A Circus Without a Tent

All the hellos have been said, the coats have been stowed, the kids are inspecting the myriad serving dishes of treats and hors d’oevres that Charlotte and Jack have prepared.

Jack offers cocktails. Asks what we’d like to drink. Scott replies that we’d like to drink what he is drinking. He says he’s having a Bicycle Thief. Would we like to try one?

I inquire, “If I have to tell my mother to stop talking, will it make me brave enough to do so, without slurring my words?” He’s not sure about the slurring but the bravery is covered.

Yes, please. We’ll take two.

Moments later Jack appears with two brightly colored drinks. Salve for my wounded nerve endings.

We take seats in the living room with Charlotte and Jack's boys. Another moment passes, and Jack appears with a beautiful dish containing some yummy looking smoked sausages and dipping sauce. As he proudly enters the room, Bill stops him and says, “Jooomeeeeyafaveurrrrrrannnncuddeminhaffffffffffff.”

A whino says what?

Loosely translated by Scott, Bill had intended to ask Jack to slice the sausages in half before serving them. Wouldn’t want anyone to choke because their swallowing reflexes have been anesthetized beyond the point of involuntary functioning. Don’t laugh, it’s happened. All I want for Christmas is a Heimlich Maneuver and a stomach pump.

Glances around the room are exchanged and Jack retreats to the kitchen to comply with the request. I am sure the next one will be to mechanically soften the salmon and to emulsify the spiral ham. Note to self: Buy PEG tube on eBay for next birthday.

Bill doesn’t even eat the freakin’ sausage now that Jack has Ginsued and sliced and diced them down to toddler-ready tidbits. He’s in the kitchen having another round of ill-advised cocktails.

After a short time, Scott and I are presented with two fresh drinks, courtesy of Jack. This is a Bicycle Thief concoction also, but made with OJ instead of grapefruit juice, because “Bill doesn’t like grapefruit.” Jack says this with an implied, “Pain in the ass, that he is” tacked onto the end of the sentence. Bill sure knows how to work the crowd.

The games have begun, and at some point, for lapses in reason that I can not explain, Scott and Bill and Mom and I find ourselves confined to the kitchen alone together. Bill is prattling on and on about an expensive camera he bought and the fact that a camera you spend that much money on should have a little instruction book included (well, it did, but it was online, where most users of that camera would be happy to have it, but that is assuming a lot about Bill and Estelle. Just saying.) But to them, it didn’t, so they took "that thing" back and got this nifty little camera, and “just look at all the great pictures we’ve taken…” No really. Look at them all. And what followed was us having to seem to enjoy looking at dozens and dozens of pictures of road signs with double entendres and bumper stickers with racial epithets that they’ve stopped on the road side to memorialize on film for all posterity. Even Mom gets bored and sees an opportunity to exit, Stage Left, on the double.

And then Bill wants a photo of us. Me and Scott. And I lean in close to Scott to be photographed, but first kiss him on the cheek. And out of nowhere Bill objects and takes offense. Makes a snarky remark as though I am his 12 year old daughter doing something beyond my maturity level. Like lighting up a doobie.

And for the umteenth Christmas in a row, I know what it is like to want to vanish.

Beating Around the Christmas Tree

Charlotte is in a panic and so am I. There goes another joyous holiday up in smoke thanks to our ding-a-ling brother.

Or maybe not.

Charlotte reports no whining, pleading, all-I-want-for-Christmas-is-this-one-small-gift-of-my-family-together-who-knows-how-many-Christmases-I-have-left phone calls from Estelle. And I have none as well. I was vacuuming up pounds of pine needles when she rang my cell phone, and I missed the call/dodged the bullet. But when I listened to the message, there was only the usual longitude, latitude, price of gas, mile-marker, times of departure and estimated arrival, and traffic situation reports, but no unsolicited lunatic ramblings about the pickle my brother is in thanks again to his shrew wife.

She is set to arrive at Charlotte's at about 2:30. I expect to be there at 3. Maybe a few minutes early to derail any pregame lunacy that will likely be the result of my brother’s situation looming and a pre-Charlotte visit to Bill’s son’s widow who was as on The Outs as I was last year. An encounter fraught with the potential for disaster for sure. And bloodshed. And arrest warrants. Happy fucking holidays. Your bail is set at 1 million dollars.

Scott and his younger daughter arrive in time to help Hil straighten her hair, and Pat to pick a suitable ensemble, and to calm my nerves, which are shredded and frayed like a much abused cat toy.

After carefully packing the cars, we head in the direction of Charlotte’s and Jack’s and I am coaching the children on the way, hoping that they only minimally insult Estelle and Bill with their unedited comments. I educate them on the beauty of gift receipts and explain the long term value of graciousness. Admit that I am not entirely sure what is going on with Grandmomstella’s hair and no, I don’t understand much of what Pop Pop Bill says, either. It is a lot to absorb in a 15 minute car ride.

We get there and Charlotte greets me at the door. Taking my tray of cookies and Maple Walnut spread from my hands, she leans in for a kiss and tells me, “They are already at it. Already rehashed the visit to you at the cottage two summers ago and are currently arguing about what to do about Joe.” Yay. Is it too late to turn around?

I introduce Scott to my mother and Bill. Scott remembers her from her appearance at school in her nightgown and rusted out car (who wouldn’t?). She doesn’t remember him (senility). Then she reintroduces Bill to Scott, as though I’d forgotten to.

No, I did introduce them. It was a quick cover for being completely grossed out the door that Bill had tried to kiss me on the lips.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwww.

My brother does that. It completely grosses Charlotte and me out. My father did not kiss my lips. Why should my brother and step-father think it is OK? I don’t even want Pat to develop that habit. Only one man kisses my lips. And that is Scott. As it should be. A kiss on the cheek offends no one. A kiss on the mouth is another story altogether.

And this story is off to a rocky start.

What a Difference a Year Makes

And so, right or wrong, Joe threatens to worm his way into the holiday celebration with this little tale of woe, whether the threat to him his real or feigned.

This we know:

- Joe's wife is a shrew and is perfectly capable of doing something as awful as this without a moment of guilt.

- Estelle is aware. Hence all the documenting.

- Joe is blissfully unaware of the potential for his life to completely unravel before his eyes and is more focused on being mad at his wife. He has no idea that if she goes through with her threats, his life will become incredibly difficult and unhappy and she will relish every turn of the screw.

- As good Catholic people who strive to see the face of Christ in others, Charlotte and I should be embracing and supporting our brother in his time of need. Yet we struggle to be able to even form the words “Why don’t you come for Christmas?" for all the choking on the bile.

- Estelle is manipulative enough to use the last two points to pressure either Charlotte or me into caving and extending an invitation to Joe.

