I am certain I have contracted Black Lung from having navigated the sub-basement halls of the Middle School two nights in a row.
Or maybe it is just some errant germ that rubbed off on me from one of the other parents jammed into the aging hallways that are half the width due to the "renovation."
And they cram a bunch of fast-moving pre-teens with escalating hormone levels in here everyday with 4 minutes to get to class? Better get some of that nasal spray you use to avoid getting an airborne illness breathing the recycled in-flight air.
And once again, I get the full-strength pleasure of sitting with Lars for an evening of entertainment. I am not so entertained, but those around us are, no doubt.
Lars has no discernible ability to go with the flow. I can't tell whether it is blind ignorance or plain old fashioned rude disregard for anyone else. But his agenda, no matter how pathetic, takes precedence over all else.
For instance, we have, as a classroom full of parents, exactly 10 minutes to hear what the teacher feels is important for us to know, and for us to quietly assess how warm and fuzzy or strict and miserable he or she is, how his or her grading system works, what his or her behavioral/conduct/classroom/workstyle hot buttons are, and how best to reach him or her in the event of some kind of earth shattering academic crisis.
Lars, in his unwavering focus on himself, needs to grab the last waning seconds of our time together to monopolize the teacher to talk about our child. He makes his approach just as she has dismissed us seconds ahead of the bell so we might go on creaking knees to the next class.
I am not saying that everyone does not secretly desire to chat one to one with the teacher. Everyone else just realizes that that is what conferences are for.
And since there is nothing of any real substance to discuss 10 days and two holidays into the academic calendar, the teachers have little to say (even when they realize which pupil belongs to this particular lunatic). So Lars proceeds to ask leading questions - questions asked for the purpose of eliciting compliments and reassuring comments about our child's academic potential.
I have been hovering nearby, ready to disrupt any uncomfortable moments, and hoping to muster the courage to cover his face with a Wawa bag to get him to stop if necessary, when I realize in horror, that by standing there, I am an inadvertent party to the assault on the poor teacher.
I close my gaping mouth and turn to go to the next class. I am hoping to find a seat at a table with no room for Lars when he arrives.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Me and Julio Down By The School Yard
The gym is packed and people are standing and sitting wherever they can find a spot that gives them an almost acceptable view of the projector screen, in front of which Madam Powerschool is apologizing for its quality. And the lack of sound equipment.
Excuse me? Haven’t we done this before?
And further, haven’t we had all summer to prepare for this moment?
Impressed beyond description, I traipse through the corridors recently deemed fit for human in inhabitation to the wing which houses my son’s homeroom and science room. There, his teacher has begun to tell other parents that yes, he is the same Mr. Capistrano that they had decades ago. He’s in his 34th year. Retiring in June.
As I am making a mental note that there will be no heavy educational lifting on my son’s behalf during Mr. C’s twilight semesters, my was-band schleps in.
And while Mr. C is reviewing the curriculum in a thumbnail sketch, Lars is stage whispering a bunch of questions to me and scrambling my brain waves as only he can.
As I attempt to ignore him – keeping my eyes on Mr. C and pointing toward him as if to say “He has my attention at the moment, asswipe.” Lars raises his sweaty hand and begins to ask the kinds of questions Back To School Night teachers hate universally.
The ones that are not general and helpful to everyone in the room, like “What is your policy on incomplete homework?” but focused instead on one kid.
His kid.
Our kid.
I want to vanish.
In my next life I will have vanishing powers.
“Ummm – we don’t live in the same house,” he begins with an offhand gesture toward me. “The text book you sent home today – can we get another copy? The other one is at HER house." (Accompanying grimace and hitch hiker thumb thrust disrespectfully in my direction.)
Mr. C. says – more appropriately to the entire collection of parents – that he’d be happy to accommodate any situation like that. Write him a note so he can take care of it promptly.
Lars is pissed. A note? Can’t believe he needs a note. He just told him the situation.
Well, buttstick, because there will be 30 of those questions asked tonight, albeit more privately. How is anyone supposed to remember your idiosyncratic need tomorrow when the whiteboards have all been wiped clean with your son’s sock?
As the bell rings and we file out, I place an already written request for the extra book to be sent home into Mr. C's hand so Lars can lower his neurosis. And I vow to send a nice bottle of wine to Mr. C. at Christmas to make up for the rudeness. One class down. Six to go.
Excuse me? Haven’t we done this before?
And further, haven’t we had all summer to prepare for this moment?
Impressed beyond description, I traipse through the corridors recently deemed fit for human in inhabitation to the wing which houses my son’s homeroom and science room. There, his teacher has begun to tell other parents that yes, he is the same Mr. Capistrano that they had decades ago. He’s in his 34th year. Retiring in June.
As I am making a mental note that there will be no heavy educational lifting on my son’s behalf during Mr. C’s twilight semesters, my was-band schleps in.
And while Mr. C is reviewing the curriculum in a thumbnail sketch, Lars is stage whispering a bunch of questions to me and scrambling my brain waves as only he can.
As I attempt to ignore him – keeping my eyes on Mr. C and pointing toward him as if to say “He has my attention at the moment, asswipe.” Lars raises his sweaty hand and begins to ask the kinds of questions Back To School Night teachers hate universally.
The ones that are not general and helpful to everyone in the room, like “What is your policy on incomplete homework?” but focused instead on one kid.
His kid.
Our kid.
I want to vanish.
In my next life I will have vanishing powers.
“Ummm – we don’t live in the same house,” he begins with an offhand gesture toward me. “The text book you sent home today – can we get another copy? The other one is at HER house." (Accompanying grimace and hitch hiker thumb thrust disrespectfully in my direction.)
Mr. C. says – more appropriately to the entire collection of parents – that he’d be happy to accommodate any situation like that. Write him a note so he can take care of it promptly.
Lars is pissed. A note? Can’t believe he needs a note. He just told him the situation.
Well, buttstick, because there will be 30 of those questions asked tonight, albeit more privately. How is anyone supposed to remember your idiosyncratic need tomorrow when the whiteboards have all been wiped clean with your son’s sock?
As the bell rings and we file out, I place an already written request for the extra book to be sent home into Mr. C's hand so Lars can lower his neurosis. And I vow to send a nice bottle of wine to Mr. C. at Christmas to make up for the rudeness. One class down. Six to go.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
And I'm Never Goin' Back To My Old School
Back to School Night.
Does anyone actually benefit from it?
Let me ask that question a different way.
Does anyone besides the completely clueless, neurotic, not sure they can do anything right as a parent actually benefit from it?
I have two (that I am under tremendous social pressure) to attend this year. One for 6th grade and one for 7th grade. Both in the insane asylum that is Middle School.
And two because there is such an appreciable difference between 6th and 7th grade. And between last year's intro to 6th grade and this year's.
And so for two nights in a row, I am back at the very school that I attended so long ago it was still called Junior High. It is as though I have stepped out of a time machine. Only not in a good way.
First, the place is being "renovated." Renovated instead of knocked over to start from scratch. As a matter of money.
As if there aren't thousands of graduates, particularly from the 70s and 80s who wouldn't happily shell out a king's ransom for a raffle where the prize is that you get to put your name and a smart-assed comment and maybe a few pictures of some especially despised classmates or teachers or coaches on the wrecking ball. Throw in a champagne toast to sweeten the pot.
So we have to gather in the gym because the wing with the auditorium is condemned for the moment. I enter through one of the few doors that is not obstructed by heavy machinery and find myself in what is still known as "The Connecting Corridor." So called because back in the day it connected the Junior High to the High School. Purgatory to Hell itself.
I have traveled that far back in the Wayback Machine.
And to demonstrate just how little things have changed, as I step into the Connecting Corridor, I am face to face with the mural that was painted by the guy I dated in High School who went on to become a favorite local mural artist beautifying depressed neighborhoods across the city. An artist who painted this particular mural as his senior project in Art School. An artist who, like myself, will soon be getting AARP literature in the mail.
I traipse the oddly unchanged route to the gym and am disturbed but not exactly surprised to find the same peeling paint in that same institutional shade of yellow often used to brighten spaces that lack even a single ray of natural lighting. And the same exposed plumbing and wire work that is painted black in an attempt to minimize the assault to one's senses. And the same icky damp gummy-looking spot in the corner where the hallway turns from the cafeteria section to the gym and shop section. The source of dampness evidently still under investigation all these years later.
I am struggling to thwart the impulse to run screaming from the building.
Does anyone actually benefit from it?
Let me ask that question a different way.
Does anyone besides the completely clueless, neurotic, not sure they can do anything right as a parent actually benefit from it?
I have two (that I am under tremendous social pressure) to attend this year. One for 6th grade and one for 7th grade. Both in the insane asylum that is Middle School.
And two because there is such an appreciable difference between 6th and 7th grade. And between last year's intro to 6th grade and this year's.
And so for two nights in a row, I am back at the very school that I attended so long ago it was still called Junior High. It is as though I have stepped out of a time machine. Only not in a good way.
First, the place is being "renovated." Renovated instead of knocked over to start from scratch. As a matter of money.
As if there aren't thousands of graduates, particularly from the 70s and 80s who wouldn't happily shell out a king's ransom for a raffle where the prize is that you get to put your name and a smart-assed comment and maybe a few pictures of some especially despised classmates or teachers or coaches on the wrecking ball. Throw in a champagne toast to sweeten the pot.
So we have to gather in the gym because the wing with the auditorium is condemned for the moment. I enter through one of the few doors that is not obstructed by heavy machinery and find myself in what is still known as "The Connecting Corridor." So called because back in the day it connected the Junior High to the High School. Purgatory to Hell itself.
I have traveled that far back in the Wayback Machine.
And to demonstrate just how little things have changed, as I step into the Connecting Corridor, I am face to face with the mural that was painted by the guy I dated in High School who went on to become a favorite local mural artist beautifying depressed neighborhoods across the city. An artist who painted this particular mural as his senior project in Art School. An artist who, like myself, will soon be getting AARP literature in the mail.
I traipse the oddly unchanged route to the gym and am disturbed but not exactly surprised to find the same peeling paint in that same institutional shade of yellow often used to brighten spaces that lack even a single ray of natural lighting. And the same exposed plumbing and wire work that is painted black in an attempt to minimize the assault to one's senses. And the same icky damp gummy-looking spot in the corner where the hallway turns from the cafeteria section to the gym and shop section. The source of dampness evidently still under investigation all these years later.
