It is remarkable how liberating sending that email was.
Joe responded, ALL CAPS, denying having said anything to Mom. A weak disavowing, just like his one to Mom about complaints about her.
But who cares, really?
I can not for my own sense of sanity get roped into the nonsense Estelle is so famous for churning up at all the most convenient moments.
The adolescent in me wants to defiantly go toe-to-toe with her. Play her game. Tell tales out of school. Recall in vivid, mind boggling detail, for all the people in her life, all the missteps she's made (in my estimation only and subject to my imagination and embellishment, just like her stories had been). Maybe she'd like to hear from her friends and family how little I thought of her at different times and what a huge disappointment she has been?
Let's be honest. The tales I could recall with very little intellectual effort would read like an Amy Winehouse memoir. Imagine what I could cough up if I asked around! Charlotte and my college roommate could fill volumes 3 and 4 without taking a breath.
But I decided it was not worth it. I had Christmas to look forward to and plans to make. Gifts to wrap and menus to plan. And I had Charlotte and her family. Love and Joy come to me.
Charlotte, though sitting ringside in the blood and sweat seats was holding her ground. Being the Peacemaker simply by being peaceful.
Mom was altering her plans. Funny how all the years of asking her to alter her plans could not accomplish that. Charlotte was open to some flexibility - so long as she could be at my house to participate in my family's little ahead-of-schedule Christmas on Christmas Eve as planned. Mom could bend to what was planned. My issues were not Charlotte's. This was not between Mom and Charlotte. It was an important distinction to make. Like the one I make about Charlotte's issue with the Open Door/XBox/Cat Poop debacle. I don't approve of Joe's conduct but it is not my home he is banished from (yet).
I had already arranged for the 3rd party delivery of my gifts to Mom and Bill and to Joe's kids. They'd been hand delivered to Joe's house a few days earlier. I had to assume that Mom would find a way to still see her ally Joe. And that between now and then Joe would make sure his youngest child did not tear open and attempt to destroy all of the gifts like she had in years gone by. Big assumption, but I was not about to waste a brain synapse on worrying about it.
Things, remarkably, were looking up. I was going to have a holly, jolly Christmas in spite of it all.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Moscow Rule 3 - Everyone is Potentially Under Opposition Control
And Joe certainly was now.
I am taking an educated guess here, but it would make sense to me that Joe, always on the brink of disaster, saw an opportunity in among all of Mom's rants to him. (She had not singled out Charlotte for the sheer pleasure of the experience. She'd told Joe a few stories around the campfire as well.) Joe, seeing a chink in my armor, took an opportunity to twist the knife a little more, so as to level the playing field a little. Improve his position by worsening mine. Typical sib rivalry. Typical Joe.
So on one of her subsequent rage fueled rants to Charlotte, which I am sure Charlotte prepared for with a Valium and a vodka chaser, Mom spun a little ditty about my charity work from the Summer of the Lawnmower.
Joe, clueless about all his transgressions and abuses of hospitality, seems to only focus on his recollection that I did not always pay him. That there were one or two times when I did not pay him at all. Complained to my mother about it. Nearly 4 years later. Nice.
Now, I know these things to be true:
1 - Mom often called me to say she'd "speak to Joe about doing my lawn once or twice for free," and that I would tell her that she did not need to do that. A deal is a deal, no matter how ill advised.
2 - That If I had not paid Joe on the spot, I'd paid him shortly thereafter. And if I'd failed to pay him in some way, I'd have been happy to make up for it had he mentioned it. And he would mention it; he asks for everything else - things from your home, food for his kids, $10 compensation when his kid attempted and failed to start my mower a couple of years back when Spring sprang early.
3 - He ate and drank and destroyed his way through more than $80 worth of food and drink and shrubbery without so much as a moment of guilt.
How dare he?
I ranted to Charlotte for 20 minutes or so and made matters worse by failing to refrain from shooting the messenger. And again, she was a very good sport.
I was feeling bilious and rammy. I decided to take action. Joe needs me more than he needs any temporary, fleeting, good will, favored son treatment from Mom. And now, I'd like him to regret his decision to throw me under the bus without hesitation and without merit.
I logged on to my computer and wrote Joe an email:
Joe - Mom seems to be under the impression that 4 years ago, when you were mowing my lawn, I did not properly pay you. I am wondering why she has that impression. To be clear, and I think you will recall:
I paid you $40 every time you mowed my lawn, even though the kid down the street was willing to do it for $25. You were unemployed so I helped you. I do recall there were one or two times when I did not pay you on the very day you mowed it, but I did pay you.
And while you were here, you helped yourself to showers, food, drinks (for yourself and your child(ren) and managed to mow down a tree that I had ordered and planted, and left you a note to avoid mowing over. Your son also helped himself to my son's video games.
And yet our mother seems to think I owe you something. Enlighten me, please. I even gave your kid $10 for attempting to mow my front lawn. This impression Mom has can only have come from you. So until I have an apology from one or both of you for gossiping to Charlotte about this, I don't believe I will be able to help you with your resume. I am not in a position to do any more favors. Good luck.
Send.
I am taking an educated guess here, but it would make sense to me that Joe, always on the brink of disaster, saw an opportunity in among all of Mom's rants to him. (She had not singled out Charlotte for the sheer pleasure of the experience. She'd told Joe a few stories around the campfire as well.) Joe, seeing a chink in my armor, took an opportunity to twist the knife a little more, so as to level the playing field a little. Improve his position by worsening mine. Typical sib rivalry. Typical Joe.
So on one of her subsequent rage fueled rants to Charlotte, which I am sure Charlotte prepared for with a Valium and a vodka chaser, Mom spun a little ditty about my charity work from the Summer of the Lawnmower.
Joe, clueless about all his transgressions and abuses of hospitality, seems to only focus on his recollection that I did not always pay him. That there were one or two times when I did not pay him at all. Complained to my mother about it. Nearly 4 years later. Nice.
Now, I know these things to be true:
1 - Mom often called me to say she'd "speak to Joe about doing my lawn once or twice for free," and that I would tell her that she did not need to do that. A deal is a deal, no matter how ill advised.
2 - That If I had not paid Joe on the spot, I'd paid him shortly thereafter. And if I'd failed to pay him in some way, I'd have been happy to make up for it had he mentioned it. And he would mention it; he asks for everything else - things from your home, food for his kids, $10 compensation when his kid attempted and failed to start my mower a couple of years back when Spring sprang early.
3 - He ate and drank and destroyed his way through more than $80 worth of food and drink and shrubbery without so much as a moment of guilt.
How dare he?
I ranted to Charlotte for 20 minutes or so and made matters worse by failing to refrain from shooting the messenger. And again, she was a very good sport.
I was feeling bilious and rammy. I decided to take action. Joe needs me more than he needs any temporary, fleeting, good will, favored son treatment from Mom. And now, I'd like him to regret his decision to throw me under the bus without hesitation and without merit.
I logged on to my computer and wrote Joe an email:
Joe - Mom seems to be under the impression that 4 years ago, when you were mowing my lawn, I did not properly pay you. I am wondering why she has that impression. To be clear, and I think you will recall:
I paid you $40 every time you mowed my lawn, even though the kid down the street was willing to do it for $25. You were unemployed so I helped you. I do recall there were one or two times when I did not pay you on the very day you mowed it, but I did pay you.
And while you were here, you helped yourself to showers, food, drinks (for yourself and your child(ren) and managed to mow down a tree that I had ordered and planted, and left you a note to avoid mowing over. Your son also helped himself to my son's video games.
And yet our mother seems to think I owe you something. Enlighten me, please. I even gave your kid $10 for attempting to mow my front lawn. This impression Mom has can only have come from you. So until I have an apology from one or both of you for gossiping to Charlotte about this, I don't believe I will be able to help you with your resume. I am not in a position to do any more favors. Good luck.
Send.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Moscow Rule 2 - Never Go Against Your Gut
My gut was in knots.
And like a grown up person with fully developed opinions and life skills of my own, I called Charlotte to tell her that I was feeling a little iffy about the decision.
Charlotte has way more guts than me when it comes to putting Joe in his place. Her reaction was quick and decisive and certain.
"Call that idiot back and tell him to forget it! He's a jerk to even accept your money, and your lawn is the size of a postage stamp! I'll get one of my boys to do it, for Christ's teeth!"
Maybe it was that I was still a little weak in the knees from all that had been happening as my marriage unraveled like a cheap sweater or maybe I was feeling like I should not tempt fate while my divorce settlement hung in the balance, but I just could not do it.
Live and learn. I would live to replay Charlotte's advice over and over in my head as the most trying summer of my life came vividly to life.
So Joe mowed my lawn the first time and did an admirable job. No complaints. I'd told him where I'd hidden the key and left him $40 on the dining room table. He did the rest.
And the second time he came, I noticed that my iced tea pitcher was replaced in the fridge with about a mouthful of tea left in the pitcher. Not even my kids would do that.
And then one day my son noticed that his gaming system was left on and games were all out of order. My daughter found snack wrappers and other debris in her room. It happened for several weeks in a row.
Once or twice I came home to find that my computer was on and grass clippings were all over the upstairs carpets.
And again, once or twice, I found used bath towels hung on the shower rod because Joe had decided to take a shower.
But the crowning glory was when I ordered and lovingly planted a Pink Smoke Tree, after a careful selection process I involved J. in, as a symbol of my fresh, new life. I had planted the little twiglet in a corner spot and surrounded it protectively with a little fence. I had written Joe a note and included a diagram indicating where it was so he could be careful not to mow over it.
And incredulously, he not only mowed over it, but moved the little fence so that he could mow in that spot which was mysteriously guarded by a fence for some reason!
And for all this, I dutifully kept my end of the bargain. Paid him $40 every time. Oh sure, there was a time or two I was short on cash and paid him a few days later, but I shelled out the 40 clams every time for service I could have gotten from the drunken retired landscaper up the street for an $8 six pack of canned Schlitz.
And yet still, 4 years later, my act of charity would come back to haunt me.
And like a grown up person with fully developed opinions and life skills of my own, I called Charlotte to tell her that I was feeling a little iffy about the decision.
Charlotte has way more guts than me when it comes to putting Joe in his place. Her reaction was quick and decisive and certain.
"Call that idiot back and tell him to forget it! He's a jerk to even accept your money, and your lawn is the size of a postage stamp! I'll get one of my boys to do it, for Christ's teeth!"
Maybe it was that I was still a little weak in the knees from all that had been happening as my marriage unraveled like a cheap sweater or maybe I was feeling like I should not tempt fate while my divorce settlement hung in the balance, but I just could not do it.
Live and learn. I would live to replay Charlotte's advice over and over in my head as the most trying summer of my life came vividly to life.
So Joe mowed my lawn the first time and did an admirable job. No complaints. I'd told him where I'd hidden the key and left him $40 on the dining room table. He did the rest.
And the second time he came, I noticed that my iced tea pitcher was replaced in the fridge with about a mouthful of tea left in the pitcher. Not even my kids would do that.
And then one day my son noticed that his gaming system was left on and games were all out of order. My daughter found snack wrappers and other debris in her room. It happened for several weeks in a row.
Once or twice I came home to find that my computer was on and grass clippings were all over the upstairs carpets.
And again, once or twice, I found used bath towels hung on the shower rod because Joe had decided to take a shower.
But the crowning glory was when I ordered and lovingly planted a Pink Smoke Tree, after a careful selection process I involved J. in, as a symbol of my fresh, new life. I had planted the little twiglet in a corner spot and surrounded it protectively with a little fence. I had written Joe a note and included a diagram indicating where it was so he could be careful not to mow over it.
And incredulously, he not only mowed over it, but moved the little fence so that he could mow in that spot which was mysteriously guarded by a fence for some reason!
And for all this, I dutifully kept my end of the bargain. Paid him $40 every time. Oh sure, there was a time or two I was short on cash and paid him a few days later, but I shelled out the 40 clams every time for service I could have gotten from the drunken retired landscaper up the street for an $8 six pack of canned Schlitz.
And yet still, 4 years later, my act of charity would come back to haunt me.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Moscow Rule 1 - Assume Nothing
As in, assume nothing is too low a blow.
Mom apparently saw fit to drag our brother into her brier patch to support her agenda, knowing that he is on thin ice on the best of days and any further disturbance to his tenuous position on the tightrope above the boiling pit of familial swill would only weaken his chances of survival.
C'est la vie. C'est la guerre. Estelle has a war to win.
Mom spun her yarn about some gross injustice I am rumored to have visited upon my brother nearly 4 years ago.