Invited or not, Joe will dominate the holiday, with either his horrifying depiction of these latest events over too many cocktails and overly loud conversation, or by so consuming our mother (who now, no doubt is on a mission that surpasses the enormity of anything NASA ever undertook) that she does nothing else but ramble on and on about Joe or his shrew wife, again, over too many cocktails and overly loud conversation.

She will start with Charlotte since she’s hosting Christmas Eve. If Charlotte caves, (and I am sure she won’t unless the Blessed Mother comes walking right into her living room declaring that she is revoking the Get Out of Hell Free card this instant unless she does) then I will just have to endure the warping effects it will all have on the holiday celebration, and have to explain the essence of my brother to Scott, who will be surprised to learn that Joe is not at all like his two high-functioning sisters, and he should not expect to find a pal.

If Charlotte holds her ground, Estelle will hit me up for a little hospitality. And while it would be safe to assume that I have a pretty good excuse not to have any guests (I have the kids until noon on Christmas Day and then will bee-line it to Scott’s directly from the curb in front of Lars’ house), I really don’t. Not if you are Estelle.

No. She will think it is perfectly fine to assume she can come to your home when you are not there, turn up your heat, prepare a nice meal in your kitchen, rifle through your papers and mail and belongings and invite Joe and his three unruly children over for a few hours. Again, to take the usual liberties with your home, your possessions, and all manner of hospitality.

And this is precisely what she’d suggested last year, and exactly where the fight began.

I feel an encore performance coming on.

The Taming of the Shrew

Seems Joe has gone and gotten himself into a nasty little tangle with his shrew wife and she is making his life ever the more miserable and becoming more and more aggressive. It’s almost like she wants him to think she wants to get rid of him but doesn’t really want to. She is just acting out because she lacks the ability to actually conduct herself within the confines of conventional adult marital decorum.

Merry Christmas, here is my latest threat to divorce you all wrapped up in a bow.

So just before Christmas he texts me at work. Which almost never happens.

“Call me.”

OK I know that this is not going to be nothing. It is not going to be “What size does Hil wear?” or “Does Pat already have this video game?” Someone is dead. Or nearly dead. Or threatening to be dead. Or something equally as interesting.

So I call. He answers sounding fine. I check Someone is Dead off my mental check list.

I say “What is going on?”

He says, “Not much. How ‘bout you?”

It's Who’s On First only considerably more aggravating. I am actually working on something of some import and do not have time to engage in what is sure to be a completely inane conversation.

“Joe, you asked me to call you.”

“Oh, well my holidays just got that much more interesting.” And with those words proceeds to meander aimlessly through his story of how his shrew wife has made her most recent attempt to ruin his life to the extent that it doesn’t inadvertently ruin hers.

I tell him matter of factly to defend himself, but suggest also that he go on the offensive. Bank on her not being prepared for that. I ask a few questions, make a few suggestions. And I am concerned that he seems to want to talk while I’m talking.

“Joe,” I interrupt. “Are you writing any of this down? You are going to have to hire a lawyer and it will be easier and cheaper if you walk in with documentation.”

“Oh!” he says proudly. “Mom’s writing down all this documentation for me.”

“Mom? She’s 9 hours away. What good is her documentation? Write down everything we just talked about. Get off the phone with me and write it down. I have to go, good luck.”

I text Charlotte. I am sure she’s not been apprised.

And then I text Joe. I text a list of everything he needs to document and remind him to write down specific examples. I don’t have the slightest inclination to be sucked into his trouble – he just has to go through it and get to the other side.

But the Charlotte in me is worried that he will hang himself with his own stupidity. And there is a part of me that won’t be able to just let that happen if I can help it.

Sins of Omission

And this year as in so many others past, there was the elephant-in-the-room question, “What about Joe?”

It’s the gift that keeps on giving. The perpetual font. The eternity pool of swill that will forever torment all of us and grasp at the loose thread of our holiday tapestry and unravel it like a cheap sweater.

In big families, as I’ve said before, Joe would not be an issue. Every family has one of those relatives. The guest that defaults to whatever party he has not been specifically banned from attending who no one wants to specifically invite. But in a big family, the qualities that render him uninvitable would be diluted by so much family. And in big families, no one takes a headcount, because chances are, you have too many people to notice if one was left off the list. Too many people to keep track of. Maybe one is on vacation in Miami. Maybe one is in jail. Maybe one has better plans. It is not a glaring omission.

But in small families – where there are only 3 sibs, the omission is in fact glaring. Like a flare. A caution flag. A strobe.

And maybe Estelle knew she was on thin ice this year and didn’t push the issue much. Charlotte nearly caved again and thought about inviting him. Or maybe she really really needs that Get Out of Hell Free card, but she sent me a text asking me if she thought it was a good idea.

Ok, maybe good is a strong word. She really meant to ask if she was out of her cotton-pickin’ mind to even be considering such a hare brained idea.

She says she would make it very clear that it is for Mom’s benefit only and would not become a regular thing.

Let’s be even clearer. Nothing is clear to Mom. She says she understands and says to herself that you really don't mean that and everything will be hunky-dory forever and ever amen.

And it will be even less clear to our brother, who is even more dimly-witted and who will assume all the sins have been forgotten and that he can resume behaving like an ass and taking the usual liberties with your home, your possessions, and all manner of hospitality. Your patience will be hacked to collops in a matter of minutes.

I write back:

I think it would be nice. But you know with him you have to set limits like “I will fire a gun at you if you arrive before X time, and you and your merry band of trolls must have said your goodbyes and be in your car, and said car must be moving down the street away from my home at a reasonably high speed by Y time or there will be bloodshed. And do not leave Mom to do the inviting. I realize you’d rather burst into flame than speak to him but if you let her extend the invitation it will not be menacing enough and both of them will “ take liberties.” That is where our problems began last year. If you do not show him the love, hers will be the first shot over the bow. And Estelle never misses.I encouraged her to make the decision soberly and in consultation with her family.

She didn’t need to. She decided against martyrdom and skipped the whole thing.

But that was before Joe called with his latest news just a day before Christmas Eve.

I Wish I Had a River I Could Skate Away On

And then there is Mom’s annual pilgrimage north. Across the colonies to blow in like a hurricane for the holidays. If you pay attention you can tell she’s coming. Animals start running. Birds take flight. There is a stillness as the world braces itself for the event.

Last year I didn’t see her. An ill-fated phone call, a couple of nasty voicemails, and then a poison pen letter from me cast the deciding vote on whether or not Estelle would be making an appearance at my house. She had waivered at one point, then a dusting of snow caused her to panic and bail out early. But not before having two huge fights with her two BFFs – the primary friend and the run-off vote friend. When she fought with the one, she picked the second string to keep her company. And when that went south (probably over a difference in voting history or something else she finds terribly important) she found herself having to make an excuse to leave town at the crack of dawn on Christmas Day. Never saw my kids.