I am struggling to thwart the impulse to run screaming from the building.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Hell in a Handbag
I leave a message with the secretary.
Msgr. leaves me a message.
I leave another one with the secretary.
Msgr. leaves another one for me.
By now Sweet Polly Purebread is Pissy Patty Potty Mouth.
My last call to the saintly patient secretary begs her indulgence through gritted teeth. Can she pass along a detailed message? Does she have a pen? Does she have it in her hand? OK – here goes.
I edit what I want to say with the talent of a seasoned litigator. I speak as slowly as my escalating blood pressure will allow. I try not to sound too judgy or disinterested in what ever it is that the church thinks is a reasonable commitment to one’s education in the faith. I try my best to sound sincere. All I really want is to earn the right to figuratively thumb my nose at the Church Lady and spike the ball in the RES parking lot when I prance out of 9:30 Mass with a Get Out of Jail Free card.
Hours later, another person who is not Msgr. Gregory or his secretary leaves me yet another message. She informs me that Msgr. completely understands my situation and not to worry, there will be no documentation of absences for missing the two special Masses and they are happy to see us all at the 9:30 (which in my Pissy Patty Potty Mouth crankiness, I interpret as “we will be looking for you at the 9:30 Mass to make sure you are not just weaseling out of a Mass that conflicts with the first Eagles home game.”)
And then just moments later there is an e-mail from Church Lady.
I am kind of excited that she is writing to me to let me know that Msgr. gave her “the business” and she has to acknowledge the err of her ways and apologize for being such a tyrant about all things RES.
But that is not the subject of her e-mail.
No, it is another sugar-coated message to the parents of the RES kids. RES is hosting the next hospitality Sunday. And they need volunteers to serve coffee and doughnuts and clean up afterwards.
Hospitality Sunday is once a month after 9:30 Mass and it is intended to welcome new parishioners to the parish and give them a chance to get to know other members. My kids call it Doughnut Day. I call it Mom’s Opportunity to Avoid a $20 Trip to Starbucks.
The e-mail clearly has an appropriate purpose. RES is the host of the gig so should offer up some service to its execution.
But she can’t help herself. In her indelible belief that RES families do not go to Mass, and therefore would never have seen the giant posters in the vestibule beckoning us to come for coffee, or heard Father’s announcement at the end of Mass, we must all be scratching our empty little heads wondering what in the world Hospitality Sunday is!
And so then she goes, providing an over simplified elementary school introduction to what this enduring tradition involves.
Enlightening the pagans once again.
Msgr. leaves me a message.
I leave another one with the secretary.
Msgr. leaves another one for me.
By now Sweet Polly Purebread is Pissy Patty Potty Mouth.
My last call to the saintly patient secretary begs her indulgence through gritted teeth. Can she pass along a detailed message? Does she have a pen? Does she have it in her hand? OK – here goes.
I edit what I want to say with the talent of a seasoned litigator. I speak as slowly as my escalating blood pressure will allow. I try not to sound too judgy or disinterested in what ever it is that the church thinks is a reasonable commitment to one’s education in the faith. I try my best to sound sincere. All I really want is to earn the right to figuratively thumb my nose at the Church Lady and spike the ball in the RES parking lot when I prance out of 9:30 Mass with a Get Out of Jail Free card.
Hours later, another person who is not Msgr. Gregory or his secretary leaves me yet another message. She informs me that Msgr. completely understands my situation and not to worry, there will be no documentation of absences for missing the two special Masses and they are happy to see us all at the 9:30 (which in my Pissy Patty Potty Mouth crankiness, I interpret as “we will be looking for you at the 9:30 Mass to make sure you are not just weaseling out of a Mass that conflicts with the first Eagles home game.”)
And then just moments later there is an e-mail from Church Lady.
I am kind of excited that she is writing to me to let me know that Msgr. gave her “the business” and she has to acknowledge the err of her ways and apologize for being such a tyrant about all things RES.
But that is not the subject of her e-mail.
No, it is another sugar-coated message to the parents of the RES kids. RES is hosting the next hospitality Sunday. And they need volunteers to serve coffee and doughnuts and clean up afterwards.
Hospitality Sunday is once a month after 9:30 Mass and it is intended to welcome new parishioners to the parish and give them a chance to get to know other members. My kids call it Doughnut Day. I call it Mom’s Opportunity to Avoid a $20 Trip to Starbucks.
The e-mail clearly has an appropriate purpose. RES is the host of the gig so should offer up some service to its execution.
But she can’t help herself. In her indelible belief that RES families do not go to Mass, and therefore would never have seen the giant posters in the vestibule beckoning us to come for coffee, or heard Father’s announcement at the end of Mass, we must all be scratching our empty little heads wondering what in the world Hospitality Sunday is!
And so then she goes, providing an over simplified elementary school introduction to what this enduring tradition involves.
Enlightening the pagans once again.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Church Lady
In all the frenetic back-to-school hoopla I'd nearly forgotten about the conflict over the RES special Mass I was rounding the final turn toward.
But soon enough Her Royal Piousness sends another cheerfully worded e-mail inviting all the boys and girls of t Our Lady of Condemnation to join the football team and the cheerleading squad – which will meet for practice at some inopportune time for any child whose parents hold jobs.
And just as I was muttering an expletive and striking the delete key, I remembered.
Miss Holiest of Holies has never responded to my request for the identity of someone of greater authority to whom I could appeal her (nit-wit) decision.
I find the last e-mail I sent to her and forward it to her again with a somewhat pissy-toned, decidedly demanding second message stating that I would like the courtesy of a reply from her, and expect it by the close of business that day.
I wonder if she knows what “close of business” means.
I am shocked when a plainly worded (not sugar plum fairy sweet) reply message appears in my mailbox moments later.
No greeting. No bestowing of blessings with her signature. In fact, no signature at all.
“You can call Msgr. Gregory.”
You can kiss my a**.
You can drop dead.
You can go to Hell.
That’s sort of the way it sounded.
And I am sure she was thinking that surely I would be put off by the notion of contacting Msgr Gregory. Shiver me timbers!
Well, what Madame Church Lady does not know is that my mother didn’t raise a shrinking violet. I would knock on the door of the Pope himself if that was the way to get this resolved.
Of course, I have to look up his number on the parish website, because the courtesy of her reply failed to courteously provide the information needed to do what she suggested.
I get the phone and dial. I am trying hard to think like a reasonable person when his secretary answers.
I am as sweet as Sweet Polly Purebread as I make my request. This is going to be good.
But soon enough Her Royal Piousness sends another cheerfully worded e-mail inviting all the boys and girls of t Our Lady of Condemnation to join the football team and the cheerleading squad – which will meet for practice at some inopportune time for any child whose parents hold jobs.
And just as I was muttering an expletive and striking the delete key, I remembered.
Miss Holiest of Holies has never responded to my request for the identity of someone of greater authority to whom I could appeal her (nit-wit) decision.
I find the last e-mail I sent to her and forward it to her again with a somewhat pissy-toned, decidedly demanding second message stating that I would like the courtesy of a reply from her, and expect it by the close of business that day.
I wonder if she knows what “close of business” means.
I am shocked when a plainly worded (not sugar plum fairy sweet) reply message appears in my mailbox moments later.
No greeting. No bestowing of blessings with her signature. In fact, no signature at all.
“You can call Msgr. Gregory.”
You can kiss my a**.
You can drop dead.
You can go to Hell.
That’s sort of the way it sounded.
And I am sure she was thinking that surely I would be put off by the notion of contacting Msgr Gregory. Shiver me timbers!
Well, what Madame Church Lady does not know is that my mother didn’t raise a shrinking violet. I would knock on the door of the Pope himself if that was the way to get this resolved.
Of course, I have to look up his number on the parish website, because the courtesy of her reply failed to courteously provide the information needed to do what she suggested.
I get the phone and dial. I am trying hard to think like a reasonable person when his secretary answers.
I am as sweet as Sweet Polly Purebread as I make my request. This is going to be good.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Be True To Your School
And then the games actually begin.
The first day of school ushers out the last semblance of relaxation and we begin the months long tear through volumes of academic material, reams of worksheets, stacks of required reading material, a gross of No. 2 pencils, pounds of erasers, dozens of glue sticks, and countless notes and papers and reminders and permission slips.
I have received exactly three notes so far on Power School. Power School is a blessing and a curse. It is essentially spyware so you can secretly take a good long look at your kids’ grade book and attendance record from the comfort of your desk at work and never bother the teacher, who swears her door is always open. I liked it better when they just called you or wrote a note. Now I get to go looking for trouble. I got the original mailing about passwords and log-ons in early August. In late August I got a new one stating that the old one was incorrect and to disregard it in favor of the new one (for each kid). And just today, a third telling me there was yet another glitch, and an additional one will be sent and to disregard anything about Power School that has been sent except the one you get on pink paper. And all of this gets to be lovingly copied for my ex-husband so he can butt in as he sees fit.
So much for unobtrusive spying.
It’s the first day of school and no one wants to budge from bed. Even though we all swore on a stack of Bibles the night before that we’d not make the morning a tap dance through the bowels of Hell.
So in record time and several hairstyles for her, 3 different shorts/shirt combinations for him, a pair of burned bagels, the swapping of several items in the lunch bag for other items of equal or lesser nutritional value, a couple of rushed photographs where the children feign being happy to stand by each other’s sides, and one scalding cup of coffee later, they are out the door and into the car, and soon enough I am dropping them off at a nearby corner, far enough away from the gathering crowd of Middle Schoolers that no one will see their mother kiss them.
And I am sadder than you’d think to see them dash across the street to join their friends without so much as a look back.
The first day of school ushers out the last semblance of relaxation and we begin the months long tear through volumes of academic material, reams of worksheets, stacks of required reading material, a gross of No. 2 pencils, pounds of erasers, dozens of glue sticks, and countless notes and papers and reminders and permission slips.
I have received exactly three notes so far on Power School. Power School is a blessing and a curse. It is essentially spyware so you can secretly take a good long look at your kids’ grade book and attendance record from the comfort of your desk at work and never bother the teacher, who swears her door is always open. I liked it better when they just called you or wrote a note. Now I get to go looking for trouble. I got the original mailing about passwords and log-ons in early August. In late August I got a new one stating that the old one was incorrect and to disregard it in favor of the new one (for each kid). And just today, a third telling me there was yet another glitch, and an additional one will be sent and to disregard anything about Power School that has been sent except the one you get on pink paper. And all of this gets to be lovingly copied for my ex-husband so he can butt in as he sees fit.