Mom apparently observes no statutes of limitation on anything.
The story, in a moldy little nutshell, is this:
In 2007 when my louse husband Lars had finally seen fit to take his hideous little horror show on the road and leave our so-called Marital Residence, he took almost everything.
Every stick of furniture I did not expressly bargain for in court.
Every CD and DVD.
Every piece of audio visual or sound equipment.
Every camera or recording device.
Every computer or peripheral appliance.
Every photo and family film.
Any item that was a gift from his friends or family, even if it were to me.
Every roll of toilet paper.
Every drop of laundry detergent.
Every bar of soap, bottle of shampoo, tube of toothpaste.
Glasswear, linens, food, sporting equipment.
All in the name of making me pay for dumping him so unceremoniously.
Oddly, he felt compelled either by fear of the wrath of the dead or that of my family to leave the snow blower my father had given us as a house warming when we bought the corner property with the 300 feet of sidewalk.
Evidently, he felt no compunction about taking the lawnmower, even though he would be living in a rented house where the landlord did the mowing.
Like I said. Louse.
I managed to do a little homework and buy myself a reasonably priced, decent lawnmower with enough gadgetry to get the job done. My sidewalk is huge, but the portion of the property requiring mowing is pretty reasonable. Much of the property is lushly planted and treed and it is a quick and easy job to mow it all.
An easy job, provided that you are not afraid of your lawnmower.
And to be truthful, I was afraid of my lawnmower. And my snow blower and my gas grill and my sump pump for that matter. These were not my areas of concentration as a married person. Wallpaper? That's me! Light fixtures? Let me at 'em! Decorative do-hickeys for cabinets and drawers? Right in my sweet spot! Large gas powered appliances whose purpose is to cut, char or remove by force? No thank you!
So, life gave me lemons. I got a little Jack Daniels and made some lemonade. And served it up to myself and others. A real treat.
Joe at the time was unemployed. And you can imagine how well that was going over with his shrew wife and her diabolical lack of patience and good will toward others. And while the kid up the street, whose mother made him do it, told me he'd mow my lawn for $25 any time I needed it done, I called Joe, or rather, Joe's answering machine, and told him/it if he'd like something to do, he could cut my lawn, with my mower and my gas and I'd pay him $40 to do it.
And seconds later, when he listened to the whole message he'd screened for reasons that still escape me, and called me back, he said he would do it.
Part of me felt pretty good. I was getting something and giving something too.
And part of me was filled with a sense of doom. No good deed goes unpunished in our family. I desperately wanted to call him back and tell him to forget it.
Mom apparently saw fit to drag our brother into her brier patch to support her agenda, knowing that he is on thin ice on the best of days and any further disturbance to his tenuous position on the tightrope above the boiling pit of familial swill would only weaken his chances of survival.
C'est la vie. C'est la guerre. Estelle has a war to win.
Mom spun her yarn about some gross injustice I am rumored to have visited upon my brother nearly 4 years ago.
Mom apparently observes no statutes of limitation on anything.
The story, in a moldy little nutshell, is this:
In 2007 when my louse husband Lars had finally seen fit to take his hideous little horror show on the road and leave our so-called Marital Residence, he took almost everything.
Every stick of furniture I did not expressly bargain for in court.
Every CD and DVD.
Every piece of audio visual or sound equipment.
Every camera or recording device.
Every computer or peripheral appliance.
Every photo and family film.
Any item that was a gift from his friends or family, even if it were to me.
Every roll of toilet paper.
Every drop of laundry detergent.
Every bar of soap, bottle of shampoo, tube of toothpaste.
Glasswear, linens, food, sporting equipment.
All in the name of making me pay for dumping him so unceremoniously.
Oddly, he felt compelled either by fear of the wrath of the dead or that of my family to leave the snow blower my father had given us as a house warming when we bought the corner property with the 300 feet of sidewalk.
Evidently, he felt no compunction about taking the lawnmower, even though he would be living in a rented house where the landlord did the mowing.
Like I said. Louse.
I managed to do a little homework and buy myself a reasonably priced, decent lawnmower with enough gadgetry to get the job done. My sidewalk is huge, but the portion of the property requiring mowing is pretty reasonable. Much of the property is lushly planted and treed and it is a quick and easy job to mow it all.
An easy job, provided that you are not afraid of your lawnmower.
And to be truthful, I was afraid of my lawnmower. And my snow blower and my gas grill and my sump pump for that matter. These were not my areas of concentration as a married person. Wallpaper? That's me! Light fixtures? Let me at 'em! Decorative do-hickeys for cabinets and drawers? Right in my sweet spot! Large gas powered appliances whose purpose is to cut, char or remove by force? No thank you!
So, life gave me lemons. I got a little Jack Daniels and made some lemonade. And served it up to myself and others. A real treat.
Joe at the time was unemployed. And you can imagine how well that was going over with his shrew wife and her diabolical lack of patience and good will toward others. And while the kid up the street, whose mother made him do it, told me he'd mow my lawn for $25 any time I needed it done, I called Joe, or rather, Joe's answering machine, and told him/it if he'd like something to do, he could cut my lawn, with my mower and my gas and I'd pay him $40 to do it.
And seconds later, when he listened to the whole message he'd screened for reasons that still escape me, and called me back, he said he would do it.
Part of me felt pretty good. I was getting something and giving something too.
And part of me was filled with a sense of doom. No good deed goes unpunished in our family. I desperately wanted to call him back and tell him to forget it.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
To Tell the Story...
Charlotte was being a very good sport.
She called me in between attacks to fill me in on the enemy’s position. It was familial espionage. Charlotte was employing the Moscow rules. A master.
I am sure the conviction in Mom’s tone was palpable. I am sure the name calling and the character defamation were vicious. I am sure hearing the tales of untold selfishness and deplorable conduct first hand was like a verbal disembowelment. I am sure Charlotte was visiting her local pharmacy for antacid and mood stabilizers on a daily basis.
But no matter how horrific the harangue, Charlotte would wordsmith her retelling so that I knew factually what had been imparted (and I am using the term “factually” admittedly very, very loosely…), but was spared all the hurtful, colorful, inflammatory descriptive accessorizing. God bless Charlotte.
Still, it was hard not to react.
The tidbit about me and Dad, though a low blow, was not something I a) could do anything to repair, or b) had any heartburn about. No merit to the accusation and therefore no reason to fire up a brainwave.
But the first shot into my camp from Joe’s platoon, no matter how matter of factly delivered by Charlotte, had the effect of acid into water. I was explosive. Immediately unhinged from all that is calm and reasonable and sailing into a shit storm of Oh-No-He-Didn’t lunatic ranting.
In spite of the fact that any words that cross Joe’s lips are suspect, and can be counted on to be uncommonly stupid and/or pathetically skewed to suit his limited comprehension of the big confusing world around him, and the fact that Charlotte was clear from the beginning that she thought the whole story was a big steaming, reeking platter of crap, I felt compelled to defend myself.
Strenuously defend myself. Loudly defend myself and with words you don’t say in polite company.
A Saturday morning full pot of coffee under my belt, I was not going to take this one sitting down.
She called me in between attacks to fill me in on the enemy’s position. It was familial espionage. Charlotte was employing the Moscow rules. A master.
I am sure the conviction in Mom’s tone was palpable. I am sure the name calling and the character defamation were vicious. I am sure hearing the tales of untold selfishness and deplorable conduct first hand was like a verbal disembowelment. I am sure Charlotte was visiting her local pharmacy for antacid and mood stabilizers on a daily basis.
But no matter how horrific the harangue, Charlotte would wordsmith her retelling so that I knew factually what had been imparted (and I am using the term “factually” admittedly very, very loosely…), but was spared all the hurtful, colorful, inflammatory descriptive accessorizing. God bless Charlotte.
Still, it was hard not to react.
The tidbit about me and Dad, though a low blow, was not something I a) could do anything to repair, or b) had any heartburn about. No merit to the accusation and therefore no reason to fire up a brainwave.
But the first shot into my camp from Joe’s platoon, no matter how matter of factly delivered by Charlotte, had the effect of acid into water. I was explosive. Immediately unhinged from all that is calm and reasonable and sailing into a shit storm of Oh-No-He-Didn’t lunatic ranting.
In spite of the fact that any words that cross Joe’s lips are suspect, and can be counted on to be uncommonly stupid and/or pathetically skewed to suit his limited comprehension of the big confusing world around him, and the fact that Charlotte was clear from the beginning that she thought the whole story was a big steaming, reeking platter of crap, I felt compelled to defend myself.
Strenuously defend myself. Loudly defend myself and with words you don’t say in polite company.
A Saturday morning full pot of coffee under my belt, I was not going to take this one sitting down.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Where Do I Begin?
And what followed the inception of that brilliant little scheme was nothing short of cloak and dagger comedy.
Why Charlotte had to listen to all of this remains a mystery. But I have to say, what sib doesn't enjoy a titillating story about another sib from the point of view of the parent who was dished to by another sib? It is gossip at its syrupy sweet best.
However, she starts with complaints that really can not be validated. They are alleged to have come from my father.
I have mentioned that he is deceased, no? Very classy mother, very classy.
She regales Charlotte with a tearful story about how my father was so upset when as a teenager, I suddenly and without explanation began to kiss him goodnight less regularly. How Dad was so upset. Crushed. Driven to tears.
Nice to hear I was responsible for such heartbreak as an adolescent. Especially now that I am crowding in on 50 and not able to make amends with dad, if amends were in order in the first place. And especially since whatever Dad's feeling's on the matter, they weren't enough to compel him to say or do anything different with me.
I am fairly confident, no, uncommonly confident, that whatever teenage rebelliousness I might have been going through with my "She's a Maniac" legwarmers and my Dorothy Hamel haircut, I overcame and realigned at some point by the time I went off to college. Dad and I had a lovely relationship. We got each other. I am sure he didn't go to his grave wondering what he might have done to deserve such abandonment. Good grief, he gave me away at my wedding.
I dismiss this little complaint as simply an episode that mom remembers so vividly because she was not there to observe its resolution. It's hard to observe the frequent shifts in dynamics from another county where you've shacked up with someone else's throwaway husband.
And in my own defense, I blame Leanna Chuckwagon. She had the party where I met my prom date and drank my first beer from a tapped keg. And then began to keep a social calendar that included all manner of keg parties with garage bands and absentee parents. What better reason to skip the kiss goodnight than reeking like Michelob?
But the list would go on. Estelle was just scratching the surface with her jagged little nails.
Why Charlotte had to listen to all of this remains a mystery. But I have to say, what sib doesn't enjoy a titillating story about another sib from the point of view of the parent who was dished to by another sib? It is gossip at its syrupy sweet best.
However, she starts with complaints that really can not be validated. They are alleged to have come from my father.
I have mentioned that he is deceased, no? Very classy mother, very classy.
She regales Charlotte with a tearful story about how my father was so upset when as a teenager, I suddenly and without explanation began to kiss him goodnight less regularly. How Dad was so upset. Crushed. Driven to tears.
Nice to hear I was responsible for such heartbreak as an adolescent. Especially now that I am crowding in on 50 and not able to make amends with dad, if amends were in order in the first place. And especially since whatever Dad's feeling's on the matter, they weren't enough to compel him to say or do anything different with me.
I am fairly confident, no, uncommonly confident, that whatever teenage rebelliousness I might have been going through with my "She's a Maniac" legwarmers and my Dorothy Hamel haircut, I overcame and realigned at some point by the time I went off to college. Dad and I had a lovely relationship. We got each other. I am sure he didn't go to his grave wondering what he might have done to deserve such abandonment. Good grief, he gave me away at my wedding.
I dismiss this little complaint as simply an episode that mom remembers so vividly because she was not there to observe its resolution. It's hard to observe the frequent shifts in dynamics from another county where you've shacked up with someone else's throwaway husband.
And in my own defense, I blame Leanna Chuckwagon. She had the party where I met my prom date and drank my first beer from a tapped keg. And then began to keep a social calendar that included all manner of keg parties with garage bands and absentee parents. What better reason to skip the kiss goodnight than reeking like Michelob?
But the list would go on. Estelle was just scratching the surface with her jagged little nails.
Friday, January 21, 2011
War, What Is It Good For?
Turns out Mom is a formidable war tactician.
Lucky me.
Joe's support in this conflict, as I've alluded, is a fairly fungible. It's hard to place value on and I'd gladly forfeit it in favor of something of genuine honest-to-goodness worth. Not necessary to have, not a tragedy to go without. Doesn't carry much political clout.