But this year, since we’ve called a truce, (not to be confused with signing a peace treaty, it is just a truce), she is planning on seeing the whole family.

And we are all refilling our anti-anxiety medications from last year.

Since the primary friend remains on the lam from Mom, Mom has been in touch with the run off friend to scrounge up a potential place to stay. This is a friend who famously gave her a gift one year that included a pillar candle that unfortunately, an not unnoticed by Mom, had been burned. Flagrant gift giving foul. Flags all over the playing field. But there is lodging at stake so she's conveniently forgiven that for now.

But this friend has had some issues and though she's been a little reticent to tell Mom all the presumably gory details, Mom has deduced from 5 states away that Run Off Friend has had a colostomy. And since Mom is here to celebrate the holidays, and isn't the "Here, let-me-take-care-of-you-while-you-are-down-on-your-luck" type, she's not jazzed about staying with her and her "pain-in-the-ass" husband. Come on now, she has a lifting restriction! Mom is sure the house isn't even decorated! And what fun are you if you can't even carry a tray of blender drinks from the kitchen for your guests?

Anyway, to get to the point, Charlotte has heard the rant and in some moment of weakness, or an attempt to secure a Get Out of Hell Free Card, has invited Estelle and her very own pain-in-the-ass Bill to stay with her and Jack and their boys for the few days they are here.

So, forget the Peace On Earth. Any notion of that will be shattered to smithereens the moment Estelle crosses the threshold.

I hope Charlotte has been to the liquor store. She's going to need a jumbo cocktail as they pull into the driveway for a long winter's night.

Puttin Up Reindeer, Singin' Songs of Joy and Peace

Break out the mood stabilizers. Christmas is coming. Coming like the dawn. No avoiding it.

And on one hand, I am thrilled. I am spending another Christmas standing under the mistletoe with Scott. I will wake up with the kids on Christmas morning and enjoy all of our rituals without pretending it is Christmas one day early. And I have planned and pushed myself to make the biggest impression on my kids. Squeezed the most joy into our time together. Concentrated the festivities. Saturated our on-again-off-again custody schedule with a much fun as the season has to offer.

Decorated the house our first weekend together so that when they returned to me two weeks later, it would me like stepping into Santa's workshop.
Maintained our ritual of picking out the tree and walking it home in our little red wagon.
Decorated the tree as a family and listened to Christmas carols as we strung the lights and draped the ribbons.
Baked cookies, ate cookies and baked some more cookies. More than I will be able to eat and/or give away.
Went to see train displays and doll house exhibits and Christmas crafts.
Lit candles, illuminated outdoor trees, hung wreaths, burned Dad's famous incense.
Slowed down to drink eggnog and watch a few Christmas classics piled on the sofa. Laundry be damned.

But as I wait for Christmas to come upon a midnight clear, it seems that every year panic, and chaos, and havoc and even few real asswipes come a-caroling first.

Let's start with the asswipe with the frequent flier plan - Lars.

You might imagine that someone with the motherload of emotional SNAFUs of epic proportion such as Lars would be the first in line to collect his boarding pass for Dementia Express Flight 302 to The Loony Bin.

You would be correct. At least in assuming that he'd go sailing over the edge.

This year is no different and he has done his darndest to manipulate the whole situation. Tried to jockey for more time with the kids - for his birthday, for a trip at Thanksgiving, for the entire week between Christmas and New Years because he can take the whole week off from work and stay home with them, you know, as a favor to me.

And when I would not agree to any of it, and instead outfoxed the fox, he agreed to an arrangement he does not like. Mostly because the children are in my clutches for far too long a stretch of time and God Only Knows what kind of spell I'll cast.

And while he's held it somewhat together for a while, this weekend he went around the bend over something relatively minor. Kate had a party when her parents came to town. (We'll get to that.) And Scott and the kids and I attended with bells on. Lars had attempted to call the kids but could not reach anyone and was pissed. The party was early (these ARE senior citizens) and we were on the road by 6 pm to get there with a bottle of wine and two hors d'oeuvres and Kate's belated birthday gift and a one-of-a-kind card making a Marie Antoinette joke. Hil and Pat left their phones at home. My phone was in the designated coat room in my purse buried under so many wool coats. Lars evidently dialed his little sausage fingers off with no luck. I'm surprised all the calls didn't start a small smoldering house fire.

And the next day there was hell to pay (as opposed to Hell Toupee, which we'll get to). He rankled the kids and snarked at me and went on and on with no end in sight to the point where I told him the phones were being turned off and the land line unplugged, please go take one of the many varieties of pills for what ails you and if you can't do us the courtesy of dying, please just go away.

And so a few days later, evidently in response, Hil pulls out something for me from her backpack. Something Lars sent home with her to give to me claiming it was mine and he needed to return it to me.

I open the bag and nearly croak.

It is the beautifully crafted, elaborately patterned, lovingly assembled counted cross stitch Christmas stocking I spent the first 18 months of our marriage making for him. Picked out a special lining fabric. Used a Christmassy quilted fabric for the back. Affixed a beautiful gold and red tassel. Not to mention the hundreds of hours of painstaking stitchwork. It hung on the mantle for our second Christmas together and every Christmas of our marriage. He took it with him when he'd left. As it should be.

It isn't like he just realized what it was. He purposely took it. Six years ago. I don't know why it is suddenly something that must be eradicated from the dwelling...

Maybe Liza made him a new one? (She's done lovely embroidery on her hemp garments...)

Or maybe since they are engaged, she can't stand the sight of something from me adorning the fireplace at Christmas? A Ghost of Christmas Past?

No - because if it were any of those things, he'd do what any normal person would do. He'd wrap it up and put it away to give to one of the kids one day saying "Your mother made this for me when we were first married. Maybe you'd like it for your new baby. I'd like you to have it."

So, no. It is none of those things. It is instead intended to say, "I hate you so thoroughly that I will part with this possession because I must scrape off any and all reminders that I ever shared so much as a split second of my life with someone as hateful as you." And the sneak has to stuff it into Hil's backpack and lie to her about it being mine.

Cat's out of the bag. When she saw how stunned I was, she asked why and I answered truthfully.

But now I don't know what to do with the darn thing.

Part of me wants to get rid of it. Like an exorcism. I am tempted to sell it on eBay. I wonder what I could get for it. It is lovely.

I am also half tempted to stitch the cat's name on it and stick it up on the mantel with the others. Thanks, Lars, you saved me the time and aggravation of getting a stocking for the cat myself.

I am not really sure why this bothers me so much, but it does. I guess because whatever the reason for not wanting it on his mantel, there were at least a dozen ways to handle the situation. And eleven of them didn't involve sending a little F*** You Christmasgram.

