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.