Charlotte's backing, on the other hand, is as politically valuable as an NRA endorsement or even that of the tobacco industry in a close political race. Definitely worth having, if I were the lobbying sort.
So Joe's weak and spineless disavowing of my comments, when he and Mom both know in their hearts of hearts that he agrees with me, is a fairly meaningless endorsement of Estelle's cause. Not many electoral votes to be had.
But Charlotte's endorsement is the motherload. And worth stumping for.
So Mom goes marching along the campaign trail criticizing and clutching her pearls in horror. On her soap box and kissing all the babies she can.
And oddly, slinging a little ill-advised mud along the way.
She of course has contacted the Lushes. She'll need to do some tap dancing there to explain why she might have a little less flexibility in her cocktail hour schedule. So empathetic are they, they are going to throw a little party for her. (Good, I can reduce my Wine and Spirits budget by half!)
But since she's had a conversation with Charlotte about the letter and Charlotte did not give a ringing endorsement of Mom's cause, there is still some work to be done. The fact that Charlotte did not scream and yell and name call and swear like a sailor gives Mom hope that Charlotte is an undecided voter that a few strategically placed phone calls can sway.
In no particular order, Mom sets about dredging up all manner of indiscretions that she can recall, however inaccurately and however poorly informed, to sling some carefully aimed mud so that my sister's loyalty to me is shaken like a play-at-home version of Arlen Spector.
And this friends is how wars are won: Don't attack the enemy directly. Attempt to strip them of their allies so you can leave them vulnerable to all of their opponents.
There is nothing quite like a mother's unconditional love.
Lucky me.
Joe's support in this conflict, as I've alluded, is a fairly fungible. It's hard to place value on and I'd gladly forfeit it in favor of something of genuine honest-to-goodness worth. Not necessary to have, not a tragedy to go without. Doesn't carry much political clout.
Charlotte's backing, on the other hand, is as politically valuable as an NRA endorsement or even that of the tobacco industry in a close political race. Definitely worth having, if I were the lobbying sort.
So Joe's weak and spineless disavowing of my comments, when he and Mom both know in their hearts of hearts that he agrees with me, is a fairly meaningless endorsement of Estelle's cause. Not many electoral votes to be had.
But Charlotte's endorsement is the motherload. And worth stumping for.
So Mom goes marching along the campaign trail criticizing and clutching her pearls in horror. On her soap box and kissing all the babies she can.
And oddly, slinging a little ill-advised mud along the way.
She of course has contacted the Lushes. She'll need to do some tap dancing there to explain why she might have a little less flexibility in her cocktail hour schedule. So empathetic are they, they are going to throw a little party for her. (Good, I can reduce my Wine and Spirits budget by half!)
But since she's had a conversation with Charlotte about the letter and Charlotte did not give a ringing endorsement of Mom's cause, there is still some work to be done. The fact that Charlotte did not scream and yell and name call and swear like a sailor gives Mom hope that Charlotte is an undecided voter that a few strategically placed phone calls can sway.
In no particular order, Mom sets about dredging up all manner of indiscretions that she can recall, however inaccurately and however poorly informed, to sling some carefully aimed mud so that my sister's loyalty to me is shaken like a play-at-home version of Arlen Spector.
And this friends is how wars are won: Don't attack the enemy directly. Attempt to strip them of their allies so you can leave them vulnerable to all of their opponents.
There is nothing quite like a mother's unconditional love.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Time to Face the Music
Because of my date, which was fabulous, I didn't get to call Charlotte until the next morning while I was scalding my esophagus with sub-par coffee at the office.
"Oh-my-God-what-do-I-do-she's-on-a-tear-and-she-wants-to-talk-to-me-about-THE-LETTER-What-should-I-tell-her!" pretty much constitute Charlotte's opening remarks.
Jarred from my "I-had-a-great-date-with-a-hottie" euphoria into full on fight or flight panic, I struggle to respond.
"Tell her whatever you think, Charlotte." I am not going to tell her what to say. But if I were so brazen I'd suggest agreeing with everything I've said. Maybe waver on something minor, just to make it seem more genuine.
So, we talk for a moment about our wuss brother disavowing it all. No one is going to get him written out of the will!
Somehow, that fires Charlotte up a little. Gets her game face set and ready to rumble. Mom is on the phone. How scary can that be? (Answer: Pretty scary, but no one is actually bleeding at the end of the call, though you'd swear your ears are.) She is going to hear what Mom's approach is and will respond truthfully. If she is seeking advice she'll offer genuine guidance. If she wants a reality check, she'll be enlightened. If she is looking for an ally, sorry Charlie.
Charlotte will call me back after she and Mom have had their little chat. So long as Charlotte's brain has not taken the form of a jigsaw puzzle fresh out of the box.
Charlotte demonstrates amazing restraint with her call back to me. Not wanting to bother me too much at work, recognizing that I might not be able to respond in a way that is socially acceptable in the office (crying or swearing like a sailor are sort of taboo...) and not wanting to completely rattle me so that I am an unproductive drooling idiot for the remainder of the traditional business day.
She calls as I am about to stuff my first bites of vegetable lasagna into my mouth. My tongue is in shreds from the morning coffee and I don't expect to be able to taste a thing.
Charlotte reports that she held her ground. Held it as long as she could. Calmly pointed out that my letter was no more wrong to have been written than the one she stuffed in the Easter card to Bill's daughter-in-law. (Mom sees no correlation, natch.) Agreed with me that Mom does seem to manipulate things to suit her very specific travel plans every year, in spite of suggestions that she stay with one of us or stay longer. (Again the burden excuse, like the arguing is so much more enjoyable.) Points out a few behaviors that fly in the face of the reasons Mom claims to be visiting for. (Why is the fact that the Lushes are serving cocktails and canapes trump that fact that cocktails and canapes are also being served where your actual family has gathered to celebrate?) Defends my position that I am doing my darndest, with all the plates I keep in the air, however many less graceful moments there are, to preserve a joyful and memorable holiday for my children and me, and if I need to make a few demands, that would just have to be understood by the rest of us.
Mom stops - but only to switch firearms. She seems to think that I have the so-called Life of Riley. Claims that I am not dealing with anything. Charlotte begins to recite a short laundry list of the more defining issues and Mom cuts her off.
"She's not dealing with anything important, " she snickers. "If she were, she'd be calling me."
"No, Mom. She's calling me," Charlotte retorts. "And Kate, and Joy and the other people in her life that she can depend on."
I am not sure whether that call ended with a slammed receiver (Mom's end) or an "I can't discuss this with you if you are going to yell," (Charlotte's end) or some other finality. But it surely was not over.
Mom just needed a little time to reload.
"Oh-my-God-what-do-I-do-she's-on-a-tear-and-she-wants-to-talk-to-me-about-THE-LETTER-What-should-I-tell-her!" pretty much constitute Charlotte's opening remarks.
Jarred from my "I-had-a-great-date-with-a-hottie" euphoria into full on fight or flight panic, I struggle to respond.
"Tell her whatever you think, Charlotte." I am not going to tell her what to say. But if I were so brazen I'd suggest agreeing with everything I've said. Maybe waver on something minor, just to make it seem more genuine.
So, we talk for a moment about our wuss brother disavowing it all. No one is going to get him written out of the will!
Somehow, that fires Charlotte up a little. Gets her game face set and ready to rumble. Mom is on the phone. How scary can that be? (Answer: Pretty scary, but no one is actually bleeding at the end of the call, though you'd swear your ears are.) She is going to hear what Mom's approach is and will respond truthfully. If she is seeking advice she'll offer genuine guidance. If she wants a reality check, she'll be enlightened. If she is looking for an ally, sorry Charlie.
Charlotte will call me back after she and Mom have had their little chat. So long as Charlotte's brain has not taken the form of a jigsaw puzzle fresh out of the box.
Charlotte demonstrates amazing restraint with her call back to me. Not wanting to bother me too much at work, recognizing that I might not be able to respond in a way that is socially acceptable in the office (crying or swearing like a sailor are sort of taboo...) and not wanting to completely rattle me so that I am an unproductive drooling idiot for the remainder of the traditional business day.
She calls as I am about to stuff my first bites of vegetable lasagna into my mouth. My tongue is in shreds from the morning coffee and I don't expect to be able to taste a thing.
Charlotte reports that she held her ground. Held it as long as she could. Calmly pointed out that my letter was no more wrong to have been written than the one she stuffed in the Easter card to Bill's daughter-in-law. (Mom sees no correlation, natch.) Agreed with me that Mom does seem to manipulate things to suit her very specific travel plans every year, in spite of suggestions that she stay with one of us or stay longer. (Again the burden excuse, like the arguing is so much more enjoyable.) Points out a few behaviors that fly in the face of the reasons Mom claims to be visiting for. (Why is the fact that the Lushes are serving cocktails and canapes trump that fact that cocktails and canapes are also being served where your actual family has gathered to celebrate?) Defends my position that I am doing my darndest, with all the plates I keep in the air, however many less graceful moments there are, to preserve a joyful and memorable holiday for my children and me, and if I need to make a few demands, that would just have to be understood by the rest of us.
Mom stops - but only to switch firearms. She seems to think that I have the so-called Life of Riley. Claims that I am not dealing with anything. Charlotte begins to recite a short laundry list of the more defining issues and Mom cuts her off.
"She's not dealing with anything important, " she snickers. "If she were, she'd be calling me."
"No, Mom. She's calling me," Charlotte retorts. "And Kate, and Joy and the other people in her life that she can depend on."
I am not sure whether that call ended with a slammed receiver (Mom's end) or an "I can't discuss this with you if you are going to yell," (Charlotte's end) or some other finality. But it surely was not over.
Mom just needed a little time to reload.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas
It's early for snow but darn it we are getting our fair share. Early and often. Bring on the white Christmas that the Binger was dreaming about. Just like the ones I used to know.
Oh, and bring on the 4WD and snow tires and de-icer while you are at it, please.
One three hour commute home while the Malibu Barbies of the world timidly attempt to drive in an 8th of an inch of snow, and I am ready to exit my vehicle and open a vein.
I am inching along at a snail's pace while my neighboring motorists make frivolous lane changes, crowd into gridlocked intersections and generally misbehave.
Especially the two dimwits who gently tap one another's bumpers inadvertently and need to exchange insurance information immediately. I swear I have had more serious accidents pushing a grocery cart. "Hello, High Risk Drivers...are there any injuries? Then puh-lease move your auto-mo-biles off the road so the world can resume spinning on its axis!"
I am within an inch of the limits of sanity when I arrive at my house. And before I dash to my closet to change - because I HAVE A DATE - I see that I have a missed call from Charlotte.
I dial in to the really annoying phone system and after numerous inane calls (Why leave a message if it is really that stupid a topic? I am not lonely and do not need to hear another human voice just to have the will to get up and put my feet on the floor one more day) I hear Charlotte's message. It is like a warning. One of those sirens on the TV that would direct you to a bomb shelter if necessary.
"Hey - It's me. Just checking in. I've heard from Mom. Call me back. I need to talk to you before I talk to her."
Maybe I should warn my date. I come from a dangerously unstable family. Aside from my sister and her immediate family, the Addams Family would have made more favorable potential in-laws. We are a hornets nest he has no idea is hiding nearby.
Oh, and bring on the 4WD and snow tires and de-icer while you are at it, please.
One three hour commute home while the Malibu Barbies of the world timidly attempt to drive in an 8th of an inch of snow, and I am ready to exit my vehicle and open a vein.
I am inching along at a snail's pace while my neighboring motorists make frivolous lane changes, crowd into gridlocked intersections and generally misbehave.
Especially the two dimwits who gently tap one another's bumpers inadvertently and need to exchange insurance information immediately. I swear I have had more serious accidents pushing a grocery cart. "Hello, High Risk Drivers...are there any injuries? Then puh-lease move your auto-mo-biles off the road so the world can resume spinning on its axis!"
I am within an inch of the limits of sanity when I arrive at my house. And before I dash to my closet to change - because I HAVE A DATE - I see that I have a missed call from Charlotte.
I dial in to the really annoying phone system and after numerous inane calls (Why leave a message if it is really that stupid a topic? I am not lonely and do not need to hear another human voice just to have the will to get up and put my feet on the floor one more day) I hear Charlotte's message. It is like a warning. One of those sirens on the TV that would direct you to a bomb shelter if necessary.
"Hey - It's me. Just checking in. I've heard from Mom. Call me back. I need to talk to you before I talk to her."