This was a message. As clear as the dead fish that said that Luca Brazzi rests with the fishes. There will be no boundaries and no limits to the levels of meanness and pettiness to which Lars will subscribe. He will never forgive my leaving him; he will never put it aside. So long as I'm living, he'll have someone to hate.

And with all the twinkling lights, and candles burning bright, and the North Star shining like a beacon in the night, there is a darkness that no one can light, a mile away in Lars' soul.

It's Coming on Christmas, They're Cutting Down Trees

It's funny how some things put a whammy on you.

I imagine everyone's heads are filled with memories that sit there as though in so many little file cabinets, waiting for something or someone to come along with a shiny little key and unlock the drawers and pull one out.

Some heads have more than others. I forget nothing. And in fact, I can churn out alarming amounts of detail on the most inane events. So long as I was paying attention, I have it all down. I'd make a great eye witness. Again, so long as I was paying attention. If I was at the event out of lip service and absorbed in something more important while giving the appearance of being alert and engaged, all bets are off. Chances are someone was prattling on about what on Earth we are going to do about the neighbors that put out their recycling a day early and I was trying to think of when I might be able to wedge a bikini wax appointment into my schedule before heading to the beach.

And then there are those whose file drawers are empty. Or nearly so. Like my brother Joe's. I swear he'd need a hint to remember his own children's names if his shrew wife weren't screeching them at the top of her lungs all the time.

So as holidays will do, Christmas has come along with a shiny brass key to unlock a few file drawers in my head.

I love the sights and smells of Christmas. The pine cones and candles and twinkling lights and a fresh tree - and the way a whiff of pine wafts in when the front door is opened and a wreath of fresh greens is revealed.

My house is decorated. Has been. I decorated it the first weekend in December while Hil and Pat were with me. I wanted their participation, their excitement. And when they arrived home from Lars Den of Iniquity, it would already be Christmas. Like the Homecoming without the destitution or drunken old Baldwin sisters.

This morning I lit a few candles and the tree to enjoy a fabulous cup of spicy coffee from Trader Joe's. The kids were still asleep and I wanted to bring home the holiday before they arose. I went to find some matches and also found (in one of those magical catch all drawers we all have and won't admit we do) a small box of Balsam Fir Incense sticks.

The little plastic box is so familiar. Clear with green engraved writing on the top. They come from Auburn, Maine and promise to bring the Pine Woods to your home.

What it brought to my home was my Dad.

Dad loved the smell. I have never experienced it repeated by any other candle or thing. It is distinctive and powerful and takes me back to my childhood home and memories of Christmases there - with my mother, without my mother, happy, melancholy, all of them. And the unique memories - the cat trying to climb the tree, the night I singed my bangs trying to light a pillar candle in a glass, the time Charlotte went to blow out the oil lamp and grabbed the searing glass with her bare hands, Mom grousing her way through making cookies with the cookie press.

Dad was in sales, so he was out and about all over town every day. His one customer was a gift shop (long before the introduction of those cheesy Hallmark stores...) and every November, he'd stop in for a tiny box of the Balsam Fir Incense. I have one of those boxes. Taken from his house when he prepared to move to Assisted Living. There are 40 sticks in the box, and the price sticker reads "$3.25." I wonder what that is in dog years? These things probably compete with Yankee Candles on the price point scale by now.

But to bring a little bit of Dad into my home and to dwell on his memory at the holidays is priceless to me. Sadly, I am down to may last half dozen sticks. The company name is Paine's, and the good people at Paine's have placed a little card inside the box touting the wonder of these little things. And at the bottom of the card is an address. I would guess that this is Paine's busy time of year up in Maine. I think I will Google/Bing/Dogpile search them and find out if they are still in he business of producing these wondrous little sticks.

And order a case of incense so that Charlotte and Joe and I can bring Dad into the house for all the Christmases yet to come. Maybe Joe will even find a memory or two unlocked by the scent. It has unlocked a million of them for me.

Hippo Birdie, Two Ewes

Happy birthday, to my sister, Charlotte! Today is a milestone birthday for her. A big one. I won't say which, just that it's a biggie. And you'd never believe it to see her.

I go through this little ritual when it is someone's birthday. I venture to the card store to pick out a card. Not just any card store. They have to have a wide variety of humorous cards. Something for everyone's taste in humor. Naughty. Slapstick. Highbrow. Three Stooges.

I will invest hours if necessary finding the perfect card and no two people ever get the same one. How could they? To me, the card that strikes the birthday girl or boy's funny bone is like a fingerprint. Uniquely theirs.

But to do this I need to go through a little review. Their life flashing before my eyes. Only in a good way. And edited to contain only the scenes we both share.

With Charlotte that is daunting. Since she is my (very slightly) older sister, (you'd never know it) I have known her my whole life. Literally. That is a lot of reviewing. And what, pray tell, is the prevalent feature of Charlotte's personality? Who is she to me?

The Big Sister? - Teaching me to read at the age of 4 so my Kindergarten teachers thought I was a genius. Dressing me for my first date with Eddie Wildman when I didn't have a single article of date attire in my whole closet. Getting caught on film snickering at me as I left for Prom in her dress, with a date I could not stand, in the pouring rain.

The Religious One? - Telling me not to swing my Miraculous Medal like a lasso for fear I'd make the Blessed Virgin Mary dizzy. Making me get up and talk to the cat at midnight on Christmas Eve because the PBS special "The Night the Animals Talked" said that he would. (He was so aloof he would not have wasted his ability to talk on us, I am quite sure.)

The Gullible One? - The Big Sister who fell for it when her twerpy little sister claimed to have seen the Tooth Fairy. (Hil did the same thing to Pat - said she had long blond hair and a spray on tan.) Or the one who believed, long after our black Cockapoo had "gone to live on a farm" that my mother's mink hat was the dog when I walked in with it in my arms shrieking "Look! It's Mitzie!"

Or the Advisor? - The one who deftly explained this filthy term or that rude gesture when I was baffled and asked her. Or steered me toward the Potsies and away from the Fonzies with her voice of experience. Or told me that I'd have the most fun in High School if I joined the Drill Team - never knowing that I'd meet Scott in the very first day of Band Camp. And yes, I did have The Most Fun.

Or the Hapless One? - The one who went to get a fancy schmancy hair cut that went all wrong, and would not get out of the car when she and my mother arrived home, and preferred to sit in the car with a Saks 5th Avenue bag over her head nearly to the point of suffocation. Or the one who raced out the door to catch the school bus one December day only to whack her head on the Tiffany-style lamp that would normally be suspended above the dining table, but was an easy target with the table pushed aside to make room for the Christmas tree. I still remember the sound of impact, and the way my mother taped the darn thing back together. Yes, taped. Or the one who broke her nose participating in that brutal contact sport we know as swimming. (Ooops. No, that was me.)