So much for unobtrusive spying.
It’s the first day of school and no one wants to budge from bed. Even though we all swore on a stack of Bibles the night before that we’d not make the morning a tap dance through the bowels of Hell.
So in record time and several hairstyles for her, 3 different shorts/shirt combinations for him, a pair of burned bagels, the swapping of several items in the lunch bag for other items of equal or lesser nutritional value, a couple of rushed photographs where the children feign being happy to stand by each other’s sides, and one scalding cup of coffee later, they are out the door and into the car, and soon enough I am dropping them off at a nearby corner, far enough away from the gathering crowd of Middle Schoolers that no one will see their mother kiss them.
And I am sadder than you’d think to see them dash across the street to join their friends without so much as a look back.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Accentuate the Positive
The hunt for all the accessories an 11 year old glamour-puss could desire begins at Claire's Boutique.
Have you been to Claire's? It is enough to give you a seizure disorder.
It is also a brilliant concept.
It completely consumes the heart and mind of an 11 year old girl - who is shopping with her mother's money - and her mother's empathy for what it was like to suddenly feel self conscious about your looks and worried that you would not keep up - suddenly the girl you used to swap nail polish with is your competition. Every girl for herself!
The place bombards your senses with loud music and lots of hot pink and black and animal print and marabou - to appeal to the emerging and fickle good girl/bad girl image that the prepubescent, hormonally-charged young things flit through the door with.
Floor to ceiling hair notions, locker accoutrement's, stow-away-in-your backpack hair brushes and mirrors and makeup and phone accessories.
Outrageous costume jewelry, scarves, purses, backpack decorations, patches - all that glitters and all that is coveted by the average red-blooded American pre-teen.
And they very slyly provide little pink fabric collapsible buckets - light and comfy to dangle on a little 6th grade arm - and easily capable of holding way more loot than the average pair of 11 year old hands.
A great big sign - BUY 3, GET 2 FREE- beckons my gal to the vast selection of hair thingies.
We simply must have ponytail holders and barrettes and clips and bands of every color and shape and embellishment so that we stand out in every crowd. As if her platinum blond locks on their own do not scream out her Marilyn Monroe-ness when she bops into a room?
And when the little pink bucket is nearly bulging with stuff - a disturbingly pretty young man comes to have a look, and quickly assesses what other things we'd be crazy not to consider in order to qualify for another two-fer, or to get in on two more free things by placing just one more hair extension in the bucket.
No fewer than $52 later, I exit Claire's Boutique and think I have found the latest competition for crack.
Have you been to Claire's? It is enough to give you a seizure disorder.
It is also a brilliant concept.
It completely consumes the heart and mind of an 11 year old girl - who is shopping with her mother's money - and her mother's empathy for what it was like to suddenly feel self conscious about your looks and worried that you would not keep up - suddenly the girl you used to swap nail polish with is your competition. Every girl for herself!
The place bombards your senses with loud music and lots of hot pink and black and animal print and marabou - to appeal to the emerging and fickle good girl/bad girl image that the prepubescent, hormonally-charged young things flit through the door with.
Floor to ceiling hair notions, locker accoutrement's, stow-away-in-your backpack hair brushes and mirrors and makeup and phone accessories.
Outrageous costume jewelry, scarves, purses, backpack decorations, patches - all that glitters and all that is coveted by the average red-blooded American pre-teen.
And they very slyly provide little pink fabric collapsible buckets - light and comfy to dangle on a little 6th grade arm - and easily capable of holding way more loot than the average pair of 11 year old hands.
A great big sign - BUY 3, GET 2 FREE- beckons my gal to the vast selection of hair thingies.
We simply must have ponytail holders and barrettes and clips and bands of every color and shape and embellishment so that we stand out in every crowd. As if her platinum blond locks on their own do not scream out her Marilyn Monroe-ness when she bops into a room?
And when the little pink bucket is nearly bulging with stuff - a disturbingly pretty young man comes to have a look, and quickly assesses what other things we'd be crazy not to consider in order to qualify for another two-fer, or to get in on two more free things by placing just one more hair extension in the bucket.
No fewer than $52 later, I exit Claire's Boutique and think I have found the latest competition for crack.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Fashion Is Not A Luxury
My daughter's t-shirt tells me so. Courtesy of Sarah Jessica Parker's clothing line "Bitten."
My daughter is about to take a big juicy bite out of my wallet, and girlfriend has her own ideas about style too.
The general rule is: The more embellishment, embroidery, frills, jewels, beads, sequins, bits of off-pattern fabric, appliques and art work the better.
And this year, since we are bent on attracting the attention of a certain artfully disheveled blond sixth grade heartthrob, we are maniacal about the cut, fit and appearance of pants, jeans, skirts and leggings - and have every intention of amassing a shoe collection that would impress Imelda Marcos.
So armloads of jazzy and bejeweled tops, and a dozen or so pants, jeans, leggings and skirts, and about two hours later, she is attempting to fleece me out of suede ankle boots, Ugg-style boots in an outrageous and impractical color, athletic shoes for gym, painted and bedazzled Chuck Taylors that will never touch the gym floor, metallic ballet flats, clogs (since flip flops are banned and we must have some type of slip on!) and fuzzy slippers just for fun.
And of course we must replenish socks, panties, training bras and pajamas that are somehow suddenly in dwindling supply.
I am going to start underfeeding her so she does not grow out of all of this stuff before Halloween.
So, bent over double under the weight of all the back to school loot, we leave the department store.
But we've really only covered the wardrobe.
We have not even begun to prepare for landing in the wild and untamed world of accessories.
My daughter is about to take a big juicy bite out of my wallet, and girlfriend has her own ideas about style too.
The general rule is: The more embellishment, embroidery, frills, jewels, beads, sequins, bits of off-pattern fabric, appliques and art work the better.
And this year, since we are bent on attracting the attention of a certain artfully disheveled blond sixth grade heartthrob, we are maniacal about the cut, fit and appearance of pants, jeans, skirts and leggings - and have every intention of amassing a shoe collection that would impress Imelda Marcos.
So armloads of jazzy and bejeweled tops, and a dozen or so pants, jeans, leggings and skirts, and about two hours later, she is attempting to fleece me out of suede ankle boots, Ugg-style boots in an outrageous and impractical color, athletic shoes for gym, painted and bedazzled Chuck Taylors that will never touch the gym floor, metallic ballet flats, clogs (since flip flops are banned and we must have some type of slip on!) and fuzzy slippers just for fun.
And of course we must replenish socks, panties, training bras and pajamas that are somehow suddenly in dwindling supply.
I am going to start underfeeding her so she does not grow out of all of this stuff before Halloween.
So, bent over double under the weight of all the back to school loot, we leave the department store.
But we've really only covered the wardrobe.
We have not even begun to prepare for landing in the wild and untamed world of accessories.
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Boys Are Back in Town
And there is always the back to school clothes shopping haranguing experience.
First, the boy.
The sneakers must be high-end and noticeable. (Hello, Outlet Mall?) I manage to get him to buy into a mid-range pair of Nikes in the outrageous colors of his school. (Crimson and Gold, Thy praise we'll ever sing....) That way, when he wears his gym uniform, his sneaks match. Because if he had the ones he'd first eye-balled, in the colors of the Minnesota Vikings, on Gym Day he'd look like he was auditioning for the Comic Section of the Mummers at the New Year's Day Parade.
And the shirts. They must all be T-shirts. No golf shirts, or rugby shirts or (clutch the pearls!) button down shirts. T-shirts. The more irreverent the logo the better. Another parent actually chuckles as I try to explain the Nike shirt that reads "My 'swoosh' is bigger than your 'swoosh' and why it will get Mommy called into the Principal's office if he wears it.
We are at a skater store looking at cool and unnecessary gear. My son wants a rubber bracelet a la WWJD and Livestrong, both of which I think have their place in the American social cause psyche. But this rubber bracelet, which he, in a very practiced defense, claims to be oh-so-very supportive of breast cancer awareness (hello, you're in 7th grade) reads:
"I heart Boobies"
Really? Will you be accessorizing that with the pink ribbon pin I just paid $5 for at the mall because I am sure the minute I don't donate is the minute the breast cancer whammy comes to get me???
He claims that the kids flip it around so that some other innocuous message can be read by little old ladies and priests and college admissions officers the world over.
Does he really think I am that dumb?
"Mom, Dad said I could get it!" he argues.
Honey, Daddy is lost in a haze of alcohol and prescription pain meds, and if you told him you wanted to wear Daisy Dukes and Manolo heels to school he'd nod and say you should live your dream, like his pathetic, self absorbed mother never allowed him to do.
I Mom up and refuse the rubber bracelet claiming that I don't give one good God damn what other kids wear, and their mothers obviously don't care about them either.
My God we've been at the mall for less than an hour. I need a chardonnay and an energy drink to get me through what my daughter has in store for me.
First, the boy.
The sneakers must be high-end and noticeable. (Hello, Outlet Mall?) I manage to get him to buy into a mid-range pair of Nikes in the outrageous colors of his school. (Crimson and Gold, Thy praise we'll ever sing....) That way, when he wears his gym uniform, his sneaks match. Because if he had the ones he'd first eye-balled, in the colors of the Minnesota Vikings, on Gym Day he'd look like he was auditioning for the Comic Section of the Mummers at the New Year's Day Parade.
And the shirts. They must all be T-shirts. No golf shirts, or rugby shirts or (clutch the pearls!) button down shirts. T-shirts. The more irreverent the logo the better. Another parent actually chuckles as I try to explain the Nike shirt that reads "My 'swoosh' is bigger than your 'swoosh' and why it will get Mommy called into the Principal's office if he wears it.
We are at a skater store looking at cool and unnecessary gear. My son wants a rubber bracelet a la WWJD and Livestrong, both of which I think have their place in the American social cause psyche. But this rubber bracelet, which he, in a very practiced defense, claims to be oh-so-very supportive of breast cancer awareness (hello, you're in 7th grade) reads:
"I heart Boobies"
Really? Will you be accessorizing that with the pink ribbon pin I just paid $5 for at the mall because I am sure the minute I don't donate is the minute the breast cancer whammy comes to get me???