Maybe I should warn my date. I come from a dangerously unstable family. Aside from my sister and her immediate family, the Addams Family would have made more favorable potential in-laws. We are a hornets nest he has no idea is hiding nearby.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Dialing for Dollars
So from Mom's side of the Hatfield and McCoy property line, I am stonewalling. Really I am cowering. Mom is an formidable opponent on her weakest days. Fired up and loaded for bear she could stop a speeding train. Probably with one of her looks.
It is downright shocking to me that this could shiver me timbers with 5 states worth of real estate in between us. But such is the power of one's mother. And Estelle the Human Growth Hormone 'Roid Rage version of "one's mother."
Determined not to let it bug me, I go about my holiday preparations as I normally would. Get a tree with the kids and drag it home from the local tree market in our little red wagon. Snap up the photo ops for the Christmas card. Put out all the holly and berries and mistletoe and pine cones and stockings and candles and snowmen and sleds etc etc etc I can make room for on all the mantles and shelves and various and sundry flat surfaces all about the house. Christmas is coming, whether Estelle is or not.
And then, since we are the masters of the triangular relationship in our demented little family circus, rather than place a call to me to talk, Mom calls Charlotte and Joe.
Let's start with Joe, shall we?
Joe as you may have gathered, has all the emotional maturity of a sand flea. He is a big 45 year old child with about as much ability to cope as a tumbleweed. And even though Joe had, quite remarkably, mentioned to my mother that her Christmas visits are too brief, and that she really needs to come see his family while she is frosting the Northern states with her unusual brand of Christmas cheer, he, when confronted with my mother's wrath, quite understandably, caves.
Like he can be expected to grow a spine and man up, now?
I assume she reads him at least a portion of the letter, the portion where I state that I am pretty sure my feelings are shared by my sibs. Because, Joe, like the wuss he has always been under any kind of pressure to perform like a grown up, tells her "Ummmm, no. She didn't consult with me on that."
Hello, morons! Mother dear, your rant to me in the opening drive of the 8 am phone call a week ago detailed your indignance with Joe's suggestion of these very things! How convenient it is to have a selective memory. And Joe, well, Joe has a mind like a sieve. Barely holds anything for more than a second. Runs right out where it pools at his feet and quickly turns to mud.
I don't care. I don't need support from idiot Joe. (On the contrary, I am sure his wretched wife would surely agree and step right up to the podium to do so. But I don't need to go down that road either.)
The truth is, I stand by what I have said. I don't care if the feelings are shared by anyone. They are mine. And that matters. It doesn't have to be a majority vote. I feel these feelings about the way my mother treats me and my siblings. It is genuine.
That, darn it, should matter for something.
It is downright shocking to me that this could shiver me timbers with 5 states worth of real estate in between us. But such is the power of one's mother. And Estelle the Human Growth Hormone 'Roid Rage version of "one's mother."
Determined not to let it bug me, I go about my holiday preparations as I normally would. Get a tree with the kids and drag it home from the local tree market in our little red wagon. Snap up the photo ops for the Christmas card. Put out all the holly and berries and mistletoe and pine cones and stockings and candles and snowmen and sleds etc etc etc I can make room for on all the mantles and shelves and various and sundry flat surfaces all about the house. Christmas is coming, whether Estelle is or not.
And then, since we are the masters of the triangular relationship in our demented little family circus, rather than place a call to me to talk, Mom calls Charlotte and Joe.
Let's start with Joe, shall we?
Joe as you may have gathered, has all the emotional maturity of a sand flea. He is a big 45 year old child with about as much ability to cope as a tumbleweed. And even though Joe had, quite remarkably, mentioned to my mother that her Christmas visits are too brief, and that she really needs to come see his family while she is frosting the Northern states with her unusual brand of Christmas cheer, he, when confronted with my mother's wrath, quite understandably, caves.
Like he can be expected to grow a spine and man up, now?
I assume she reads him at least a portion of the letter, the portion where I state that I am pretty sure my feelings are shared by my sibs. Because, Joe, like the wuss he has always been under any kind of pressure to perform like a grown up, tells her "Ummmm, no. She didn't consult with me on that."
Hello, morons! Mother dear, your rant to me in the opening drive of the 8 am phone call a week ago detailed your indignance with Joe's suggestion of these very things! How convenient it is to have a selective memory. And Joe, well, Joe has a mind like a sieve. Barely holds anything for more than a second. Runs right out where it pools at his feet and quickly turns to mud.
I don't care. I don't need support from idiot Joe. (On the contrary, I am sure his wretched wife would surely agree and step right up to the podium to do so. But I don't need to go down that road either.)
The truth is, I stand by what I have said. I don't care if the feelings are shared by anyone. They are mine. And that matters. It doesn't have to be a majority vote. I feel these feelings about the way my mother treats me and my siblings. It is genuine.
That, darn it, should matter for something.
Monday, January 17, 2011
To Be Continued
And so like a real live grown up myself, I call Charlotte.
Truth is, I am kind of a wreck. I barely listened to enough of the message to identify its purpose and my nerves were in shreds. God only knows what little grenades were left when she got all the pistons firing.
Charlotte can not believe I won't listen to the whole thing. Swears it would make great blog copy. Of course it would. Most lunatic rantings are hilarious with enough distance and time passed. However I do not have the benefit of either of those things. Only seconds have passed and I can't gain any distance from the situation. I am the situation. I may as well be trying to avoid my own skin.
But I promise Charlotte I will give it a try. Later, the benefit of a chardonnay under my belt, I log into my annoying phone system again and after listening to all the inane messages still waiting there, am afforded the opportunity to listen to messages I've saved, like Mom's. Saved for reasons that escape me even now.
The 3 or 4 other saved messages give me time to change my mind. But I don't. Or at least I don't at first. And then when I have listened to the one from the school regarding 6th graders wearing perfume, and the one from my state representative about the new recycling routine in the neighborhood, and the one from my daughter's friend that is too confusing to figure out on my own, I hear the familiar searing greeting.
I nod to myself through the Mad as Hell part and the It's All in Your Head part, and the next part where she says she is not manipulating anything. (I would venture to guess that most people who manipulate anything are not willing to admit that they have a dark, self-serving agenda. That would mean that they are wicked and, well, self-serving. Not a good color on most of us.)
She then begins an unbelievable (No really. Not believable.) soap opera quality, feigned crying jag that I can just tell is not accompanied by real tears. It is the fakey, shaky-voice, quivery lip, I'm-so-upset-I-can-barely-choke-out-more-than-one-syllable-at-a-time boo-hoo-for-me act I have come to recognize even as the words are spoken into her low-budget pre-paid no-frills cell phone outside in the wind.
"I stay with the Lushes....sniff sniff...because I don't want to be a burden to anyone!"
OH PUH-LEASE! Cry me a river, Estelle!
Mark your calendars, folks, today is the day I have finally heard IT ALL.
It is a well known and observable fact that Mother does not give so much as one good God damn about burdening anyone.
I have managed to get through about one sentence more on this read through than I did on the first attempt and have reached my threshold again.
I re-save the message for a braver, less hormonally unpredictable day, and call Charlotte back.
Mission aborted.
Truth is, I am kind of a wreck. I barely listened to enough of the message to identify its purpose and my nerves were in shreds. God only knows what little grenades were left when she got all the pistons firing.
Charlotte can not believe I won't listen to the whole thing. Swears it would make great blog copy. Of course it would. Most lunatic rantings are hilarious with enough distance and time passed. However I do not have the benefit of either of those things. Only seconds have passed and I can't gain any distance from the situation. I am the situation. I may as well be trying to avoid my own skin.
But I promise Charlotte I will give it a try. Later, the benefit of a chardonnay under my belt, I log into my annoying phone system again and after listening to all the inane messages still waiting there, am afforded the opportunity to listen to messages I've saved, like Mom's. Saved for reasons that escape me even now.
The 3 or 4 other saved messages give me time to change my mind. But I don't. Or at least I don't at first. And then when I have listened to the one from the school regarding 6th graders wearing perfume, and the one from my state representative about the new recycling routine in the neighborhood, and the one from my daughter's friend that is too confusing to figure out on my own, I hear the familiar searing greeting.
I nod to myself through the Mad as Hell part and the It's All in Your Head part, and the next part where she says she is not manipulating anything. (I would venture to guess that most people who manipulate anything are not willing to admit that they have a dark, self-serving agenda. That would mean that they are wicked and, well, self-serving. Not a good color on most of us.)
She then begins an unbelievable (No really. Not believable.) soap opera quality, feigned crying jag that I can just tell is not accompanied by real tears. It is the fakey, shaky-voice, quivery lip, I'm-so-upset-I-can-barely-choke-out-more-than-one-syllable-at-a-time boo-hoo-for-me act I have come to recognize even as the words are spoken into her low-budget pre-paid no-frills cell phone outside in the wind.
"I stay with the Lushes....sniff sniff...because I don't want to be a burden to anyone!"
OH PUH-LEASE! Cry me a river, Estelle!
Mark your calendars, folks, today is the day I have finally heard IT ALL.
It is a well known and observable fact that Mother does not give so much as one good God damn about burdening anyone.
I have managed to get through about one sentence more on this read through than I did on the first attempt and have reached my threshold again.
I re-save the message for a braver, less hormonally unpredictable day, and call Charlotte back.
Mission aborted.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Please Leave a Message at the Sound of the Beep
Days go by.
No phone calls to me. No phone calls to Charlotte.
Clearly Mom has boarded the broom and is bombing her way North for the Final Conflict – Damien Thorn/Omen-style. I can almost hear the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
And then just when I am convinced that maybe I made my point, touched a nerve in a way that evoked reflection and some kind of Ebenezer Scrooge Ghost of Christmas Past kind of reversal I realize that there will be no such luck.
No.
Such.
Luck.
If it weren’t so bizarre, it might be funny. David Sedaris Holidays on Ice funny.
I check my messages one night – or rather – my record of missed calls – to see if they are all solicitation calls and the usual inane messages from my children’s fellow middle schoolers. More importantly to see if there is any compelling reason to actually log in and retrieve any messages from my uncommonly annoying voice mail system.
Oh there is.
I can see that there is a missed call from Mom’s cell.
Knowing Mom, she would have been concealing this particularly nasty little conflict from Bill. She probably had to step outside and light a cigarette and use her cell to be able to get her full on Beyotch mojo cooking.
The message began with:
“I am making this call when I know you are not there because I want to leave a message.”
Loosely translated: "I am calling when I know I can be guaranteed an opportunity to leave my totally rehearsed pissy little personal attack and will be able to get it all out with out being interrupted with some little pearl of superiority from you.”
Who does this?
She continues in a voice that could split an atom.
“I am mad as Hell at the things you said!”
Really? I would never have guessed from your demeanor, Mom.
“But this letter!” she continues. “Who sends a letter like this to someone?”
Well Mom, you do. Please recall the little letter bomb you enclosed in Bill’s daughter-in-law’s Easter card in the Spring.
And to launch into the rant proper, “First of all, it’s all in your head!"
And with that “there you go imagining things again” accusation that really should be reserved for use with 5 year olds, I click over to the next message and the sound of the beep.
No phone calls to me. No phone calls to Charlotte.
Clearly Mom has boarded the broom and is bombing her way North for the Final Conflict – Damien Thorn/Omen-style. I can almost hear the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
And then just when I am convinced that maybe I made my point, touched a nerve in a way that evoked reflection and some kind of Ebenezer Scrooge Ghost of Christmas Past kind of reversal I realize that there will be no such luck.
No.
Such.
Luck.
If it weren’t so bizarre, it might be funny. David Sedaris Holidays on Ice funny.
I check my messages one night – or rather – my record of missed calls – to see if they are all solicitation calls and the usual inane messages from my children’s fellow middle schoolers. More importantly to see if there is any compelling reason to actually log in and retrieve any messages from my uncommonly annoying voice mail system.
Oh there is.
I can see that there is a missed call from Mom’s cell.
Knowing Mom, she would have been concealing this particularly nasty little conflict from Bill. She probably had to step outside and light a cigarette and use her cell to be able to get her full on Beyotch mojo cooking.
The message began with:
“I am making this call when I know you are not there because I want to leave a message.”
Loosely translated: "I am calling when I know I can be guaranteed an opportunity to leave my totally rehearsed pissy little personal attack and will be able to get it all out with out being interrupted with some little pearl of superiority from you.”
Who does this?
She continues in a voice that could split an atom.
“I am mad as Hell at the things you said!”
Really? I would never have guessed from your demeanor, Mom.