Or maybe the Saint - The one who met me at the bank at some inconvenient hour to hand over a pile of money so I could hire a divorce lawyer, and hold my hand while I opened an account and catalogued my jewelry and Important Papers for placement into a Safe Deposit Box when Lars cleared out our joint account on pay day and threatened to take all of my jewelry and sell it. Or the one who watched my baby while my other baby had surgery. Or gave me all kinds of impossibly small-sized clothes to wear when I took on the form of an 8-year-old during my Marital Discord Diet. Or reminded me that I am good, and strong and smart and worthwhile when Lars very nearly convinced me otherwise.

Or the Comedienne - The one I laugh to the point of pissing my pants with over just about anything. The one who doesn't mind if I swear like a sailor or make an irreverent comment or let fly with a catty remark. Meows along with me like a champ. Rolls her eyes with me when The Family begins its routine circus act. Calls me laughing to the point of tears to ask if I am watching Glee. Sends me completely inappropriate YouTubes that make me howl. Laughs at what I say to other motorists in traffic during our Rush Hour chats. Will sit with me and watch favorite TV scenes over and over again on Hulu with a bottle of wine. Offers to save me a seat in Hell.

The truth is, she is all of these things. All rolled into one, every persona at her fingertips. She is magical and amazing and I am grateful for her. Selfishly and for my children. I have heard that there are few people that are more influential in a child's life than their mother's sister. My children hit the jackpot. There is no Fairy Godmother with better pixie dust or a more powerful magic wand. Or prettier fairy wings or bedazzling attire.

Happy Birthday, Charlotte. I hope it is filled with cupcakes and cocktails and fabulous surprises. There are few people more deserving than you.

From Bad to Worse

Before I hit the send key, I take the time to visit the district website and obtain the names and email addresses for the other Assistant Superintendent, the Superintendent and all of the members of the school board. If someone is going to be called out for being uncooperative, unresponsive, ineffective and a lousy liar, it is going to be a public stoning.

Then I hit the send key.

A day later, I get a reply from the Superintendent himself, and he copies all of the same folks and a few more (so in case they didn't read the email from the citizen they'd get it in the note from the Big Boss, and can't avoid the fun.)

He writes:

Based on your note and from my conversation with Dr. Rotelli and Dr. Barnett(presumably Green Suit, I am not sure she ever mentioned her name) I am responding to your request for our current policy (248; May 10, 2007) that prohibits all forms of harassment and bullying of students. You are correct that we may have provided you with a prior version which has been superseded by the attached. However, be assured that our practices and guidelines for investigation and intervention are grounded in our current policy and State School Code, in particular the Safe Schools Provisions. Our Central Staff, Board and Solicitor reviewed and adopted this policy in May, 2007.

Again, our policy and practice with respect to bullying are clearly understood and diligently enforced at all levels. It is an issue that we are focused on throughout our schools.

Then he thanks me warmly for my interest on all of their behalves.

I open the policy. It too is none of the things they've described. How could it be? It predates any of the current issues. And why is everyone so comfortable with the "whoops my mistake" approach to pissing me off like this?

A day later, Charlotte texts me. She heard something on the radio about an open house at a school unveiling its super duper brand spanking new comprehensive policy and program to eradicate Bullying from its campus. Then she bounded from bed to log onto her computer and send me a link.

I open the link and view the video - news coverage that updates us all on the fate of a student who had been bullied last year - brutalized by a bunch of thugs and then hung on a fence, all while bystanders used their cell phones, not to call the police, but to video the attack and post it on YouTube. It went viral. That kid now attends this school. But the best part about the story was that this kid, who seems to be a remarkable young man in many respects, was asked to deliver an address at a national summit on Bullying that was taking place in Washington, DC that weekend.

I look into the summit. A topic of national focus getting some much needed attention and raising public awareness right down the street in the seat of our Nation's Capitol. Fabulous.

I decide to poke the bear again. Take to AOL and attach the link.

I write:

Is anyone attending the event in Washington this weekend representing our district on an issue of national focus?

Or have we convinced ourselves that our policy dated May 10, 2007 is up-to-date and current enough to adequately address this highly complex issue?

The teen from the neighboring district who was brutalized last year and now travels two hours to attend school privately, but without fear of being terrorized, is delivering an address.

What are we doing? I'd like to know.

I don't thank them warmly. And have yet to receive a response.

Do You Understand the Words That Are Coming Out of My Mouth?

I have to marinate in the stench of this answer for a bit.

I am so completely disgusted by the whole thing I want to pick up the phone and verbally emasculate this man. And point out that he's not fooling anyone with the comically bad toupee.

Countless e-mails, phone conversations, meetings, explanations, clarifications, requests, reminders and demands and all he can say is "Whoops! That wasn't the policy you asked about! That was the one I wanted to talk about!"

Am I to believe that he can competently run a school district when he can't even manage one meeting with one parent with one agenda item with any degree of competence?

I decide to suggest as much - and there I go, revving up my friend AOL again so I can send a jet-fuel soaked flaming e-mail asking the very questions that have been pinging around in my head - the interior lining of which is inflamed and throbbing.

Mr. Rotelli -

What I have asked for over and over again, in person, and in writing and on the telephone, is the current policy against Bullying, Intimidation and Harassment. I am not sure what has been so difficult for the school administrators to understand, but no one seems willing to place it into my hands, and I have lost my patience trying to understand what is in place. Perhaps it would be simpler to forward my inquiry to the State Board of Education?

To be clear, what I would like, as stated in your poster, is for someone to provide me with the current policy on this topic. Not an archaic list of procedures and an inappropriate checklist, but the policy. If it is currently in draft form, I'd like to see the draft and know the names and contact information for the persons responsible for crafting it. What I have seen to date is a hodgepodge of unrelated, outdated documents that may suffice for those of you who are tasked with enforcing them, but are not at all clear to the students and parents who need to abide by them and rely on them. It remains appalling to me that this school district has such weak policies and procedures in place while other school districts have formed task forces and crafted effective, current, meaningful policies and procedures, and have actively distributed them.

The law on this topic is very clear. I want to be assured as a parent and a resident of the township that we are compliant and providing the best resources to our young people. Again, I am willing to participate in ensuring that an appropriate, relevant solution is met. .

Let's see where that gets me.

Thank You, You've Been Most Incompetent

I was expecting a yawning silence. I had come to expect as much. Especially from McDuff who I'd taken to poking every few days.

Providing horrific articles about tragedies resulting from Bullying gone unstopped.

Sending links to Facebook pages about Saying No to Bullying.

Forwarding YouTube videos of Public Service Announcements.