He claims that the kids flip it around so that some other innocuous message can be read by little old ladies and priests and college admissions officers the world over.
Does he really think I am that dumb?
"Mom, Dad said I could get it!" he argues.
Honey, Daddy is lost in a haze of alcohol and prescription pain meds, and if you told him you wanted to wear Daisy Dukes and Manolo heels to school he'd nod and say you should live your dream, like his pathetic, self absorbed mother never allowed him to do.
I Mom up and refuse the rubber bracelet claiming that I don't give one good God damn what other kids wear, and their mothers obviously don't care about them either.
My God we've been at the mall for less than an hour. I need a chardonnay and an energy drink to get me through what my daughter has in store for me.
Friday, September 17, 2010
See You in September
When I was in school, Back to School purchases were minimal and consistent across the globe, so it seemed.
In the early grades – a school bag, a cool lunch box (my sister had a Twiggy one!), a 1st day of school outfit, and a pair of new shoes that doubled as church shoes (until you dragged the toes of them trying to stop the wagon careening down the hill and left the suede in shreds…Joe!). Sneakers and haircuts were on an ad hoc basis.
At 4th grade, the list expanded to include a 3-ring binder of our choice, loose leaf paper in any new-fangled color but blue, and a blue pen or two, preferably housed in an optional pencil case.
In both cases, we got set of two No. 2 pencils and a steno pad-sized tablet with ruled paper with a grayish cast at the outset of each new semester.
By Junior High the list was not a list at all but at the discretion of the kid who needed to organize him or her self during the chaos and mayhem that are puberty and increased responsibility.
All that freedom of choice has gone out the window. We are not free to be you and me. You can no longer have it your way at Burger King. There is no way to hold the pickle hold the lettuce.
Because stuffed in the backpack with all the year end projects, and workbooks, and HOMEWORK, and the final report card is a lengthy list of required items that need to materialize at school when we return in September. Sometimes the list bleeds into a second page.
The list is comprised of items such as:
A backpack which complies with the mandate that all super duper multitasking, ergonomically beneficial backpacks be restricted from use due to the fact that they won’t fit into the skinny little locker-ettes that have replaced the full-sized-can-stuff-a 6th-grader-into-it type.
A 3-ring binder that complies with the teachers’ union boycott of one particular type with too many bells and whistles.
A specific number of No. 2 pencils –sharpened at home, please.
Pens – specific colors and quantities, and not erasable, thank you.
Folders – specific colors
A clean white sock – for the clean white board. Thankfully there are plenty of unmatched ones that were divorced in the dryer and came out single. Clean but maybe not convincingly so, and I am not buying a new pair, thank you.
Erasers and compasses and rulers, oh my.
Fat markers, thin markers, colored pencils.
A minimum number of glue sticks.
Scissors – preferably the brand endorsed by the bargaining unit that bans the notebook type.
Loose leaf, graph paper, dividers with labels and pockets
Sticky notes – specific dimensions and any colors except neons
Crayons – no fewer than X and no more than Y
A couple of inexplicable metric measuring implements (Didn’t we decide in the 70s that this was pointless?)
3X5 cards
A pencil sharpener capable of catching the shavings (isn’t there one with a handle screwed into the molding by the door?)
Paper towels
No fewer than 3 boxes of tissues
Hand sanitizer
Disinfecting wipes (What is with all the germophobia?? Are we going to school in a Petri dish?)
And at the end, a little disclaimer.
It notes that this list is not intended to be exhaustive; my children’s teachers will provide an additional list of teacher specific required survival kit items.
There will be no pad and No. 2 pencils provided for free. Not in the school district budget.
But added with out my consent to mine.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year
So Mom has fired a shot over the bough, and since it was a little scattered (more buckshot than cannonball) it was not a shot that inflicted any mortal wounds.
Good thing. I have Back-To-School to deal with.
Summer just isn't what it used to be for school-aged kids. Not only are they not careening around the neighborhood all day on bicycles (sans helmets, natch) without the burden of adult supervision or the overbearing reminders about sun screen, or without the threat of pedophiles, kidnappers, rapists or drug dealers who have infiltrated the suburbs, they are also not free from worry about cyber bullying, cell phone envy, West Nile virus, texting drivers, obscene television and prepackaged foods with killer trans fat.
Nor are they free to while away the hours laying on a freshly mowed lawn looking at the clouds taking on this shape or that, sweaty from a game of kickball and enjoying a grape soda loaded with red dye #2.
Because they have homework.
Reading - two to three books from particular genres, by specific authors and limited to a selective list of acceptable titles.
Projects - based on the reading! Usually a written project and some form of creative obligation. Like an artfully decorated cereal box depicting the characters and plot elements of one of the books. Preferably in 3-D. Using dry food products like macaroni or Lifesavers - but please no nut products so the allergen-free kids can be in the room when the projects are on display and not be constantly reaching for the Epi-pen.
And a Math packet - because nothing says "Summertime and the livin' is easy" like endless rows of challenging ways to solve for X.
And since the books on the list of accepted literature are rarely in the library, and since the books from last year's list are rarely if ever on the current list, thereby squelching one of the few advantages to having kids 13 months apart, we get to order them all on line and pay shipping to boot.
And since the kids are in camp now instead of being randomly supervised on a day full of nothing but fun, they are tired. It's like they have jobs. And who wants to read the biography of a pioneer after 8 hours of planned fun with kids you would have otherwise never befriended, and supervised by college kids with out sufficient talent to get better jobs?
So having taken the books on every long car ride and on every vacation, we are prepared to start the projects.
Safety scissors, contact paper, Elmers Glue All and markers in hand, we take tot he craft table to create something that is doomed to fall apart in the backpack on the way to school on the first day.
Mostly because it will be competing for space with all of the dozens of items we purchase dot satisfy the Mandatory School Supply List.
Good thing. I have Back-To-School to deal with.
Summer just isn't what it used to be for school-aged kids. Not only are they not careening around the neighborhood all day on bicycles (sans helmets, natch) without the burden of adult supervision or the overbearing reminders about sun screen, or without the threat of pedophiles, kidnappers, rapists or drug dealers who have infiltrated the suburbs, they are also not free from worry about cyber bullying, cell phone envy, West Nile virus, texting drivers, obscene television and prepackaged foods with killer trans fat.
Nor are they free to while away the hours laying on a freshly mowed lawn looking at the clouds taking on this shape or that, sweaty from a game of kickball and enjoying a grape soda loaded with red dye #2.
Because they have homework.
Reading - two to three books from particular genres, by specific authors and limited to a selective list of acceptable titles.
Projects - based on the reading! Usually a written project and some form of creative obligation. Like an artfully decorated cereal box depicting the characters and plot elements of one of the books. Preferably in 3-D. Using dry food products like macaroni or Lifesavers - but please no nut products so the allergen-free kids can be in the room when the projects are on display and not be constantly reaching for the Epi-pen.
And a Math packet - because nothing says "Summertime and the livin' is easy" like endless rows of challenging ways to solve for X.
And since the books on the list of accepted literature are rarely in the library, and since the books from last year's list are rarely if ever on the current list, thereby squelching one of the few advantages to having kids 13 months apart, we get to order them all on line and pay shipping to boot.
And since the kids are in camp now instead of being randomly supervised on a day full of nothing but fun, they are tired. It's like they have jobs. And who wants to read the biography of a pioneer after 8 hours of planned fun with kids you would have otherwise never befriended, and supervised by college kids with out sufficient talent to get better jobs?
So having taken the books on every long car ride and on every vacation, we are prepared to start the projects.
Safety scissors, contact paper, Elmers Glue All and markers in hand, we take tot he craft table to create something that is doomed to fall apart in the backpack on the way to school on the first day.
Mostly because it will be competing for space with all of the dozens of items we purchase dot satisfy the Mandatory School Supply List.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Operator, Oh Can You Help Me Place This Call?
I am not sure what compelled me to listen as long as I did.
It was an unforgiving rant about why on Earth I would ever create such a situation between my brother and sister. Why on God’s green Earth I would share the juicy little tidbit about my sister being described as a self righteous beyotch. Why I did this, and I did that, and eventually getting caught in a maze of meandering thoughts about various and sundry slights I’ve delivered to her personally over the last decade or so.
I am sure it comes as no surprise at all that I remembered nothing at all about the perceived slights.
One involved something about not making plans to visit the almost beach house of a favorite dead uncle some unspecified weekend in an undetermined year based on an idea she thinks she may have told one of us.
I didn’t listen to the whole thing. It gave me a throbbing headache along the side of my head…in the general vicinity of my ear.
And besides, she would have lost me at hello, if she had said as much. Because the lead off statement, the rallying cry for the big campaign was about my causing the current ruckus between my brother and sister.
A madwoman says what?
Recall if you will, that at the opening scene of the Open Door/XBox/Cat Poop debacle, I was sitting peaceably in my beach chair watching my children try to drown each other at our swim club, while the narcissist-posing-as-lifeguard took no notice whatsoever.
And when called upon to assist with a situation for which I was the most suitable candidate to be of assistance, I went, observed and reported. And yes, I did state the obvious, however unnecessarily in this case: My brother is an ill-mannered idiotic boob.
And in all conversations on the matter since, I was direct and honest and refrained from insulting anyone in my assessment of the situation and did not waver from my position that what my brother had done was wrong to have done, and at a minimum, an apology was due to my sister’s family. What has transpired between them since that time is none of my business. I have relationships, albeit very different relationships, with each of them, no horse in their race.
And yes, I did repeat the nasty comment my brother had asserted that he’d made and further claimed my mother had endorsed.
But she does not know that. Because when Charlotte called Joe to tell him his fight was with her not anyone else in the family, he offered up a repeat performance without solicitation.
How the finger came to be wagging at me is something I’ll have to look up in Dysfunctional Families for Dummies. I have no Earthly idea.
It was an unforgiving rant about why on Earth I would ever create such a situation between my brother and sister. Why on God’s green Earth I would share the juicy little tidbit about my sister being described as a self righteous beyotch. Why I did this, and I did that, and eventually getting caught in a maze of meandering thoughts about various and sundry slights I’ve delivered to her personally over the last decade or so.
I am sure it comes as no surprise at all that I remembered nothing at all about the perceived slights.