“But this letter!” she continues. “Who sends a letter like this to someone?”
Well Mom, you do. Please recall the little letter bomb you enclosed in Bill’s daughter-in-law’s Easter card in the Spring.
And to launch into the rant proper, “First of all, it’s all in your head!"
And with that “there you go imagining things again” accusation that really should be reserved for use with 5 year olds, I click over to the next message and the sound of the beep.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Bring the Torch Jeanette Isabella
Since it is abundantly clear that there will be no calm cool collected conversing now that the gates of Hell have been thrown wide open and all manner of ugliness is swarming about us, I decide to compose a letter.
The letter focuses on the current problem. The one that broke my camel's back to begin with. Christmas and the inevitable corner she so artfully backs Charlotte and me into on alternating years. And the insult that it is to know that she thinks we are so stupid that her little game has gone undetected.
I am not one to relish someone else's squirming, but in this case I can maintain steely-eyed focus. It is so insulting and so offensive in so many ways. And she so casually chalks it off as one more personal win.
Not any more.
I begin the letter with fair warning. It is not going to be something she enjoys reading but it is a letter chock full of things she needs to understand.
I acknowledge that she probably does a lot of accommodating on her part also. Bill is a bit of a pill, as I believe we've already established, and can fuss his way out of anything he does not want to do, placing Mom in a position to a) find a way to do it anyway, and b) make an excuse for why Bill is not ultimately along for the ride, or c) cajole him into going along with it against his will. I am sure she feels like she should be accommodated too, darn it.
But the facts are, she comes up once a year, unless a death or a graduation or a selfish motivation forces a second visit. And the visits last exactly 60 hours. And in spite of being invited to spend that time at my house or at Charlotte's as a home base from which to visit or be visited, she and Bill stay with the Lushes. Does she realize how hard that is to explain to family and friends? She lives 9 hours away, comes once a year, and sees us for maybe 3 hours? What if I drove my family all the way to the Carolinas to see her and then spent every waking hour hanging out doing beer bongs with my college roommate?
I enlighten her as to how transparent her excuses are, and say the things she will not say --- that she will not voluntarily go to Joe's house, unless perhaps he is bedridden, because his wife will make it miserable for her. And Bill will not join her because he can't stand Joe OR his wife OR their children and that his love for my mother pales in comparison to his need to avoid that. And since Joe lives in some heinous remote neighborhood and it is kind of far from the Lush compound, she'd like to meet at a more conveniently geographic location...like my house. And she'd like to meet at a time that is convenient for her, whether or not it is convenient for me, because, she has an agenda to keep and darn it, if the Lushes are having drinks at 4 and dinner at 6 then the visiting will have to conclude by 3 pm.
Whether I am home to receive guests at the appointed hour or not. Why would I be bothered by that???
So her burgeoning social schedule will have to take precedence over all else - the demands of jobs, the pressure of in laws, the court ordered custody schedule...
I suggest that if she simply stayed a day or two longer, she could quite handily see each of us. It might even be enjoyable.
I ask why she comes at all. There are no memories made. Her eyes are on the clock the entire time. Quick! Open gifts! Serve dinner! Clean up! All so she can casually walk out the door at the predetermined hour to go join the Lushes in a blender full of Margaritas, and pretend that that was not the plan all along.
The first draft is pretty darn insulting. I am not kind in my description of the Lushes or Mom's (flawed and hard to understand) relationship with Bill.
I let her know how manipulated I feel. I state that I am pretty sure I am speaking for my siblings as well. (Joe said as much to her earlier that week. She had bitched to me about it!) I assert that this year I am not going to be manipulated into meeting her demands at the expense of my children's Christmas.
I will celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve. My guests are welcome at 1. She is welcome to join us.
I will not be hosting lunch for Joe and his family. Perhaps if Mrs. Lush is her best good friend she'd be amenable to entertaining my brother's family as guests at her table.
I let my sister edit. She lets her husband take a red pen to it, too. I do a rewrite striking all of the most vicious and snarky comments. And then, since my mother does not have a computer and therefore still deprives herself of the joy of e-mail (which is probably a blessing where World Peace is concerned.) I sign it, fold it, jam it into an envelope and place it into the mail where it will ooze venom from here to the Carolinas.
I am prepared to hold my ground regardless of her reaction.
The letter focuses on the current problem. The one that broke my camel's back to begin with. Christmas and the inevitable corner she so artfully backs Charlotte and me into on alternating years. And the insult that it is to know that she thinks we are so stupid that her little game has gone undetected.
I am not one to relish someone else's squirming, but in this case I can maintain steely-eyed focus. It is so insulting and so offensive in so many ways. And she so casually chalks it off as one more personal win.
Not any more.
I begin the letter with fair warning. It is not going to be something she enjoys reading but it is a letter chock full of things she needs to understand.
I acknowledge that she probably does a lot of accommodating on her part also. Bill is a bit of a pill, as I believe we've already established, and can fuss his way out of anything he does not want to do, placing Mom in a position to a) find a way to do it anyway, and b) make an excuse for why Bill is not ultimately along for the ride, or c) cajole him into going along with it against his will. I am sure she feels like she should be accommodated too, darn it.
But the facts are, she comes up once a year, unless a death or a graduation or a selfish motivation forces a second visit. And the visits last exactly 60 hours. And in spite of being invited to spend that time at my house or at Charlotte's as a home base from which to visit or be visited, she and Bill stay with the Lushes. Does she realize how hard that is to explain to family and friends? She lives 9 hours away, comes once a year, and sees us for maybe 3 hours? What if I drove my family all the way to the Carolinas to see her and then spent every waking hour hanging out doing beer bongs with my college roommate?
I enlighten her as to how transparent her excuses are, and say the things she will not say --- that she will not voluntarily go to Joe's house, unless perhaps he is bedridden, because his wife will make it miserable for her. And Bill will not join her because he can't stand Joe OR his wife OR their children and that his love for my mother pales in comparison to his need to avoid that. And since Joe lives in some heinous remote neighborhood and it is kind of far from the Lush compound, she'd like to meet at a more conveniently geographic location...like my house. And she'd like to meet at a time that is convenient for her, whether or not it is convenient for me, because, she has an agenda to keep and darn it, if the Lushes are having drinks at 4 and dinner at 6 then the visiting will have to conclude by 3 pm.
Whether I am home to receive guests at the appointed hour or not. Why would I be bothered by that???
So her burgeoning social schedule will have to take precedence over all else - the demands of jobs, the pressure of in laws, the court ordered custody schedule...
I suggest that if she simply stayed a day or two longer, she could quite handily see each of us. It might even be enjoyable.
I ask why she comes at all. There are no memories made. Her eyes are on the clock the entire time. Quick! Open gifts! Serve dinner! Clean up! All so she can casually walk out the door at the predetermined hour to go join the Lushes in a blender full of Margaritas, and pretend that that was not the plan all along.
The first draft is pretty darn insulting. I am not kind in my description of the Lushes or Mom's (flawed and hard to understand) relationship with Bill.
I let her know how manipulated I feel. I state that I am pretty sure I am speaking for my siblings as well. (Joe said as much to her earlier that week. She had bitched to me about it!) I assert that this year I am not going to be manipulated into meeting her demands at the expense of my children's Christmas.
I will celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve. My guests are welcome at 1. She is welcome to join us.
I will not be hosting lunch for Joe and his family. Perhaps if Mrs. Lush is her best good friend she'd be amenable to entertaining my brother's family as guests at her table.
I let my sister edit. She lets her husband take a red pen to it, too. I do a rewrite striking all of the most vicious and snarky comments. And then, since my mother does not have a computer and therefore still deprives herself of the joy of e-mail (which is probably a blessing where World Peace is concerned.) I sign it, fold it, jam it into an envelope and place it into the mail where it will ooze venom from here to the Carolinas.
I am prepared to hold my ground regardless of her reaction.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Our First Ammendment Rights at Their Finest
The trick is with Mom, if you don't want to get pummeled in an argument you have to behave against your intuition. Where the normal adult person you generally are would like to have a rational, tame, informative yet heartfelt discussion about something that troubles you, Mom figuratively pokes you in the chest, waves her finger in your face, lords over you, encroaches, intimidates, insults and otherwise has you staggering backwards on your heels to safety. Or off a cliff, more often than not.
I have known this for decades. And for decades have employed some age appropriate escape route.
Run outside where she wouldn't dare chase me as a child.
Slam and lock the door and sulk in my room as a preteen.
Scramble out the window onto the porch roof and down the branches of the pear tree to trek across town to a friend's house as teen.
Not come home from college.
Find a roommate as a young adult with my shiny new paycheck.
Avoid avoid avoid whenever possible.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Nothing confronted, nothing resolved.
We have run in place as parent and child for decades past the expiration date of that relationship. Hard as Charlotte and I have tried, there is no transforming this parent-child relationship to and adult-adult relationship. So there is constant conflict. We approach things adult to adult. Mom approaches parent to child. So quite literally the lines of communication conflict. I have the book I'm OK You're OK by Thomas A. Harris MD to thank for my understanding of this. And Mrs. Harrison at Allgates for making me read it. A debt of gratitude to both fine folks. God knows my head would have been in an oven long before now. (Note: Joe is just fine with this. He has no notions about being an adult under any circumstances.)
Anyway, so tonight, maybe it was the bliss of Christmas shopping accomplishment, the magic of wine, or the pumped up feeling that football tends to give me, or perhaps the silver bullet combination of the three, but I had no intention of being backed into a corner by Devil in a Blue Dress.
After shrieking the words "SHUT UP" in a shrill voice that was clearly not my own, I went on a tirade of my invention, barely stopping to catch a breath and in a full bodied bellow that clearly indicated that it would be ill advised to try to interrupt me.
I touched on a lifelong accumulation of ever festering topics of agitation.
The constant bitching and haranguing.
The manipulation.
The splitting.
The insane political rants.
The craziness at the holidays.
The craziness in general.
The overarching Grand Dame of Bitchiness attitude.
She hung up on me.
She called back. Probably organized some completely denigrating comments and cocked the gun before dialing.
I didn't answer.
She left a message telling me never to call her again followed by a bunch of ragged sounding grousing about why she'd never want to hear from me which I deleted at once without reviewing.
I called her back immediately and left her a message that told her something like "Don't go betting the homestead that I'll be calling anytime soon to engage in more of this uniquely inane harassment from her. " Added that if she chose to have a rational conversation I'd be game but until such Mother Theresa type miracle came to pass, I'd not be holding my breath either.
I hung up and warned my sister that the triangular relationship would be rearing its pointed little head for sure.
I have known this for decades. And for decades have employed some age appropriate escape route.
Run outside where she wouldn't dare chase me as a child.
Slam and lock the door and sulk in my room as a preteen.
Scramble out the window onto the porch roof and down the branches of the pear tree to trek across town to a friend's house as teen.
Not come home from college.
Find a roommate as a young adult with my shiny new paycheck.
Avoid avoid avoid whenever possible.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Nothing confronted, nothing resolved.
We have run in place as parent and child for decades past the expiration date of that relationship. Hard as Charlotte and I have tried, there is no transforming this parent-child relationship to and adult-adult relationship. So there is constant conflict. We approach things adult to adult. Mom approaches parent to child. So quite literally the lines of communication conflict. I have the book I'm OK You're OK by Thomas A. Harris MD to thank for my understanding of this. And Mrs. Harrison at Allgates for making me read it. A debt of gratitude to both fine folks. God knows my head would have been in an oven long before now. (Note: Joe is just fine with this. He has no notions about being an adult under any circumstances.)
Anyway, so tonight, maybe it was the bliss of Christmas shopping accomplishment, the magic of wine, or the pumped up feeling that football tends to give me, or perhaps the silver bullet combination of the three, but I had no intention of being backed into a corner by Devil in a Blue Dress.
After shrieking the words "SHUT UP" in a shrill voice that was clearly not my own, I went on a tirade of my invention, barely stopping to catch a breath and in a full bodied bellow that clearly indicated that it would be ill advised to try to interrupt me.
I touched on a lifelong accumulation of ever festering topics of agitation.
The constant bitching and haranguing.
The manipulation.
The splitting.
The insane political rants.
The craziness at the holidays.
The craziness in general.
The overarching Grand Dame of Bitchiness attitude.
She hung up on me.
She called back. Probably organized some completely denigrating comments and cocked the gun before dialing.
I didn't answer.
She left a message telling me never to call her again followed by a bunch of ragged sounding grousing about why she'd never want to hear from me which I deleted at once without reviewing.