Poking the bear had become a favorite pasttime.

But Rotelli evidently was eager to respond, however lamely. And he protests too much.

I'm sorry for any misunderstanding. (I'll bet you are, Hell Toupe.) Like I said, we can always communicate better, and your questions and ideas were helpful. What I was trying to communicate (and failing with every new sentence?) was that there has been a procedure for dealing with bullying and harassment issues since at least 1998, which I shared with you, that I had followed from my years as an assistant principal at the high school. The procedure systematizes Board Policy, which was revised in 2007 to reflect the legislation that mandated including bullying specifically, as have the procedures. (What new procedures? Where were they the other day?) Our board policies are in the process of being uploaded on the district's web site (Really? Are they being typed by hand because uploading only takes a minute...) and we will make this particular one more directly accessible on the web site as quickly as possible. (That should get a lot of laughs.)

Our schools have done a great deal of work to address the various forms of bullying and harassment. For example, there is an elementary anti bullying curriculum that was revised this past summer. Our required sixth grade Developmental Guidance class deals with these issues. If you look at the middle school's web site, there are many initiatives planned or in place to address bullying. This is also certainly true of our high school. (Then why can't I find them? Where are they buried and why aren't they front page news?)

Again, as we stated, the poster that is in every classroom is meant to be a reminder and teaching tool, not a solution. (No, you said it was for compliance, and changed your story when I called you on not complying...)The main point that I was trying to make, (and bobbled like a rookie) is that there has been a longstanding process in place to investigate and address bullying. We are always working to improve our responses. If you would like to continue this dialog to make our school district even better equipped to deal with these issues, I'd be glad to listen to your ideas.

Oh we'll be dialoguing...that is for certain. Sooner than you think.

Round Two

The beauty of Facebook continues to amaze me. Over the next few hours I get lots of advice about where to go with my next complaint, where to seek information about what the legal requirements are for Bullying policies in my state, and what kind of political resistance I might get from the School Board. I am feeling trained and primed for a fight.

I start where we left off, and take to AOL to let the morons I'd met with know that I have not been duped.

Mr. Rotelli -

Thank you for your time yesterday. It was very enlightening.

When we initially spoke on October 25, you insisted that the district had kept pace with the ever-changing face of bullying and had continually updated its policy to remain relevant and effective. I questioned at that time why Dr. McDuff would not be aware of such a policy.

I have carefully reviewed the policy that you presented to me on this topic yesterday. There must be some mistake. It is dated October 20, 1998 and is no more relevant than the poorly written blurb in the handbook. In fact, in the "student-to-student" harassment complaint document you provided, there are references to "business outings" and "the person's job" that in no way pertain to students. Also, the complaint form appears to address only the legal definition of unlawful harassment, and again, not the wide variety of offenses that can be considered bullying, intimidation or harassment. It fails to meet State requirements as a bullying policy.

Please confirm that this is the policy you meant to share, or kindly share the appropriate version. If I do not hear from you by the close of business on Monday, November 28, 2011, I will escalate my issue to the next two levels of authority on public education.

I'd appreciate the courtesy of a reply.

I am beginning to understand why McDuff would not reference this policy. And why it is not distributed as the "compliance poster intended as a visual reminder" states it will be. It is such a horrific joke that it would incite a riot.

A riot I am perfectly willing to light a fire beneath.

Policy Schmolicy

But for now, I have to focus on work.

The kids are home on their inconvenient half day and I am on a grant from my boss who is not a fan of the "working from home" arrangement. He is sure that "working from home" is code for "minding my blackberry and being minimally available while accomplishing nothing of value and actually doing housework and still collecting a paycheck." If I ever want to be granted this arrangement again, I need to demonstrate otherwise. I have noticed that he has put tracers on his emails to me. Each one asked for a read receipt. It's a little insulting to be truthful. But I play the game. What choice do I have?

Later that evening I open my file and look at the tired old copy of the policy Rotelli had provided. The one he was going on and on about a few weeks earlier. The one that had been tweaked and revised and updated and revisited over and over to ensure that they were keeping pace with the ever changing face of Bullying. He seemed to have been proud of the fact that he was familiar with the term "sexting." I should have asked him about YouTube.

I wish I had read the policy while I was still in the office. Or maybe not. That would have started a shit-storm of epic proportions.

It is dated 1998. 1998. More than a decade ago. How could it be in any way current? Cell phones were not even that widely used by teenagers then. How could it address sexting.

It was offered as a Bullying policy, but reads as a complaint procedure and the cover memo from the Superintendent states that it is a guideline for student complaints against students. It is nothing short of a complete joke. It is a Harassment policy borrowed from Corporate America and focuses on "unwanted sexual gestures." Puh-lease.

I need to respond. But I need to percolate on this a bit. Instead I take to Facebook and write:

"Met with two of the lamest school administrators today, who frankly, would not recognize an effective Bullying Policy if it walked up and bloodied their noses. Escalating the issue to the next level..."

Post.

Incompetence Come to Life

What follows that not so surprising revelation is about 35 minutes of double-speak, unanswered questions, indirectly answered questions and circular conversation.

In short, I am getting nowhere.

Out of frustration, I finally ask, "Are you trying to get sued?"

They both look baffled and exchange glances.

I reassure them that I am not there to sue them, but to be truthful, sitting there, I am wondering why I don't. Maybe that will get their attention. I don't seem to be.

The secretary momentarily interrupts my harangue by stopping in to deliver not a freshly printed copy of the policy Rotelli led off with, but a photocopied version of the crooked, third generation version he had been gripping in his sweaty little hand when I'd arrived. I thank her and will her to vanish so I can continue.

I place the policy in my folder and ask a question. If they are so wonderfully, beautifully, flawlessly prepared and informed to handle all manner of bullying and truly do keep the topic at the forefront, then why was their esteemed colleague Dr. McDuff not apprised of the existence of this amazingly current, all encompassing policy. I suggest that their preparedness is an illusion. I've seen it in practice. It sucks. If you listen carefully, you can hear it sucking.

And again they start the tap dance. They have this and that in the works. They did the cyber-bullying presentation for parents (yawn, they trot that our every year) and they have "things planned" throughout the year. I ask where I might find some of the "things they have planned." They look at each other and feebly indicate that they are not on the calendar yet. They must be lousy dance instructors at this school. Rotelli and Fashion Tragedy are really clumsy tap dancers. And no match for me.

I remind them that I have offered to help. I remind them that poorer, poorly performing school districts have put them to shame with the attention and investment they have made to making bullying a non-issue. I suggest that they are deluded in thinking they are prepared and suggest that they have a problem they have simply refused to acknowledge. I ask again if they are trying to get sued.

They seem baffled.