One involved something about not making plans to visit the almost beach house of a favorite dead uncle some unspecified weekend in an undetermined year based on an idea she thinks she may have told one of us.
I didn’t listen to the whole thing. It gave me a throbbing headache along the side of my head…in the general vicinity of my ear.
And besides, she would have lost me at hello, if she had said as much. Because the lead off statement, the rallying cry for the big campaign was about my causing the current ruckus between my brother and sister.
A madwoman says what?
Recall if you will, that at the opening scene of the Open Door/XBox/Cat Poop debacle, I was sitting peaceably in my beach chair watching my children try to drown each other at our swim club, while the narcissist-posing-as-lifeguard took no notice whatsoever.
And when called upon to assist with a situation for which I was the most suitable candidate to be of assistance, I went, observed and reported. And yes, I did state the obvious, however unnecessarily in this case: My brother is an ill-mannered idiotic boob.
And in all conversations on the matter since, I was direct and honest and refrained from insulting anyone in my assessment of the situation and did not waver from my position that what my brother had done was wrong to have done, and at a minimum, an apology was due to my sister’s family. What has transpired between them since that time is none of my business. I have relationships, albeit very different relationships, with each of them, no horse in their race.
And yes, I did repeat the nasty comment my brother had asserted that he’d made and further claimed my mother had endorsed.
But she does not know that. Because when Charlotte called Joe to tell him his fight was with her not anyone else in the family, he offered up a repeat performance without solicitation.
How the finger came to be wagging at me is something I’ll have to look up in Dysfunctional Families for Dummies. I have no Earthly idea.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Party Line
Moments later, my phone rings and I scramble to get to the table in the hall where the phone sits. Or should sit. I have two pre-teens who can never quite grasp the idea that everything has a home and everything likes to go home after work, including the phone, and keeping it in your room where it gets buried inadvertently in a pile of stuffed animals is just mean.
I press the “find handset” button and race about the house, in my socks, sliding along the hardwoods my daughter so lovingly polished with Pledge, finding and turning off the alarm on each handset as it is located. I secretly long for the long, curly cord that dangled precariously close to the toaster from my parents’ wall mounted telephone. Olive green to match the appliances, natch.
I find the phone and see that I have missed a message from the squirrel guy, who is supposed to help me figure out if and how the squirrels are getting into the space between my floors.
Hoping that he’s left a message that he’ll be by that day, I dial into my answering system. (My parents never, ever had one. And they had a little spiral bound address book melting by the same toaster instead of a directory in the phone too. Loved the 70s. Shag hair cuts, Dr. Scholls and inferior technology. How quaint.)
Before Bucky the Squirrel Guy’s message cues up, there is one other.
The message from Mom.
I can tell from the opening “It’s Mom” that this message is not one of her “I put a little something in the mail for you” messages, or her “go onto this website and enter to win a lighthouse” advisories, or even a “I was going through some things and found a letter from you from when you were in college and it made me smile” communiqués. (Are you paying attention, sophomore nephew at college? Send your mother a letter. Not an email, not a Facebook message, not a text. A real honest to goodness letter. Written in your handwriting, not typed and printed. Years from now when you are a successful whatever jet-setting about the globe enjoying the fruits of your labor and unable to make it home for holidays, she will read it and smile knowing it was her sensational works of motherhood that placed your feet on that path, and make her smile. Smile, and reach for the Pinot Grigio.)
I brace myself. This is going to be a howler.
I press the “find handset” button and race about the house, in my socks, sliding along the hardwoods my daughter so lovingly polished with Pledge, finding and turning off the alarm on each handset as it is located. I secretly long for the long, curly cord that dangled precariously close to the toaster from my parents’ wall mounted telephone. Olive green to match the appliances, natch.
I find the phone and see that I have missed a message from the squirrel guy, who is supposed to help me figure out if and how the squirrels are getting into the space between my floors.
Hoping that he’s left a message that he’ll be by that day, I dial into my answering system. (My parents never, ever had one. And they had a little spiral bound address book melting by the same toaster instead of a directory in the phone too. Loved the 70s. Shag hair cuts, Dr. Scholls and inferior technology. How quaint.)
Before Bucky the Squirrel Guy’s message cues up, there is one other.
The message from Mom.
I can tell from the opening “It’s Mom” that this message is not one of her “I put a little something in the mail for you” messages, or her “go onto this website and enter to win a lighthouse” advisories, or even a “I was going through some things and found a letter from you from when you were in college and it made me smile” communiqués. (Are you paying attention, sophomore nephew at college? Send your mother a letter. Not an email, not a Facebook message, not a text. A real honest to goodness letter. Written in your handwriting, not typed and printed. Years from now when you are a successful whatever jet-setting about the globe enjoying the fruits of your labor and unable to make it home for holidays, she will read it and smile knowing it was her sensational works of motherhood that placed your feet on that path, and make her smile. Smile, and reach for the Pinot Grigio.)
I brace myself. This is going to be a howler.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Popes in a Volkswagon
Apparently not finished with her pontificating, Madame RES Director zings off another e-mail to me. Not, of course, responding to my inquiry about to whom I can appeal her decision, but to further endeavor to make me feel as though I am in the minority with my opinions.
I highly doubt it.
She fortifies her position by stating that the Masses were requested by the families and approved by the RES Board. (There is a Board? Who, pray tell, comprises that merry little band of idiots?)
She notes that many families enjoy these special Masses. (Who are these families? They are either lying or are the types that also enjoy mosh pits, political rallies, riots and stampedes.)
She also writes that all of the (offensive, patronizing) information had been requested by the Board, the catechists and the families.
Really? They just stepped up and volunteered their opinions and spoke for all of us? And their voices count so much that in deference to them we’ll choose to insult the entire RES community because some idiot can’t remember that the Solemnity of Mary is celebrated on New Year’s Day and needs to be reminded in writing that he’ll need to plop plop fizz fizz and take his hangover to church?
I offer that I have been a RES parent for 7 years and I have never been consulted about such matters. I have never had my bright ideas solicited.
How is it that now that I have shared my opinion, she is choosing to discount it?
And while I am distracted by the Holy Wars, I am nearly unaware that the blinking light on my phone means I have a message waiting.
A long, haranguing message from none other than my mother, who is finally weighing in on the events of the weekend my brother came a-calling.
Heaven help us.
I highly doubt it.
She fortifies her position by stating that the Masses were requested by the families and approved by the RES Board. (There is a Board? Who, pray tell, comprises that merry little band of idiots?)
She notes that many families enjoy these special Masses. (Who are these families? They are either lying or are the types that also enjoy mosh pits, political rallies, riots and stampedes.)
She also writes that all of the (offensive, patronizing) information had been requested by the Board, the catechists and the families.
Really? They just stepped up and volunteered their opinions and spoke for all of us? And their voices count so much that in deference to them we’ll choose to insult the entire RES community because some idiot can’t remember that the Solemnity of Mary is celebrated on New Year’s Day and needs to be reminded in writing that he’ll need to plop plop fizz fizz and take his hangover to church?
I offer that I have been a RES parent for 7 years and I have never been consulted about such matters. I have never had my bright ideas solicited.
How is it that now that I have shared my opinion, she is choosing to discount it?
And while I am distracted by the Holy Wars, I am nearly unaware that the blinking light on my phone means I have a message waiting.
A long, haranguing message from none other than my mother, who is finally weighing in on the events of the weekend my brother came a-calling.
Heaven help us.
Friday, September 10, 2010
To Whom It May Concern, Or Offend
I begin to type my message.
I greet her.
I acknowledge receipt of the information.
I inform her of my decision to forgo the extra special Mass (for which we have all been encouraged to thank Monsignor) in favor of attending my regular 9:30 am Mass, complete with the choir and my regular ability to arrive at 9:28 and still get seats in the front pew where I can implore my children to behave humanely toward each other with a warning that Father can see and hear everything they do, inclusive of pinching.
I inform her that I fully expect to be able to retrieve my child's coveted classroom assignment from the rectory after Mass.
And then I call her on the insulting tone and content of her correspondence. I offer, reluctantly, and not very sincerely, that I am certain that it was not her intention to offend us. (Of course it was her intention. The whole thing is is intended to clobber us over the head with the the notion that she knows what we've been up to and the party is about to be busted by the cops.)
I tell her that it suggests that we do not go to Mass.
That we are oblivious to the dates and customs of the Holy Days.
That we don't know how to properly groom and dress for Mass (Has she looked in a full length mirror since the Carter administration? I wouldn't cast the first stone if I were her...)
I nearly argue that because we've chosen to school our children at home or at public schools we have not necessarily chucked our commitments to our faith.
I decide to turn the knife a different way and instead write that just because we have found an Our Lady of Condemnation education to be far inferior to our other choices and therefore must attend RES to make our sacraments, she should be careful not to make assumptions about our commitments to a faith-filled life. I offer that I am a public school educated person with a very strong commitment to my faith, and with very good reasons to attend the Mass I usually attend. And that there is no discernable value to the special Mass. Mass is Mass. There is not a lot of flexibility.
She, it turns out, is very practiced at the oh-no-you-won't answer that comes out sounding like complete agreement.
She very cheerfully responds thanking me for my note and offering that the RES children (spawn of Hell itself) may have a total of three absences before they are flunked for attendance and the two special inconvenient Masses will only add up to two, and so yippee! My daughter will have one left over (to see her through the full school year of exposures to other people's communicable diseases).
I immediately respond that I object to my choosing one Mass over another being counted as an absence and would like to know to whom (and to whose better senses) I can appeal the (hare-brained) decision.
Silence. She has probably gone off the grid to pray for my wretched soul.
I sit back and plot my argument for her enforcer.
I greet her.
I acknowledge receipt of the information.
I inform her of my decision to forgo the extra special Mass (for which we have all been encouraged to thank Monsignor) in favor of attending my regular 9:30 am Mass, complete with the choir and my regular ability to arrive at 9:28 and still get seats in the front pew where I can implore my children to behave humanely toward each other with a warning that Father can see and hear everything they do, inclusive of pinching.
I inform her that I fully expect to be able to retrieve my child's coveted classroom assignment from the rectory after Mass.
And then I call her on the insulting tone and content of her correspondence. I offer, reluctantly, and not very sincerely, that I am certain that it was not her intention to offend us. (Of course it was her intention. The whole thing is is intended to clobber us over the head with the the notion that she knows what we've been up to and the party is about to be busted by the cops.)