I called her back immediately and left her a message that told her something like "Don't go betting the homestead that I'll be calling anytime soon to engage in more of this uniquely inane harassment from her. " Added that if she chose to have a rational conversation I'd be game but until such Mother Theresa type miracle came to pass, I'd not be holding my breath either.
I hung up and warned my sister that the triangular relationship would be rearing its pointed little head for sure.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Stop Telephonin' Me-e-e-e-e!
I have a fabulous day of shopping. Make a killing. Lots of great stuff. Bargains galore. I have assembled a lovely pile of gifts for each child. It is a very satisfying feeling.
I go home and begin to artfully wrap gifts. Coordinating tissue paper and wrapping paper. Each child having their own ensemble of wrap and ribbons. Gift receipts for all in case I've gotten it wrong.
I pour wine, I light a balsam candle, I unfold a woolly blanket across my legs, put my feet up and tune in to Sunday Night Football. All is right with the world.
And then the peace and joy of the season is shattered by the wrecking ball that is my mother.
I should preface this next part by saying that I have no way of knowing whether my mother was drinking but it was after dinner and she was hair-trigger ill-tempered. You be the judge.
"Hello," I say.
And we are off to the races. "You never called anyone back!"
"I know Mom. I got no fewer than 7 calls in 10 minutes while I was busy doing something else. I got what I needed from your message so there was no reason."
"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO CALL YOUR BROTHER BACK!"
"WELL MOM, IF HE HAD HALF A BRAIN IN HIS HEAD, WHEN HE REALIZED HOW BUSY I WAS, HE COULD HAVE SIMPLY LEFT THE SIZES IN A MESSAGE DURING ONE OF THE UMTEEN CALLS HE MADE!"
"YOUR VOICE MAIL ISN'T SET UP!"
Curses. The new cell phone. "My house phone voicemail is in fine working order, Mom. He called that at least a time or two. He couldn't have left the message there? You both called over and over again for 10 solid minutes like a pair of lunatics until I finally stopped the treadmill and had to answer so he would stop the insanity!"
"THE POINT IS, YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO CALL HIM BACK! I'M BEGINNING TO THINK THAT YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT ANYBODY ANYMORE! I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENED TO, YOU BUT I DON'T LIKE IT ONE BIT...!!!""""
She went on for a bit more in the voice that could peel paint and a tone that could be used by the Department of Defense to scramble enemy brain waves. But I don't really know what she said. At that point, what was left of the rational side of my brain had popped like an overloaded circuit and with a whiff of ozone, whichever brain hemisphere controls reason began to turn to the consistency of burnt toast. And from there I came completely untethered from reality and went spinning off so far into space that no one could possibly reach my mouth to clamp their hand over it.
My next sentence began with the words, "Shut up!"
I go home and begin to artfully wrap gifts. Coordinating tissue paper and wrapping paper. Each child having their own ensemble of wrap and ribbons. Gift receipts for all in case I've gotten it wrong.
I pour wine, I light a balsam candle, I unfold a woolly blanket across my legs, put my feet up and tune in to Sunday Night Football. All is right with the world.
And then the peace and joy of the season is shattered by the wrecking ball that is my mother.
I should preface this next part by saying that I have no way of knowing whether my mother was drinking but it was after dinner and she was hair-trigger ill-tempered. You be the judge.
"Hello," I say.
And we are off to the races. "You never called anyone back!"
"I know Mom. I got no fewer than 7 calls in 10 minutes while I was busy doing something else. I got what I needed from your message so there was no reason."
"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO CALL YOUR BROTHER BACK!"
"WELL MOM, IF HE HAD HALF A BRAIN IN HIS HEAD, WHEN HE REALIZED HOW BUSY I WAS, HE COULD HAVE SIMPLY LEFT THE SIZES IN A MESSAGE DURING ONE OF THE UMTEEN CALLS HE MADE!"
"YOUR VOICE MAIL ISN'T SET UP!"
Curses. The new cell phone. "My house phone voicemail is in fine working order, Mom. He called that at least a time or two. He couldn't have left the message there? You both called over and over again for 10 solid minutes like a pair of lunatics until I finally stopped the treadmill and had to answer so he would stop the insanity!"
"THE POINT IS, YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO CALL HIM BACK! I'M BEGINNING TO THINK THAT YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT ANYBODY ANYMORE! I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENED TO, YOU BUT I DON'T LIKE IT ONE BIT...!!!""""
She went on for a bit more in the voice that could peel paint and a tone that could be used by the Department of Defense to scramble enemy brain waves. But I don't really know what she said. At that point, what was left of the rational side of my brain had popped like an overloaded circuit and with a whiff of ozone, whichever brain hemisphere controls reason began to turn to the consistency of burnt toast. And from there I came completely untethered from reality and went spinning off so far into space that no one could possibly reach my mouth to clamp their hand over it.
My next sentence began with the words, "Shut up!"
Monday, January 10, 2011
Stop Calling! Stop Calling! I Don't Want to Talk Anymore!
The phone call has jarred me from a place of peace and has given me the Need Caffeine Antsies. I painfully extricate my somehow still fatigued person from the sheets and schlepp to the kitchen to get the coffee brewing. I hold my enormous mug under the basket to capture the first few gloriously strong ounces that will leave my eyeballs spinning. It's my only real vice. I don't salt my food. I don't smoke. And drinking is not a vice. It is a survival tool. Please don't argue with me.
After the first few scalding sips my thoughts turn to the run at the state park. Still holding my vase of coffee, I walk to the back door of the house to see if the weather is cooperative enough to venture out in. I kick off my slipper and stick my toe-mometer out the crack of the door. Freezing. No way is the state park getting a visit from me.
I decide to take to the treadmill to offload a little of the Mom-induced stress. I bring my cell, my house phone and a quart of water. I'm going to be a while. Mom has really put a whammy on me.
I rev up the iPod, jam in the earbuds and crank up the belt on the treadmill. I am off to a great start and a very satisfying sweat.
Over the din of the Bangles, I sense a nagging, non-musical buzz. My home phone.
Let it go to voicemail. It is probably Mom confirming that she reached Joe - she can leave the sizes on the machine. I don't have anything to write them down with now anyway.
Another buzz. My cell. My new cell. It is an unfamiliar jingle. Mom again. I let it go. I am huffing like a 3 pack a day smoker.
My cell again. Joe. Good grief. I let that go too. I am flying and really don't see the value in stopping. If he needs to leave the sizes on the voice mail he can. If he has a question about my kids' sizes, he can leave that too.
My house phone jingle jangle jingles. Joe again. Umm hello, if I can't answer one phone what makes you think I am in a position to answer the other?
My cell. Mother again.
My cell again. Joe.
WTF?
My house phone blares another time and I am incensed. It is Joe. I hop off the tread without turning off the motor and, to be truthful, YELL into the receiver, "WHAT, JOE! WHAT IS THE EMERGENCY? I AM ON THE TREADMILL!!!!!! WHAT IS WITH ALL THE CALLS!"
Completely oblivious to the yelling and the tone and the obvious rage, he says, "Heyhowyadoin?"
I continue to yell. "I'M ON THE TREADMILL, JOE. I'LL HAVE TO GET THE SIZES FROM YOU ANOTHER WAY!"
"OK, call me back," he says cheerfully.
Xanax for breakfast, Joe?
Six barely scraping the surface miles of tension-relieving running, I wobble off the treadmill and guzzle what remains of my quart of water.
Six out of seven calls went unanswered. I am hopeful that someone left sizes in one of their messages. I hold my phone an inch or so from my sweaty, sea-hag inspired hair and listen - hang up upon hang up. And then finally, a message containing some guesses about sizes from my mother.
I know what Joe's MO was. He did not want to leave a message. He wants to talk to me. Engage me in conversation. A conversation that leads to "Hey, what's up for Christmas?"
I would sooner gouge my own eyes out with a melon baller than entertain that conversation. I scrawl down my mother's suggestions, and hop into the shower to begin to prepare for a day of shopping.
After the first few scalding sips my thoughts turn to the run at the state park. Still holding my vase of coffee, I walk to the back door of the house to see if the weather is cooperative enough to venture out in. I kick off my slipper and stick my toe-mometer out the crack of the door. Freezing. No way is the state park getting a visit from me.
I decide to take to the treadmill to offload a little of the Mom-induced stress. I bring my cell, my house phone and a quart of water. I'm going to be a while. Mom has really put a whammy on me.
I rev up the iPod, jam in the earbuds and crank up the belt on the treadmill. I am off to a great start and a very satisfying sweat.
Over the din of the Bangles, I sense a nagging, non-musical buzz. My home phone.
Let it go to voicemail. It is probably Mom confirming that she reached Joe - she can leave the sizes on the machine. I don't have anything to write them down with now anyway.
Another buzz. My cell. My new cell. It is an unfamiliar jingle. Mom again. I let it go. I am huffing like a 3 pack a day smoker.
My cell again. Joe. Good grief. I let that go too. I am flying and really don't see the value in stopping. If he needs to leave the sizes on the voice mail he can. If he has a question about my kids' sizes, he can leave that too.
My house phone jingle jangle jingles. Joe again. Umm hello, if I can't answer one phone what makes you think I am in a position to answer the other?
My cell. Mother again.
My cell again. Joe.
WTF?
My house phone blares another time and I am incensed. It is Joe. I hop off the tread without turning off the motor and, to be truthful, YELL into the receiver, "WHAT, JOE! WHAT IS THE EMERGENCY? I AM ON THE TREADMILL!!!!!! WHAT IS WITH ALL THE CALLS!"
Completely oblivious to the yelling and the tone and the obvious rage, he says, "Heyhowyadoin?"
I continue to yell. "I'M ON THE TREADMILL, JOE. I'LL HAVE TO GET THE SIZES FROM YOU ANOTHER WAY!"
"OK, call me back," he says cheerfully.
Xanax for breakfast, Joe?
Six barely scraping the surface miles of tension-relieving running, I wobble off the treadmill and guzzle what remains of my quart of water.
Six out of seven calls went unanswered. I am hopeful that someone left sizes in one of their messages. I hold my phone an inch or so from my sweaty, sea-hag inspired hair and listen - hang up upon hang up. And then finally, a message containing some guesses about sizes from my mother.
I know what Joe's MO was. He did not want to leave a message. He wants to talk to me. Engage me in conversation. A conversation that leads to "Hey, what's up for Christmas?"
I would sooner gouge my own eyes out with a melon baller than entertain that conversation. I scrawl down my mother's suggestions, and hop into the shower to begin to prepare for a day of shopping.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Oy to the World
My mother offers to help get the sizes I need today, so I can use my 30% coupon at a local department store and buy more for Joe’s kids. My own personal mission to see that they aren’t completely dressed head to toe in Disney characters like their mother.
But in return for the convenience, Estelle wants her palms greased a little too. Greased with the goo that is deception among family members. A devil’s bargain.
I may forgo the run and open the gin.
I will be waking on Christmas morning with my children and opening presents like it is Christmas morning itself.
This might have posed a problem a few years ago, but since Lars chose to inform the children at the time of our divorce that there is no Santa Claus, we don’t have that to contend with. Yes, every 6 and 7 year old needs that little bubble to be burst as well in the saddest year of their life, all so Daddy can claim credit for the neat-o presents instead of the fat guy in the red suit. (The fat guy with the red rimmed eyes needs to be impaled with a reindeer antler)
But since we all know that Mom buys the loot, the good the bad and the ugly, ill-fitting, wrong color, wrong version, etc – we all play along and enjoy the day in a fog of make believe.
My sister and her family, and my mother and Bill, and other invited friends are welcome at my house any time after 1 pm – and are welcome to stay and imbibe and enjoy until 6 pm or so when I take one for the team and see to it that my children attend Christmas Mass, since their father will not make it a priority.
During the scant few hours in between, my mother, scheming as usual, would like me to invite my brother and his family for lunch.
She suggests 10:30.
That’s lunch?
And then she says, that she would like me to tell him that he has to leave by 1 pm ( Hell yes!) so I can go to my boss’s Christmas party.
First, my boss is Jewish and I am pretty sure my kids know that. And secondly, who spends Christmas Eve with their boss?
I begin the first of my many objections with the the logistical problem.
Ten-thirty is too freakin’ early to entertain any guest, especially when the guest is my brother and his awful progeny. Eleven will have to do.
And then I restate what we all know to be true. Joe is late for everything.
Not fashionably late.
Not intriguingly late.
Not a little late so no one notices.
