.