I tell her that it suggests that we do not go to Mass.
That we are oblivious to the dates and customs of the Holy Days.
That we don't know how to properly groom and dress for Mass (Has she looked in a full length mirror since the Carter administration? I wouldn't cast the first stone if I were her...)
I nearly argue that because we've chosen to school our children at home or at public schools we have not necessarily chucked our commitments to our faith.
I decide to turn the knife a different way and instead write that just because we have found an Our Lady of Condemnation education to be far inferior to our other choices and therefore must attend RES to make our sacraments, she should be careful not to make assumptions about our commitments to a faith-filled life. I offer that I am a public school educated person with a very strong commitment to my faith, and with very good reasons to attend the Mass I usually attend. And that there is no discernable value to the special Mass. Mass is Mass. There is not a lot of flexibility.
She, it turns out, is very practiced at the oh-no-you-won't answer that comes out sounding like complete agreement.
She very cheerfully responds thanking me for my note and offering that the RES children (spawn of Hell itself) may have a total of three absences before they are flunked for attendance and the two special inconvenient Masses will only add up to two, and so yippee! My daughter will have one left over (to see her through the full school year of exposures to other people's communicable diseases).
I immediately respond that I object to my choosing one Mass over another being counted as an absence and would like to know to whom (and to whose better senses) I can appeal the (hare-brained) decision.
Silence. She has probably gone off the grid to pray for my wretched soul.
I sit back and plot my argument for her enforcer.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Never, Never on a Sunday
So, on Sunday, I let the kids walk ahead to the coffee and doughnut reception for new (unsuspecting) members of the parish and I wait for Father G. who was glad handing at the church doors.
Though we've not met formally, he knows who I am instantly. And smiling all the while, he says the strangest thing. He says he understands I've had some concerns. He's read my letter. And now that I've sent the letter, he hopes I won't "feel funny about coming to Mass at Our Lady of Condemnation."
Well, geez, I should hope not.
Should I?
I chose to ignore the notion and all that it suggests. Soon enough the congregation chased him to some heinous parish in another part of the diocese. Chased out the new Monsignor, too. They were not worried about little old me and my one voice. They had bigger fishes and loaves to fry.
But nonetheless, the general unwillingness to accept parishioners who reject the school remains palpable. And since Sr. Francis Charles has left her post as Director of RES, one of the congregation has been tapped to assume the role in her stead. It is like a misogynist taking over WOAR.
And so now we worship along side those who are not compelled to even attempt to hide their disdain for "the publics." It is clear that they think we are uncultured, idol-worshipping pagans masquerading as Catholics as we sit beside them on Sunday Masses and the Holy Days. As we get our Ashes at the dawn of Lent. As we get our throats blessed through he power of St. Blaise. And we endure our unofficial Holy Days: The Feast of the Immaculate Condescension. Insinuation Thursday. The Feast Day of St. Facetious.
After 7 years of smiling through the friendly little attempts to humiliate, I have reached a breaking point. I am like Michael Douglas in Falling Down (without the baseball bat...).
I rev up my laptop and log into my e-mail account. I am at my wordsmithing best.
Uh-oh.
Though we've not met formally, he knows who I am instantly. And smiling all the while, he says the strangest thing. He says he understands I've had some concerns. He's read my letter. And now that I've sent the letter, he hopes I won't "feel funny about coming to Mass at Our Lady of Condemnation."
Well, geez, I should hope not.
Should I?
I chose to ignore the notion and all that it suggests. Soon enough the congregation chased him to some heinous parish in another part of the diocese. Chased out the new Monsignor, too. They were not worried about little old me and my one voice. They had bigger fishes and loaves to fry.
But nonetheless, the general unwillingness to accept parishioners who reject the school remains palpable. And since Sr. Francis Charles has left her post as Director of RES, one of the congregation has been tapped to assume the role in her stead. It is like a misogynist taking over WOAR.
And so now we worship along side those who are not compelled to even attempt to hide their disdain for "the publics." It is clear that they think we are uncultured, idol-worshipping pagans masquerading as Catholics as we sit beside them on Sunday Masses and the Holy Days. As we get our Ashes at the dawn of Lent. As we get our throats blessed through he power of St. Blaise. And we endure our unofficial Holy Days: The Feast of the Immaculate Condescension. Insinuation Thursday. The Feast Day of St. Facetious.
After 7 years of smiling through the friendly little attempts to humiliate, I have reached a breaking point. I am like Michael Douglas in Falling Down (without the baseball bat...).
I rev up my laptop and log into my e-mail account. I am at my wordsmithing best.
Uh-oh.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
And I'm Never Going Back to My Old School
I sit at my computer and think about my approach. Maybe a Facebook post a la the First Bra Debacle.
No, maybe not. I don't need to be hissed at during Mass by the blindly loyal faithful of the parish. They are like lobbyists. I'd be asked to worship outside a 10 mile radius of holiness.
I remember vividly my descent into a pit of turmoil with the parish school. It was when my son entered Kindergarten.
This maiden voyage ended much like the Titanic's.
Full day Kindergarten, BTW, involved a half day of academics and a half day of coloring. With a coloring book and crayons that I had to provide. (Since the "good" moms were obviously home coloring all afternoon in their sweatpants with their kids) Double the tuition of the half day Kindergarten. Where I come from this is called "babysitting."
Now fewer than 27 students hoping to have their basic needs met by a teacher and an aide. (By comparison, when he eventually went over the wall to find asylum in the public school, he was the 17th student to enter the class - having lots of additional needs met by a teacher and an aide. You do the math.)
Nasty notes from the frustrated parish school teacher about such things as how to properly form a lower case "g."
What?
Bite marks and brush burns and facial bruises the origins of which the teacher could not begin to explain. (I am still unclear about whether she ever entered the classroom.)
Meetings with Sr. Mary Mental Case where she insisted my son was lying about things like being pushed down the steps to the "pit" (translation: playground) in spite of bruising and a convincing demonstration and my son picking the culprit out of a lineup (and, incidentally, fingering him as the kid who also bit him on the torso and left marks still visible a week later) because his injuries were not serious enough.
Incidents that warranted a phone call that never came. Incidents of such minor import that a note would have sufficed where they insisted upon a meeting. Consent forms that were not honored. It was like the Elmer Fudd School of Readin' Ritin' and 'Rithmetic.
By Halloween I had grave doubts. By Thanksgiving I was in a panic. By Christmas he was enrolled at the local public school where a former favorite teacher of mine had become principal and could offer me assurances that the hare-brained stories I'd tearfully related could quite effortlessly be avoided, and that I would not have any further Stepford Wives experiences with administrators.
I had to fight for the return of a portion of my tuition. They kept the crayons and coloring book.
I wrote a scathing letter to the Home and School Association highlighting the myriad demonstrations of ineptness I'd experienced at Our Lady of Condemnation hoping to save other children and parents from disasters that would surely come to pass.
I got a nice note from the parish priest asking me to see him after Mass.
Uh-oh.
No, maybe not. I don't need to be hissed at during Mass by the blindly loyal faithful of the parish. They are like lobbyists. I'd be asked to worship outside a 10 mile radius of holiness.
I remember vividly my descent into a pit of turmoil with the parish school. It was when my son entered Kindergarten.
This maiden voyage ended much like the Titanic's.
Full day Kindergarten, BTW, involved a half day of academics and a half day of coloring. With a coloring book and crayons that I had to provide. (Since the "good" moms were obviously home coloring all afternoon in their sweatpants with their kids) Double the tuition of the half day Kindergarten. Where I come from this is called "babysitting."
Now fewer than 27 students hoping to have their basic needs met by a teacher and an aide. (By comparison, when he eventually went over the wall to find asylum in the public school, he was the 17th student to enter the class - having lots of additional needs met by a teacher and an aide. You do the math.)
Nasty notes from the frustrated parish school teacher about such things as how to properly form a lower case "g."
What?
Bite marks and brush burns and facial bruises the origins of which the teacher could not begin to explain. (I am still unclear about whether she ever entered the classroom.)
Meetings with Sr. Mary Mental Case where she insisted my son was lying about things like being pushed down the steps to the "pit" (translation: playground) in spite of bruising and a convincing demonstration and my son picking the culprit out of a lineup (and, incidentally, fingering him as the kid who also bit him on the torso and left marks still visible a week later) because his injuries were not serious enough.
Incidents that warranted a phone call that never came. Incidents of such minor import that a note would have sufficed where they insisted upon a meeting. Consent forms that were not honored. It was like the Elmer Fudd School of Readin' Ritin' and 'Rithmetic.
By Halloween I had grave doubts. By Thanksgiving I was in a panic. By Christmas he was enrolled at the local public school where a former favorite teacher of mine had become principal and could offer me assurances that the hare-brained stories I'd tearfully related could quite effortlessly be avoided, and that I would not have any further Stepford Wives experiences with administrators.
I had to fight for the return of a portion of my tuition. They kept the crayons and coloring book.
I wrote a scathing letter to the Home and School Association highlighting the myriad demonstrations of ineptness I'd experienced at Our Lady of Condemnation hoping to save other children and parents from disasters that would surely come to pass.
I got a nice note from the parish priest asking me to see him after Mass.
Uh-oh.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Glory Glory Hallelujah! Teacher Hit Me With a Ruler!
Of course it welcomes us back warmly.
Warmly and with an obligatory “special Mass” on the Sunday before the first night of class.
A special Mass – so we have two RES obligations that week.
And a special Mass that is at 1 pm.
A special Mass in addition to the Masses offered at 5 pm on Saturday and 6:30 am and 8 am and 9:30 am and 11:30 am on Sunday. A special Mass that obligates all of the families that would normally spread their attendance out among the other 5 Masses or not attend at all, to come together at once, pack the church beyond capacity and leave us looking for parking spaces all over the neighborhood.
A special Mass scheduled at such an inconvenient hour that it will effectively derail any other plans we might have had for the day.
And for what? To bring us together as the RES “community?” It’s not like we can talk and get to know each other. And hello, if we wanted to talk and get to know eachother, we would have by now. And not in Church.
No, this Mass is designed to make sure we go at least this one time. So Father can implore us in his Homily to attend regularly. Which of course, he assumes that we don’t.