Inconveniently, horribly, God-you-almost-missed-the-whole-thing late. And then will stay his predetermined overly long stay anyway. And expect to be waited on. And say inappropriate things in front of your children.
Mom offers to take responsibility for lunch and for seeing him to his car at the appointed hour. And, I am at liberty to make up a lie of my own invention to tell my children so they believe that they are doing something outside of our house and therefore have to leave at 1 pm and do not spill the beans to my brother or his children that we are having a party and they are not on the invite list.
What?
My next objection begins with the words, “Mom, I am not going to lie to the children – for countless reasons there are not enough hours of daylight left to explain…”
She senses that I am running as fast as I can go in the other direction from her War Room plan.
Rather than risk losing the commitment at this moment, she redirects. I am off the hook for now. She’ll see that my brother calls with sizes.
And with that, the harangue is over. But I have a sense of doom too black and foreboding to ignore. I have not heard the last of this.
But in return for the convenience, Estelle wants her palms greased a little too. Greased with the goo that is deception among family members. A devil’s bargain.
I may forgo the run and open the gin.
I will be waking on Christmas morning with my children and opening presents like it is Christmas morning itself.
This might have posed a problem a few years ago, but since Lars chose to inform the children at the time of our divorce that there is no Santa Claus, we don’t have that to contend with. Yes, every 6 and 7 year old needs that little bubble to be burst as well in the saddest year of their life, all so Daddy can claim credit for the neat-o presents instead of the fat guy in the red suit. (The fat guy with the red rimmed eyes needs to be impaled with a reindeer antler)
But since we all know that Mom buys the loot, the good the bad and the ugly, ill-fitting, wrong color, wrong version, etc – we all play along and enjoy the day in a fog of make believe.
My sister and her family, and my mother and Bill, and other invited friends are welcome at my house any time after 1 pm – and are welcome to stay and imbibe and enjoy until 6 pm or so when I take one for the team and see to it that my children attend Christmas Mass, since their father will not make it a priority.
During the scant few hours in between, my mother, scheming as usual, would like me to invite my brother and his family for lunch.
She suggests 10:30.
That’s lunch?
And then she says, that she would like me to tell him that he has to leave by 1 pm ( Hell yes!) so I can go to my boss’s Christmas party.
First, my boss is Jewish and I am pretty sure my kids know that. And secondly, who spends Christmas Eve with their boss?
I begin the first of my many objections with the the logistical problem.
Ten-thirty is too freakin’ early to entertain any guest, especially when the guest is my brother and his awful progeny. Eleven will have to do.
And then I restate what we all know to be true. Joe is late for everything.
Not fashionably late.
Not intriguingly late.
Not a little late so no one notices.
Inconveniently, horribly, God-you-almost-missed-the-whole-thing late. And then will stay his predetermined overly long stay anyway. And expect to be waited on. And say inappropriate things in front of your children.
Mom offers to take responsibility for lunch and for seeing him to his car at the appointed hour. And, I am at liberty to make up a lie of my own invention to tell my children so they believe that they are doing something outside of our house and therefore have to leave at 1 pm and do not spill the beans to my brother or his children that we are having a party and they are not on the invite list.
What?
My next objection begins with the words, “Mom, I am not going to lie to the children – for countless reasons there are not enough hours of daylight left to explain…”
She senses that I am running as fast as I can go in the other direction from her War Room plan.
Rather than risk losing the commitment at this moment, she redirects. I am off the hook for now. She’ll see that my brother calls with sizes.
And with that, the harangue is over. But I have a sense of doom too black and foreboding to ignore. I have not heard the last of this.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
No Place Like Home for the Holidays
We are home.
The holidays are upon us.
I am as prepared as you’d be for say, a tidal wave. As in not.
Thankfully my sister absorbed the shock of Thanksgiving.
But now, all these weeks later, it is safe to say that Thanksgiving was the (relative) calm before the storm. For my mother has managed to bitch slap us all, over the river and through the woods, each and every calendar day from Thanksgiving right up until Kwanzaa. A non-denominational-light-the-menorah-grandma-got-run-over-by-a-reindeer-festivus-for-the-rest-of-us-what-surprises-await-us-behind-the-little-doors-of-the-Advent-calendar-foot-on-the-gas-all-the-way-to-Walton’s-mountain-thousand-twinkling-lights smackdown to end all holiday brew-ha-has.
It began simply enough.
I was lying in bed one morning, contemplating whether to jump out from the cocoon of warmth and 500-threadcount sheets to dress in work out gear and run the 5 mile loop a local state park, or remain at home where the unavoidable 8 am phone call from Estelle would surely jar me from my place of inner peace and relative sanity.
Sure I could just not answer. But nothing is ever that simple. And besides, I kind of needed her. I was hoping she could tell me the clothing sizes of my brother's three horrid children so I could shop that afternoon. The advantage being that I could avoid a second grating phone call – the other being to my brother’s home, where no one will answer, and it will be dozens of return phone calls and countless minutes lost in inane conversation before anything gets accomplished with anything resembling competence.
I run head on into the fire and call Mom instead. Maybe I can get the phone call and the harassment out of the way, and then take to the park to run off the stress. A brilliant plan.
Or so one would think.
Mom doesn’t know anyone’s sizes. But she offers to call Joe and find out. Then changes the subject. She is bent on getting her own business accomplished. Have my sister and I decided what we are all doing for Christmas?
Yes, Mom. We decided months ago. I believe we’ve told you. Each of us. A couple of times. Are you drinking? Are you drinking right now?
Since Charlotte will not occupy the same dwelling as Joe – and for many reasons, not just Open Door/Xbox/Cat Poop debacle, I am hosting Christmas Eve.
And not just for that reason. I have a custody agreement that serves to truncate my celebration time with my kids every other year, and if I can, I think I should proportionally curtail the racing from home to home that I would normally otherwise do on Christmas Eve. Let the celebrating come to us. Less drive time. More mistletoe and hot chocolate!
But since Estelle has a very short window – 2 and half days, not a moment more – we have some juggling to do.
But something tells me that since she keeps inquiring about the plan, that she is hoping, even insisting that it be changed to suit some secret agenda.
So it may be more accurate to say that we’ll be manipulating, not juggling. Or being manipulated. It all remains to be seen.
The holidays are upon us.
I am as prepared as you’d be for say, a tidal wave. As in not.
Thankfully my sister absorbed the shock of Thanksgiving.
But now, all these weeks later, it is safe to say that Thanksgiving was the (relative) calm before the storm. For my mother has managed to bitch slap us all, over the river and through the woods, each and every calendar day from Thanksgiving right up until Kwanzaa. A non-denominational-light-the-menorah-grandma-got-run-over-by-a-reindeer-festivus-for-the-rest-of-us-what-surprises-await-us-behind-the-little-doors-of-the-Advent-calendar-foot-on-the-gas-all-the-way-to-Walton’s-mountain-thousand-twinkling-lights smackdown to end all holiday brew-ha-has.
It began simply enough.
I was lying in bed one morning, contemplating whether to jump out from the cocoon of warmth and 500-threadcount sheets to dress in work out gear and run the 5 mile loop a local state park, or remain at home where the unavoidable 8 am phone call from Estelle would surely jar me from my place of inner peace and relative sanity.
Sure I could just not answer. But nothing is ever that simple. And besides, I kind of needed her. I was hoping she could tell me the clothing sizes of my brother's three horrid children so I could shop that afternoon. The advantage being that I could avoid a second grating phone call – the other being to my brother’s home, where no one will answer, and it will be dozens of return phone calls and countless minutes lost in inane conversation before anything gets accomplished with anything resembling competence.
I run head on into the fire and call Mom instead. Maybe I can get the phone call and the harassment out of the way, and then take to the park to run off the stress. A brilliant plan.
Or so one would think.
Mom doesn’t know anyone’s sizes. But she offers to call Joe and find out. Then changes the subject. She is bent on getting her own business accomplished. Have my sister and I decided what we are all doing for Christmas?
Yes, Mom. We decided months ago. I believe we’ve told you. Each of us. A couple of times. Are you drinking? Are you drinking right now?
Since Charlotte will not occupy the same dwelling as Joe – and for many reasons, not just Open Door/Xbox/Cat Poop debacle, I am hosting Christmas Eve.
And not just for that reason. I have a custody agreement that serves to truncate my celebration time with my kids every other year, and if I can, I think I should proportionally curtail the racing from home to home that I would normally otherwise do on Christmas Eve. Let the celebrating come to us. Less drive time. More mistletoe and hot chocolate!
But since Estelle has a very short window – 2 and half days, not a moment more – we have some juggling to do.
But something tells me that since she keeps inquiring about the plan, that she is hoping, even insisting that it be changed to suit some secret agenda.
So it may be more accurate to say that we’ll be manipulating, not juggling. Or being manipulated. It all remains to be seen.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Breakfast, Beer and Boo Hoo Hoo
We awake on Sunday to cloudy skies and ravenous appetites. And to find that the Krotchfelts had managed to catch their wee hours cab to the airport for home. We were now a party of 4. We pile our unshowered selves into a car and drive to a local breakfast spot without hitting any sort of cactus for once.
The breakfast spot is a unique blend of crunchy-healthfood-dog-friendly-comfort-food-liquor-license-pit-fire-flat-screen-tv-tuned-to-football goodness. We chow down and guzzle superior coffee.
And then the unthinkable happens. It begins to pour heavy soaking buckets of drenching rain. No poolside rehashing for us. Bring on the shopping.
There just so happens to be a great home décor chachka store right next to the breakfast place, so we take a few minutes to browse, shop for souvenirs, and dream about blending some of the beautiful decorative elements into our homes a million rolling acres away.
I am perusing the cowgirl selection of tween-appealing pocketbooks when a country song comes on in the store. It is instrumental but the song is one I recognize immediately. It is one that, like so many other country songs, is about a relationship having ended where one party has sentimental feelings about all that has happened. I remember when I’d first heard it years ago, for reasons I can never really find words to explain, it reminded me of my Dad. Sentiments he might have had. About his relationship with my mother, or maybe with us kids. It makes me sad to think about him being sad.
Maybe it is the fatigue, or maybe the hangover, or the melancholy end to a fabulous trip, but suddenly out of nowhere, I am sobbing.
I naively think at first that I can choke it all back and recover before emerging from the purse collection, but I am clearly mistaken about my own abilities on this. I bump into Kate, choke out a shorthand explanation and then step out into the glistening, rain-soaked rainbowed desert to recover. I am heaving deep breaths. It is the anniversary of my Dad’s death. I had no idea how it would sneak up on me. Dad evidently, is tapping me on the shoulder again.
I return to shopping and the girls. No questions asked. Love my girls for this.
We take a few priceless photos, including one of Joy sitting on a life-sized cast-iron donkey, the caption of which must read “Joy on her ass again” on someone’s Facebook page, and decide to continue shopping down the street.
And hours of shopping turns into hours of Bloody Mary’s with beer chasers, and in spite of still needing to pack and say our goodbyes and handle all manner of car rental-checkout-preflight administrivia, we are laughing our heads off about what a crazy trip it has truly been.
In a matter of hours we’ll be on our way home. And planning our next getaway.
The breakfast spot is a unique blend of crunchy-healthfood-dog-friendly-comfort-food-liquor-license-pit-fire-flat-screen-tv-tuned-to-football goodness. We chow down and guzzle superior coffee.
And then the unthinkable happens. It begins to pour heavy soaking buckets of drenching rain. No poolside rehashing for us. Bring on the shopping.
There just so happens to be a great home décor chachka store right next to the breakfast place, so we take a few minutes to browse, shop for souvenirs, and dream about blending some of the beautiful decorative elements into our homes a million rolling acres away.
I am perusing the cowgirl selection of tween-appealing pocketbooks when a country song comes on in the store. It is instrumental but the song is one I recognize immediately. It is one that, like so many other country songs, is about a relationship having ended where one party has sentimental feelings about all that has happened. I remember when I’d first heard it years ago, for reasons I can never really find words to explain, it reminded me of my Dad. Sentiments he might have had. About his relationship with my mother, or maybe with us kids. It makes me sad to think about him being sad.
Maybe it is the fatigue, or maybe the hangover, or the melancholy end to a fabulous trip, but suddenly out of nowhere, I am sobbing.
I naively think at first that I can choke it all back and recover before emerging from the purse collection, but I am clearly mistaken about my own abilities on this. I bump into Kate, choke out a shorthand explanation and then step out into the glistening, rain-soaked rainbowed desert to recover. I am heaving deep breaths. It is the anniversary of my Dad’s death. I had no idea how it would sneak up on me. Dad evidently, is tapping me on the shoulder again.