I run through the litany of weaknesses. Starting with no communication to the students and finishing with the fact that they have a poster intended to satisfy a compliance requirement that they admittedly don't comply with. I suggest that they will be laughed out of court and seen as fools.

Fashion Tragedy pipes in to say that the poster is intended as a "visual reminder" of their stance against bullying.

I say it is a visual reminder that they are only interested in lip service and have no legitimate plan or program.

They begin talking at once trying to convince me that no, no, no they really do have their act together and really are way out in front of this issue.

I cut them off.

"I believe this meeting's usefulness has run its course. Your approach to this problem is wholly unsatisfying to me as a parent. I will take this issue to someone who is more capable and more interested in resolving it."

They began to stammer and repeat themselves while I calmly put on my coat. The more they begged to be heard, the more I thanked them for their time and looked them dead in the eye and said I needed nothing further from them. I'd gotten exactly the information I'd needed. Thanked them for confirming my suspicions. Walked out while they talked to the back of my head.

I thanked the secretary and wished her a happy Thanksgiving. I could not wait to take to Facebook. I needed a plan and needed my educator friends' advice.

A Day at the Races

After many room changes and much waiting and chit chat with Hil’s homeroom teacher, I eventually get to hear all about how wonderful Hil is. It is great fun to learn how buoyant and assertive she is in class. The teachers love her. Lars would be glowing – had he bothered to show up.

I am feeling pretty good when I venture down the street to meet with Mr. Rotelli and some clown who says she is the Director of Pupil Services. I am hoping to be proven wrong about the district’s preparedness to handle bullying in all its shapes and sizes.

And I am happy to be working from home, to be truthful. It is a very productive day when you are not being interrupted constantly or having to handle the calamity du jour, or brainstorming what exactly to say to the hiring manager whose candidate is qualified and capable to do the job but has such annoying personal qualities that if they were ever seated together on a transcontinental flight he’d end up murdering her in her seat before they reached cruising altitude.

I go to the office. I take a seat. I have my file.

He comes in wearing a bad suit and what appears to be a toupee. She is in a mint green polyester something and should have considered a wig. And maybe a little lipstick. They scream of tired old bureaucratic complacency. I am waiting for yellowed index cards to come out so he can read from his notes on this topic.

He’d like to share that superduper up to the minute policy with me. Only he only brought his copy. And there is writing on it.

What? You don’t have a soft copy? How current can it be?

He mentions (laughing) that it has the names of all the people who had it before him. (OK just how old is this thing?)

I ask him to make me a copy. I will review it later. I have bigger things to discuss.

I take them through how I came to be involved. How I had a bullying situation to deal with with Pat and had had to make several trips to the school. How in that process I’d been underwhelmed with their procedures and their organization. I’d smelled smoke. I’d gone looking for fire. And found what amounts to an inferno.

Oh no. No, we have it down.

I start by reviewing the poster. I call it a joke. The lady with the Barber School haircut says it is for compliance purposes.

I ask her when they intend to comply with the statement which reads that me and my kids and a whole pantload of other people will be provided with the policy every year and that communication will have the name and contact information of the Compliance Officer, so I can reach him or her when and if I need to.

They look at each other.

She says, “Umm, well, I, we really don’t do that.”

Precisely as I’d thought. And we are off to the races.

An Audience with the Cheeses

The day of my appointment at school has arrived.

I am always amazed at other people's ideas about accommodation.

I am one of (at most) 4 working mothers in my neighborhood. And as such, I ask for the first appointment of the morning for things like conferences. Or darn close to it. Our school district does not subscribe to the "evening appointment for the convenience of all family configurations including those who are divorced, widowed, employed in inflexible jobs, or any other obstacle that might prevent one from being able to attend a noon appointment for anything." So if not at the beginning of the day, then I have A Big Inconvenience. I work in another state and having to be back at home at school for a meeting between the hours of 8 and 2:30 is about as convenient as the cable company's 4 hour service window. As in not.

So this year, when the meaningless purple one third of a piece of paper notice came home in Hil's backpack inviting me to "pick one of three days and a convenient time" and to list by name the teachers I'd like to meet, I am on it right away. I pick any of the three days (they are the three days preceding the Thanksgiving Holiday, and the kids will have three half days in a row, so the week is pretty much shot in the ass from a productivity standpoint anyway) I ask again for the first time slot available and even offer to come in early if that floats anyone's boat (it does not). And I attempt to name the teachers based on my fading memory from Back To School Night, instead of relying on what Hil calls them. (i.e. My Evil Science Teacher) I return it to the homeroom teacher as instructed the very next day. I don't even check with Lars about his availability. That is just inviting the barbarian to cross the gate.

And the appointment slip is promptly returned that afternoon. And I have been awarded the Booby Prize. The 11:35 am to 11:45 am appointment. Right smack in the middle of the day.

I approach my boss about working from home in the spirit of having something that resembles a productive day. For even if it would not take me an hour to drive back home to the school, and if there were the chance of finding a parking space that isn't a football field away from the school, and if it would not take me even longer to return to the office, it is for sure that my appointment will not commence at 11:35.

Because, as a parent with 9 years in the school district, and 9 years of conferences to base my opinions upon, I know that once the stay-at-home mother who does not have to return to the office to participate in a conference call, or does not have to meet with an employee to discuss the fellow employee who she swears goes out an copies her outfits, or does not have to prepare a budget variance report and submit a very detailed capital request by the end of the day gets the undivided attention of 4 or 5 young respectful teachers for her 10 minute appointment, she will be so enamoured with the adult human contact and the fact that she is being spoken to in full sentences, that she will want to take a deep dive and cover every possible detail of little Johnny or little Susie's academic performance to date, and I will be sitting with my cakes tightly packed into a junior sized writing desk in the dusty linoleum corridor for half an hour while the young teachers try to derail her train of thought.

And knowing this, I know I will want to rush through my 10 allotted minutes to be heaped with laurels for my daughter and be a piss ant besides, knowing that I have commitments that await me and I promised I'd be back and I am nowhere near "back."

And so, I sheepishly approach my old school boss who vehemently opposes the telecommuting thing, and try to make it make sense to him. And when he sort of grunts approval, I joyously thank him and swear to God Himself that I will be on line at 6 am and not stop working even for the time it takes to throw in a load of permanent pressed laundry.

Besides, I have a meeting with the Assistant Superintendent to keep and I will extend the working day for hours to keep that commitment.

Boomerang

You'd think that slamming into his car with a rented U-Haul would have put the finishing touches on my relationship with Lars but it did not, surprisingly enough.

I embarked on an adventure that I thoroughly enjoyed and from which I have abundant memories and enduring friendships, and have been inspired by many of the experiences I had at the time, but never really did eradicate Lars from my life like an unwelcome rodent.