And just to make extra sure that we do not skip this first of two obligations…instead of enclosing the children's classroom assignments in the letter, we are informed that we will receive our classroom assignments at the end of the special Mass. (Can you imagine the mayhem?) Don’t attend and your child will be lost and humiliated the following night. How nice.
There is another similar Mass scheduled for some nonsense reason during Advent. Probably to encourage us to attend Mass on Christmas Day. Assuming again that the attraction of gifts under the tree will derail flimsier plans to attend.
On the back of this insulting little letter is a schedule of classes. Special events, field trips, days when there is no class due to a national holiday. And sprinkled in among those class days are little italicized reminders of the holy days of obligation.
Again, assuming that since we are not likely to be going to Mass, we might just miss the fact that Ash Wednesday is about to kick off the Lenten season. Yes, Lent often sneaks up and bites you on the fanny since Mardi Gras and all those ashes smeared on foreheads so often go unnoticed. Easter? Already????
But my favorite piece of helpful information is the reminder that takes the form of a verbatim passage from the school handbook. It is a statement that when in church we are in the presence of all things holy and we should dress modestly – and do similarly when we represent the parish on field trips.
Again, meant to be a thinly veiled, if veiled at all, acknowledgment that it is assumed that we do not attend Mass, and therefore must never have picked up on the habits and customs of regular church-goers. Thank goodness for the reminder! Otherwise I might have just stepped on out to Mass wearing my tube top and Daisy Dukes!
I am in a foul mood to begin with. The RES Director is going to get a very unpleasant, very direct, very confrontational piece of my mind via e-mail.
My inner Estelle is cranking to life.
Warmly and with an obligatory “special Mass” on the Sunday before the first night of class.
A special Mass – so we have two RES obligations that week.
And a special Mass that is at 1 pm.
A special Mass in addition to the Masses offered at 5 pm on Saturday and 6:30 am and 8 am and 9:30 am and 11:30 am on Sunday. A special Mass that obligates all of the families that would normally spread their attendance out among the other 5 Masses or not attend at all, to come together at once, pack the church beyond capacity and leave us looking for parking spaces all over the neighborhood.
A special Mass scheduled at such an inconvenient hour that it will effectively derail any other plans we might have had for the day.
And for what? To bring us together as the RES “community?” It’s not like we can talk and get to know each other. And hello, if we wanted to talk and get to know eachother, we would have by now. And not in Church.
No, this Mass is designed to make sure we go at least this one time. So Father can implore us in his Homily to attend regularly. Which of course, he assumes that we don’t.
And just to make extra sure that we do not skip this first of two obligations…instead of enclosing the children's classroom assignments in the letter, we are informed that we will receive our classroom assignments at the end of the special Mass. (Can you imagine the mayhem?) Don’t attend and your child will be lost and humiliated the following night. How nice.
There is another similar Mass scheduled for some nonsense reason during Advent. Probably to encourage us to attend Mass on Christmas Day. Assuming again that the attraction of gifts under the tree will derail flimsier plans to attend.
On the back of this insulting little letter is a schedule of classes. Special events, field trips, days when there is no class due to a national holiday. And sprinkled in among those class days are little italicized reminders of the holy days of obligation.
Again, assuming that since we are not likely to be going to Mass, we might just miss the fact that Ash Wednesday is about to kick off the Lenten season. Yes, Lent often sneaks up and bites you on the fanny since Mardi Gras and all those ashes smeared on foreheads so often go unnoticed. Easter? Already????
But my favorite piece of helpful information is the reminder that takes the form of a verbatim passage from the school handbook. It is a statement that when in church we are in the presence of all things holy and we should dress modestly – and do similarly when we represent the parish on field trips.
Again, meant to be a thinly veiled, if veiled at all, acknowledgment that it is assumed that we do not attend Mass, and therefore must never have picked up on the habits and customs of regular church-goers. Thank goodness for the reminder! Otherwise I might have just stepped on out to Mass wearing my tube top and Daisy Dukes!
I am in a foul mood to begin with. The RES Director is going to get a very unpleasant, very direct, very confrontational piece of my mind via e-mail.
My inner Estelle is cranking to life.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Back in the Habit
It is back to school time. The long reprieve from backpacks stuffed with notices, and permission slips, and physical forms, and warnings about head lice is coming to a close.
And in our little Catholic family, so is the reprieve from the oppression of religious education.
We grew up calling it CCD. I never knew what the letters stood for. Someone must have changed the name to RES because my generation can’t say “CCD” without grimacing. And let’s face it, our kids are going to grimace on their own eventually. Let’s not rush to judgment.
And to ruin what few blissful unencumbered weeks we have left, the saccharine sweet, never speaks above a church whisper, utterly without humor, always the picture of piety and reverence and full of blessings for all she meets RES Director has mailed us our 2010-2011 sentencing information.
I get it. If you choose to educate your children in a school not affiliated with the church, AND you want them to enjoy a life of participation in their faith, then RES is a necessary, dare I say it? Evil.
I went. I went enough. Enough to embrace my faith and realize its value in my life. There were plenty of Sundays when my Dad dropped me off at CCD, went to Mass, kept going toward the door upon returning from Communion, and came to my classroom to tap the glass on the door and beckon me so we could head toward the stadium for a day of hot dogs and hot chocolate and pro football.
But still I learned what I needed to learn and eventually built my own solid foundation of faith from what I gained in CCD and what I learned from experiences in my home and in my life.
I practice my faith. I came to it on my own terms. I am hopeful that my children will do the same and I encourage them learn the value of their faith. I will not force it. Forcing rarely works. So we go to Mass as a family. We say Grace. I encourage them to pray. I talk about what it means to be Catholic. I hope they find peace in knowing their faith will sustain them when they need to be sustained.
I dipped my toe into the Catholic School pool. It was the most abysmal experience I have ever had with my child. We stayed until Christmas break and went screaming to public school. So my choice was purposeful and not at all haphazard or based on what value I place on religion.
But the RES Director can not help but to telegraph her not so high opinion of me and of folks who have made a similar choice for whatever reasons.
Her letter may as well start out like this:
“Dear Lazy, Irreverent, Catholics of Convenience,
What follows is an insulting array of obligations and suggestions designed to offend you and shame you into complying with practices that the more pious of the parish already embrace…”
And in our little Catholic family, so is the reprieve from the oppression of religious education.
We grew up calling it CCD. I never knew what the letters stood for. Someone must have changed the name to RES because my generation can’t say “CCD” without grimacing. And let’s face it, our kids are going to grimace on their own eventually. Let’s not rush to judgment.
And to ruin what few blissful unencumbered weeks we have left, the saccharine sweet, never speaks above a church whisper, utterly without humor, always the picture of piety and reverence and full of blessings for all she meets RES Director has mailed us our 2010-2011 sentencing information.
I get it. If you choose to educate your children in a school not affiliated with the church, AND you want them to enjoy a life of participation in their faith, then RES is a necessary, dare I say it? Evil.
I went. I went enough. Enough to embrace my faith and realize its value in my life. There were plenty of Sundays when my Dad dropped me off at CCD, went to Mass, kept going toward the door upon returning from Communion, and came to my classroom to tap the glass on the door and beckon me so we could head toward the stadium for a day of hot dogs and hot chocolate and pro football.
But still I learned what I needed to learn and eventually built my own solid foundation of faith from what I gained in CCD and what I learned from experiences in my home and in my life.
I practice my faith. I came to it on my own terms. I am hopeful that my children will do the same and I encourage them learn the value of their faith. I will not force it. Forcing rarely works. So we go to Mass as a family. We say Grace. I encourage them to pray. I talk about what it means to be Catholic. I hope they find peace in knowing their faith will sustain them when they need to be sustained.
I dipped my toe into the Catholic School pool. It was the most abysmal experience I have ever had with my child. We stayed until Christmas break and went screaming to public school. So my choice was purposeful and not at all haphazard or based on what value I place on religion.
But the RES Director can not help but to telegraph her not so high opinion of me and of folks who have made a similar choice for whatever reasons.
Her letter may as well start out like this:
“Dear Lazy, Irreverent, Catholics of Convenience,
What follows is an insulting array of obligations and suggestions designed to offend you and shame you into complying with practices that the more pious of the parish already embrace…”
Friday, September 3, 2010
The Best Defense is a Strong Offense, Or Something Like That
So Joe, who is not really capable of multitasking, especially while driving, even more so if he intends not to be a public safety hazard, would clearly have to pull off to the side of the road to answer. Particularly if anything other than word fragments are going to be used.
So he pulls over into a warm and friendly familiar place, and once engulfed in the inspiring aromas wafting from the neighborhood Krispy Kreme, gets his 'tude on, and answers on the 11th ring.
"Yo!"
Charlotte wonders if she's inadvertently dialed Rocky Balboa.
Without needing to rehearse, she launches in to her carefully measured delivery. She hits all the highlights...the outrageous violation that launched the whole episode, his bungled management of the situation from the start, and perhaps most importantly, his inability to see his responsibility for the turmoil that has unfolded. Right to this very day. She enlightens him to the fact that despite his belief to the contrary, he does not have any support for his indefensible position, and rather than beating his head against the wall trying to rally some form of support, he should grow up, grow a pair and realize that the only person he really needs to approach about this mess is her. The issue involves just them. She and he.
And that is when he makes his tragic misstep (Ok, another tragic misstep in a long series of missteps). He mentions that he mentioned to our mother that she raised "one self-righteous B****" and that she had whole heartedly agreed.
And Charlotte, twisting the knife just a wee bit more, retorts that his story is easy enough to verify. She'll simply call our mother and ask her directly.
Remember directness? It is a long forgotten family quality. Gone the way of the dinosaur. So seldomly used that it shriveled up and fell off. Useless as an appendix.
She ends the call with a persona non grata type of statement and sets about calling Estelle. If Joe's hands were not shaking too badly and he managed to successfully re-dial Charlotte to try to work things out, he'd find her line engaged. Engaged in a confrontational "these words were attributed to you, can you confirm or deny having said them" call to our mother.
He'll need a few Krispy Kremes to raise his blood sugar sufficiently to drive.
So he pulls over into a warm and friendly familiar place, and once engulfed in the inspiring aromas wafting from the neighborhood Krispy Kreme, gets his 'tude on, and answers on the 11th ring.
"Yo!"
Charlotte wonders if she's inadvertently dialed Rocky Balboa.