I return to shopping and the girls. No questions asked. Love my girls for this.
We take a few priceless photos, including one of Joy sitting on a life-sized cast-iron donkey, the caption of which must read “Joy on her ass again” on someone’s Facebook page, and decide to continue shopping down the street.
And hours of shopping turns into hours of Bloody Mary’s with beer chasers, and in spite of still needing to pack and say our goodbyes and handle all manner of car rental-checkout-preflight administrivia, we are laughing our heads off about what a crazy trip it has truly been.
In a matter of hours we’ll be on our way home. And planning our next getaway.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
All Together Now...
We are all piled into a rented vehicle once again.
Lipstick, gum, road Cokes, and 6 perfectly quaffed, perfumed ladies jammed curvaceous hip to curvaceous hip in a car intended for 4 and maybe a toddler.
Jackie has gone on to cheer her insane husband to success in his unGodly event.
As we drive downtown, we are all sharing tidbits of information about ourselves again. Women are compelled by some twist of the DNA to do this. We are fascinated by the people around us. And so, as we adjust butt-cheeks to avoid Charlie Horses and circulation loss, we are digging deep. Who never ever shows off her bodacious boobs in anything revealing. Who self-medicates their ADD and with what. Who regularly forgoes underwear. A lesson on how to effectively get someone to stop talking to you in an instant. It is as enlightening as any PBS special.
We are headed to an upscale place downtown to meet other friends we've known since our first desert adventure 5 years ago. They are the parents of the lead singer in a band that we just love to hear play. And it doesn't hurt that that same lead singer is hot off the presses Gentleman's Quarterly gorgeous. And nice too. Can't stand it. Kate refers openly to him as her boyfriend. The parents and the band members tolerate it well. Kate has that kind of appeal.
We find ourselves at a reserved table requested by the parents. Drinks are ordered. People watching gets underway. The crowd is overdressed. The bar is noisy. I fear for the success of our Spatchcock inside joke.
The Parents arrive and we are all warmly greeted with kisses and hugs and step-back-let-me-look-at-you-you-are-fabulous-type adoration. It is great to see these folks. Always is.
And then the inevitable question about my engagement...so new last year. So last year this year. It is a question I can deftly answer without hesitation now, but it still makes my armpits clammy. I explain to Mom that for a lot of reasons, and far more defining moments, J. and I have gone our separate ways. She wishes me luck and love and all that I seek. I tell her that in the end, what made the biggest difference is that the relationship stopped bringing me peace. She hugs me warmly. It is a mother's hug.
And as the band takes the stage, the games truly begin:
The Krotchfelts are texting some people of interest that may join us.
Joy and I are watching a guy and his transvestite date interact with another couple whose faces speak of their trepidation.
Kate is doing the dance that tells us all she is 3 sheets to the wind, and ordering shots for the band members.
Priscilla is being asked to dance by all manner of weirdo, including one that Kate openly describes as looking like someone who would kidnap Elizabeth Smart.
A marital-discord dieter is out with her annoying brother who promised to take her out because the papers were signed that day, and while she is just happy to be among the living, the brother is out to bed anyone who will look at him and tolerate his breath. They sit at our reserved table. It seems to make perfect sense to me to tell her she can stay, but the brother has to sit elsewhere.
The band is everything they promise to be, and we are belles of the ball as usual. We are even joined by some of our other friends late in the game despite rumors that there is some dissention in the pack and divided loyalties. Alejandro and Danny cut a mean rug with us and pose for lots of pictures before the lights come up and all the Kardashian wannabes teeter toward the door in Manolo knock-offs.
We look for Candy and find her having a cocktail in a remote bar with the object of her affection that she'd been texting. She is clearly not ready to go home. Yet she is the designated driver.
Oops. Quite a SNAFU.
But Boy Toy is just as interested in extending the stay so he hands us a $50 bill and makes a call to a guy named Jimmy V. I am a little skeptical but have had too much Jack Daniels to make a genuine stink about anything. At least not coherently.
After seeing Alejandro and Danny off, we step outside into the night air to be greeted by an enormous black man in a beautiful suit. He has a magnificently appointed Escalade warming up curbside. This is Jimmy V.
Jimmy is no dummy. He's sized up the approximate ages of the 5 of us and has selected an 80's CD so we can all play a big loud drunken round of Name the Band.
Men At Work!
Devo!
Pat Benatar!
Timbuk 3
We are having a ball - and the miles pass in minutes and soon we are home and quietly preparing for bed...Tylenol cocktails and moisturizers all around. Tomorrow is our last full day. We have probably seen the last of our many friends for this trip.
We are smiling hard at all the fun, but melancholy at the trip having reached its final turn so quickly. Tomorrow we must pack.
Lipstick, gum, road Cokes, and 6 perfectly quaffed, perfumed ladies jammed curvaceous hip to curvaceous hip in a car intended for 4 and maybe a toddler.
Jackie has gone on to cheer her insane husband to success in his unGodly event.
As we drive downtown, we are all sharing tidbits of information about ourselves again. Women are compelled by some twist of the DNA to do this. We are fascinated by the people around us. And so, as we adjust butt-cheeks to avoid Charlie Horses and circulation loss, we are digging deep. Who never ever shows off her bodacious boobs in anything revealing. Who self-medicates their ADD and with what. Who regularly forgoes underwear. A lesson on how to effectively get someone to stop talking to you in an instant. It is as enlightening as any PBS special.
We are headed to an upscale place downtown to meet other friends we've known since our first desert adventure 5 years ago. They are the parents of the lead singer in a band that we just love to hear play. And it doesn't hurt that that same lead singer is hot off the presses Gentleman's Quarterly gorgeous. And nice too. Can't stand it. Kate refers openly to him as her boyfriend. The parents and the band members tolerate it well. Kate has that kind of appeal.
We find ourselves at a reserved table requested by the parents. Drinks are ordered. People watching gets underway. The crowd is overdressed. The bar is noisy. I fear for the success of our Spatchcock inside joke.
The Parents arrive and we are all warmly greeted with kisses and hugs and step-back-let-me-look-at-you-you-are-fabulous-type adoration. It is great to see these folks. Always is.
And then the inevitable question about my engagement...so new last year. So last year this year. It is a question I can deftly answer without hesitation now, but it still makes my armpits clammy. I explain to Mom that for a lot of reasons, and far more defining moments, J. and I have gone our separate ways. She wishes me luck and love and all that I seek. I tell her that in the end, what made the biggest difference is that the relationship stopped bringing me peace. She hugs me warmly. It is a mother's hug.
And as the band takes the stage, the games truly begin:
The Krotchfelts are texting some people of interest that may join us.
Joy and I are watching a guy and his transvestite date interact with another couple whose faces speak of their trepidation.
Kate is doing the dance that tells us all she is 3 sheets to the wind, and ordering shots for the band members.
Priscilla is being asked to dance by all manner of weirdo, including one that Kate openly describes as looking like someone who would kidnap Elizabeth Smart.
A marital-discord dieter is out with her annoying brother who promised to take her out because the papers were signed that day, and while she is just happy to be among the living, the brother is out to bed anyone who will look at him and tolerate his breath. They sit at our reserved table. It seems to make perfect sense to me to tell her she can stay, but the brother has to sit elsewhere.
The band is everything they promise to be, and we are belles of the ball as usual. We are even joined by some of our other friends late in the game despite rumors that there is some dissention in the pack and divided loyalties. Alejandro and Danny cut a mean rug with us and pose for lots of pictures before the lights come up and all the Kardashian wannabes teeter toward the door in Manolo knock-offs.
We look for Candy and find her having a cocktail in a remote bar with the object of her affection that she'd been texting. She is clearly not ready to go home. Yet she is the designated driver.
Oops. Quite a SNAFU.
But Boy Toy is just as interested in extending the stay so he hands us a $50 bill and makes a call to a guy named Jimmy V. I am a little skeptical but have had too much Jack Daniels to make a genuine stink about anything. At least not coherently.
After seeing Alejandro and Danny off, we step outside into the night air to be greeted by an enormous black man in a beautiful suit. He has a magnificently appointed Escalade warming up curbside. This is Jimmy V.
Jimmy is no dummy. He's sized up the approximate ages of the 5 of us and has selected an 80's CD so we can all play a big loud drunken round of Name the Band.
Men At Work!
Devo!
Pat Benatar!
Timbuk 3
We are having a ball - and the miles pass in minutes and soon we are home and quietly preparing for bed...Tylenol cocktails and moisturizers all around. Tomorrow is our last full day. We have probably seen the last of our many friends for this trip.
We are smiling hard at all the fun, but melancholy at the trip having reached its final turn so quickly. Tomorrow we must pack.
Monday, January 3, 2011
And Now a Word from Our Sponsors
We are all piled into a giant bed talking about 4 different topics at once. It is as though there are 7 TVs tuned to different stations all on at the same time. All tuned to shows with laugh tracks. All blaring. We are laughing to the point of tears.
We have coined a new term based Taffy’s uncanny ability to turn almost anything, quite by accident I think, into sexual innuendo. She is a double entendre machine. I am not even sure she means to do it, but everything from ordering coffee, to buying a souvenir, to buckling her seatbelt is fraught with risque suggestion. We have decided she has a pronounced case of Sexual Tourettes.
The term strikes my funny bone spot on. I have a love affair with words. Verbal expression to me is the highest form of being human. To express well is to be fully evolved. Even a good swear word has its place, dammit.
And then Priscilla gets an idea. We should all agree on one nonsense word, one that is has a sexual tourettesy sort of flair to it – a word that we will all use, as a verb, a noun, an adjective, and adverb in conversation all over town tonight. A word that will leave people scratching their heads, but only on the inside where no one can see. Because no one will want to admit to a pretty girl that they have no clue what she’s just said. Or just said and got them to laugh along with her about. Or worse, admit that they aren’t sure they’ve been complimented, insulted, propositioned or told to go fly a kite.
Priscilla has yet another priceless thought. She has a word we can use. The perfect white elephant, sexual tourettesy term. It came from her Word of the Day online subscription. In truth it means to cobble or piece something together. To us, it will mean much more.
The word is “spatchcock.”
It is perfection.
I just spatchcocked the hell out of my hair.
If you weren’t such a spatchcock, she’d be dancing with YOU instead.
You got a little spatchcock on your shirt.
Will you watch this while I go spatchcock?
You have quite a spatchcock going there!
He’s such a &*^%$#@ spatchcock.
If you are low on spatchcock, I have some to spare.
Will you look at the spatchcock on that guy?
Care to spatchcock?
A round of spatchcocks!
Where’d you get a spatchcock like that?
All we need to do is get where we are going tonight to leave chaos and havoc in our collective spatchcocking wake.
We have coined a new term based Taffy’s uncanny ability to turn almost anything, quite by accident I think, into sexual innuendo. She is a double entendre machine. I am not even sure she means to do it, but everything from ordering coffee, to buying a souvenir, to buckling her seatbelt is fraught with risque suggestion. We have decided she has a pronounced case of Sexual Tourettes.
The term strikes my funny bone spot on. I have a love affair with words. Verbal expression to me is the highest form of being human. To express well is to be fully evolved. Even a good swear word has its place, dammit.
And then Priscilla gets an idea. We should all agree on one nonsense word, one that is has a sexual tourettesy sort of flair to it – a word that we will all use, as a verb, a noun, an adjective, and adverb in conversation all over town tonight. A word that will leave people scratching their heads, but only on the inside where no one can see. Because no one will want to admit to a pretty girl that they have no clue what she’s just said. Or just said and got them to laugh along with her about. Or worse, admit that they aren’t sure they’ve been complimented, insulted, propositioned or told to go fly a kite.
Priscilla has yet another priceless thought. She has a word we can use. The perfect white elephant, sexual tourettesy term. It came from her Word of the Day online subscription. In truth it means to cobble or piece something together. To us, it will mean much more.
The word is “spatchcock.”
It is perfection.
I just spatchcocked the hell out of my hair.
If you weren’t such a spatchcock, she’d be dancing with YOU instead.
You got a little spatchcock on your shirt.
Will you watch this while I go spatchcock?
You have quite a spatchcock going there!
He’s such a &*^%$#@ spatchcock.
If you are low on spatchcock, I have some to spare.
Will you look at the spatchcock on that guy?
Care to spatchcock?
A round of spatchcocks!
Where’d you get a spatchcock like that?
All we need to do is get where we are going tonight to leave chaos and havoc in our collective spatchcocking wake.
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