Without needing to rehearse, she launches in to her carefully measured delivery. She hits all the highlights...the outrageous violation that launched the whole episode, his bungled management of the situation from the start, and perhaps most importantly, his inability to see his responsibility for the turmoil that has unfolded. Right to this very day. She enlightens him to the fact that despite his belief to the contrary, he does not have any support for his indefensible position, and rather than beating his head against the wall trying to rally some form of support, he should grow up, grow a pair and realize that the only person he really needs to approach about this mess is her. The issue involves just them. She and he.
And that is when he makes his tragic misstep (Ok, another tragic misstep in a long series of missteps). He mentions that he mentioned to our mother that she raised "one self-righteous B****" and that she had whole heartedly agreed.
And Charlotte, twisting the knife just a wee bit more, retorts that his story is easy enough to verify. She'll simply call our mother and ask her directly.
Remember directness? It is a long forgotten family quality. Gone the way of the dinosaur. So seldomly used that it shriveled up and fell off. Useless as an appendix.
She ends the call with a persona non grata type of statement and sets about calling Estelle. If Joe's hands were not shaking too badly and he managed to successfully re-dial Charlotte to try to work things out, he'd find her line engaged. Engaged in a confrontational "these words were attributed to you, can you confirm or deny having said them" call to our mother.
He'll need a few Krispy Kremes to raise his blood sugar sufficiently to drive.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Have I Reached the Party to Whom I Am Speaking?
Time to multi-task. I am on a deadline. Can't be late to a party! But there is news to be shared...so I do what any gal would do.
I use my shoulder to balance the phone against my face and proceed to converse as I lather up one leg at a time to shave before the shower. Then, as the shaving cream begins to harden to stone on my legs (which are now bleeding in two places each) I affix toothpaste to my toothbrush and angle the phone receiver mouthpiece toward my forehead so that I can listen to Charlotte's return rant without her having to hear (so much) the sounds of my brushing, spitting and rinsing. Then I put the phone on speaker so I can take a Ped Egg to my going-to-get-a-pedi-but-not-until-next week feet (and wish I had a belt sander), and can continue to yak with my sister and get the tootsies sandal -ready at the same time without sacrificing any of the much needed investment in grooming.
This gives us enough time to cover the following:
Joe retains the crown for being the worst guest to have ever crossed another person's threshold.
Joe can not take a hint and you practically have to collar him and walk him on his tippy-toes to his car and start it for him to get him to realize that the time to leave was hours ago.
He still does not accept responsibility for the Open door/XBox/Cat Poop debacle and remains unconvinced that he did anything even remotely offensive, in spite of all evidence and argument to the contrary.
One family member at a time, he will try to lobby support for his position as the Falsely Accused Innocent. We are short on family members so he has to bark up the same two trees pretty loudly.
At least one member of the family is maintaining the position that:
A - He was wrong.
B - It does not concern her, beyond the point of involvement in investigating the XBox use.
That would be me.
The other family member, no doubt even more beleaguered by my brother's haranguing about his raw deal, has altered her position, perhaps since she's reasonably convinced that she can convince Bill to move North with her. My mother has taken the position that:
A - Whether he's wrong or not, she is waffling, if only to get him to shut up about it.
B - She has telegraphed her vote, whether she's bluffing or not, and made a statement that has now been repeated so as to suggest that she shares a none too flattering opinion of my sister.
And this my friends, is a juicy little morsel that can not sit in the frying pan too long before losing its flavor.
So, as I step into the shower at last, Charlotte is dialing the rarely dialed cell phone that is no doubt now jumping out of my brother's pocket and causing him to break out into a flop sweat.
I use my shoulder to balance the phone against my face and proceed to converse as I lather up one leg at a time to shave before the shower. Then, as the shaving cream begins to harden to stone on my legs (which are now bleeding in two places each) I affix toothpaste to my toothbrush and angle the phone receiver mouthpiece toward my forehead so that I can listen to Charlotte's return rant without her having to hear (so much) the sounds of my brushing, spitting and rinsing. Then I put the phone on speaker so I can take a Ped Egg to my going-to-get-a-pedi-but-not-until-next week feet (and wish I had a belt sander), and can continue to yak with my sister and get the tootsies sandal -ready at the same time without sacrificing any of the much needed investment in grooming.
This gives us enough time to cover the following:
Joe retains the crown for being the worst guest to have ever crossed another person's threshold.
Joe can not take a hint and you practically have to collar him and walk him on his tippy-toes to his car and start it for him to get him to realize that the time to leave was hours ago.
He still does not accept responsibility for the Open door/XBox/Cat Poop debacle and remains unconvinced that he did anything even remotely offensive, in spite of all evidence and argument to the contrary.
One family member at a time, he will try to lobby support for his position as the Falsely Accused Innocent. We are short on family members so he has to bark up the same two trees pretty loudly.
At least one member of the family is maintaining the position that:
A - He was wrong.
B - It does not concern her, beyond the point of involvement in investigating the XBox use.
That would be me.
The other family member, no doubt even more beleaguered by my brother's haranguing about his raw deal, has altered her position, perhaps since she's reasonably convinced that she can convince Bill to move North with her. My mother has taken the position that:
A - Whether he's wrong or not, she is waffling, if only to get him to shut up about it.
B - She has telegraphed her vote, whether she's bluffing or not, and made a statement that has now been repeated so as to suggest that she shares a none too flattering opinion of my sister.
And this my friends, is a juicy little morsel that can not sit in the frying pan too long before losing its flavor.
So, as I step into the shower at last, Charlotte is dialing the rarely dialed cell phone that is no doubt now jumping out of my brother's pocket and causing him to break out into a flop sweat.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
We Are All Just Prisoners Here, Of Our Own Design
He is seated at my dining table, reading and re-reading the poison pen letter Charlotte sent weeks ago and hoping to stir up my curiosity. Little does he know that despite being an extraordinarily curious person, I have no curiosity about this letter. There is a reason for that. I read the draft!
So I am dropping hints like, “Geez, look at the time, I’d better shake a tail feather to get out of here on time…and I still have to shower!”
Nothing. He’s the worst guest. I am shocked he hasn’t asked for a beer.
My cell rings. It’s Charlotte. I let it go to voicemail. She texts. I respond. “joeishere.oy”
She offers a rescue. I decline. I’ll let this play out. It would be comical if it were not so darn annoying that I am trying to accomplish quite a lot and he is so demanding of my attention.
He tries once again to rally support. This time the rally is not in support of his handling of the Open-Door/Xbox/Cat-Poop debacle but for Charlotte’s “way out of line” reaction to it.
Like I am any more amenable to that.
I am putting up a pretty convincing demonstration of neutrality, feigned though it may be. I nod, and uh-huh, and you-don’t-say through his meandering re-telling of things. He’s still baffled as to how Estelle got involved and I am not giving up the tapes.
I try one more time.
“Joe, you really need to work this out with Charlotte. It only involves the two of you.”
He tells me that since our father died, Christmas is not the same. (It is usually celebrated at my sister’s home.)
I offer that it never could be. It is changed forever because Dad is not there with us. Like the 4th of July without the fireworks.
He states that when Christmas comes, he’d rather be out of town. (Now we're talking!)
And while he is unsuccessfully pontificating, he mentions that he told all of this to our mother and had remarked to her that Mom “had raised one self-rigteous B****” And according to his recollection, Estelle had whole-heartedly agreed.
Like a tournament winning poker player (Bill and Estelle would be so proud!) I faked a non-response with an “Oh-for-heaven-sakes” over my shoulder as I put the icecream sandwich cake into the freezer.
At that point, I am going to be 30 minutes late to the party even if I break the land speed record getting there. I call to my kids to help Uncle Joe to the car with all the stuff my daughter has assembled for his daughter and kiss Joe goodbye with an insincere “Thanks for coming by, gotta scoot, let me know about the furniture!” Hint, hint. Hint.
I trot upstairs and close my door, peel off my clothes to shower and get out the outfit I intend to wear.
I hear Joe making his way out to his car and giving my kids childish little goodbye noogies.
On the edge of my bed in my towel, I dial my sister.
She is expecting my call.
“Oh, do tell!” she begins.
So I am dropping hints like, “Geez, look at the time, I’d better shake a tail feather to get out of here on time…and I still have to shower!”
Nothing. He’s the worst guest. I am shocked he hasn’t asked for a beer.
My cell rings. It’s Charlotte. I let it go to voicemail. She texts. I respond. “joeishere.oy”
She offers a rescue. I decline. I’ll let this play out. It would be comical if it were not so darn annoying that I am trying to accomplish quite a lot and he is so demanding of my attention.
He tries once again to rally support. This time the rally is not in support of his handling of the Open-Door/Xbox/Cat-Poop debacle but for Charlotte’s “way out of line” reaction to it.
Like I am any more amenable to that.
I am putting up a pretty convincing demonstration of neutrality, feigned though it may be. I nod, and uh-huh, and you-don’t-say through his meandering re-telling of things. He’s still baffled as to how Estelle got involved and I am not giving up the tapes.
I try one more time.
“Joe, you really need to work this out with Charlotte. It only involves the two of you.”
He tells me that since our father died, Christmas is not the same. (It is usually celebrated at my sister’s home.)
I offer that it never could be. It is changed forever because Dad is not there with us. Like the 4th of July without the fireworks.
He states that when Christmas comes, he’d rather be out of town. (Now we're talking!)
And while he is unsuccessfully pontificating, he mentions that he told all of this to our mother and had remarked to her that Mom “had raised one self-rigteous B****” And according to his recollection, Estelle had whole-heartedly agreed.
Like a tournament winning poker player (Bill and Estelle would be so proud!) I faked a non-response with an “Oh-for-heaven-sakes” over my shoulder as I put the icecream sandwich cake into the freezer.
At that point, I am going to be 30 minutes late to the party even if I break the land speed record getting there. I call to my kids to help Uncle Joe to the car with all the stuff my daughter has assembled for his daughter and kiss Joe goodbye with an insincere “Thanks for coming by, gotta scoot, let me know about the furniture!” Hint, hint. Hint.
I trot upstairs and close my door, peel off my clothes to shower and get out the outfit I intend to wear.
I hear Joe making his way out to his car and giving my kids childish little goodbye noogies.
On the edge of my bed in my towel, I dial my sister.
She is expecting my call.
“Oh, do tell!” she begins.
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