But to be truthful, he did not compare all that unfavorably to a lot of the guys I met. And he wasn't all bad. I wasn't looking for an overhaul. I was looking for some alterations. Minor things that would make a huge difference. Like when you finally wear the right bra.

And what I was really hoping to gain was leverage.

It is hard to make demands when you have fallen into a rut.
It is hard to insist on something when you know and he knows you are going to get in the same bed at night anyway.
It is hard to carry out an ultimatum when you share a home.
It is hard to stick to your guns when you have more to lose than you hope to gain.
And it is hard to recognize the moment when you've caved so often that you've lost any foothold on equal partnership. Unless your the person whose kept the foothold. Then you know you are in the proverbial catbird seat. Untouchable. Judgement-proof. Go-ahead-try-me confident.

A little distance can help a lot with that.

"If you aren't going to come pick me up for our date then we aren't having a date."
"If we don't have plans together I'm making plans with my friends."
"Sorry I can't join you on your vacation to rural Tennessee. I am taking a road trip to The Cape with my girlfriends and that leaves me a little short of time I can spend traveling on trips to completely undesirable places to yawn my way through a week's worth of barbecue, grits, tumbleweeds and inane conversation with your idiot relatives."
"I have things to do at my house this weekend. If you'd like to spend some time together, then I suppose you can pack a bag for once and inconvenience yourself by having to plan ahead for every social possibility."
"I am not interested in that movie. If you'd like to see it, by all means go see it. I am going to make plans with Kate."
"If you are going to speak to me like that, I don't anticipate staying around while you heap on the abuse. You can change your tune or I can take my show on the road. Call me when you can commit to that."

And so, little by little, I gained a some foothold with Lars. Leveled the playing field. Regained a little leverage.

And what was better, Kate and some of the friends I'd met through her absolutely loved him. We laughed. We enjoyed each other. We valued each other.

And when a tragedy struck close to home, and one of our dearest friends was diagnosed with a terminal illness, we took stock in our lives and evaluated what was truly important to us in this life.

And not even a year after having smashed Lars car and ridden off to a new home with the gals, my engagement ring was back on my left hand and would stay there.

Great Things in Small Packages

And I embarked then, on a life I had little enthusiasm or hope for, such was my emotional state. I could count on one hand the things that were going well for me. Hell, I could have gotten away with one thumb. My job was on an upswing. But at 26, who cares? I'd expected nothing less.

But life has a way of surprising us all, doesn't it?

Charlotte and Jack had moved back to town from the sunny south where Jack's career had taken them not long after they'd walked down the aisle. Charlotte was pregnant with their first child and they were temporarily living with (tolerating) my Dad (and brother Joe, no easy feat) while their new house had some work completed (like the removal of germ infested petri dish quality carpeting and the refinishing of the glorious floors they'd discovered beneath.)

In fact, it was Charlotte, once again, who helped me reach the conclusion that I needed to not go through with my marriage. I distinctly remember sitting on my Dad's sofa (while he eavesdropped, no doubt, pretending to be engrossed in a football game) and boo-hooing to Char about feeling dead inside. And she, enormous and wearing some spiffy acid-washed maternity overalls I am sure she has burned any evidence of having owned, had quietly and directly, without any sibling-rivalry fueled condescension, told me that people who are getting married do not feel "dead inside" and instead feel like all is right with the world, like they've found their souls, like their best friend and confidant was out there in the world and had finally found them.

OK, those were definitely not my feelings at the moment. That was for certain.

And now weeks later, after the three act tragic-comedy that was the breakup and move out, I was trying to reassemble a life, and had no flipping idea what it was supposed to look like when I was done.

I told myself I was a lucky person. Had always landed on my feet. I just had to weather the storm. When I'd met with Kate and the roommates at my new house, they had all been single and unattached, and shortly after having moved in, they all had found the loves of their lives. They said the house was good luck, maybe I'd find my soul mate through the magic of 223 Delmont Avenue.

And then, right on time, Charlotte and Jack's new baby came! A boy, just as beautiful as I'd imagined. He was the little swaddled distraction I needed to give me a sense of purpose. And I began to imagine that I could live a life much different than what I'd come to expect, and my heart would survive.

Your Karma Ran Over My Dogma

And then a few weeks later, after much crying and wailing and gnashing of teeth and drama of the highest caliber, I moved in with Kate and Liz, the absentee roommate with the fabulous closetful of clothes to borrow, and by the way, I’d come to realize, fabulous hair.

Lars had had a change of heart toward the end.

And by that I mean, when I’d started to waiver and think maybe I was overreacting, I reminded myself that he never once asked me to reconsider moving out or more importantly, moving on. And then he did, sort of.

One day as I picked over things in the closet that I may or may not want to salvage from my unsalvageable life, he told me he was wondering if we should not go through with moving away from each other. Would I reconsider?

“I signed a lease,” I’d lied. I would live with Kate and the ghost roommate for months before setting pen to paper on a lease. But for reasons I'll never be able to explain, I couldn't just say, "No effin' way, asshole." I had to make it an impossibility that was beyond my control.

And then moving weekend came. I had loads of stuff still to move. From my Dad’s house, from our apartment, and even some new things that I’d bought. Like a bed. I called a U-Haul rental place and rented a truck big enough for it all, yet manageable enough for me to drive.

Lars, in a rare gesture of good will, offered to drive me into the heinous slum neighborhood to the rental place so I would not have to leave my car there to be stripped and sold for parts.

I signed the rental agreement, declined the insurance and picked up a few boxes for good measure. Lars and I headed for our apartment one last time.

And while tooling down the street toward an overpass and a dicey little right hand turn under the elevated train tracks, Lars slowed to let a pedestrian pass, I slammed on the brakes abruptly, and as karma would have it, slammed into the back of his brand spanking new car.

Such are the thanks that you get when you only decide to be a nice guy at the bitter end when you see your life walking out the door and getting into a U-Haul.

Lars hopped out of the car…and I say “hopped” because he was hopping mad. Hopping, Rodney-Dangerfield-wild-eyed, hair flying mad. I sat in the truck and cried. Not only because I’d had my first ever accident and it was with my ex-fiance, but also because not once, as Lars hopped around flailing his arms and stomping his big hobbit feet and gesticulating like a mad man as he surveyed the (minimal) damage to his stupid new car, did he even glance in my direction in a way that questioned whether or not I’d been harmed in any way.

Truth be told, in that moment I’d bumped my chin but bruised my heart. I was right to be leaving. That had become patently clear.

I'mmmmmm, Movin' Out

It isn't as though there weren't signs.

Of course there were.

But signs are odd things. Signs are little things. Little itty bitty indications that something is wrong but in a vacuum don't add up to much. A little disconnect. A little episode. An inkling. A statement.

It is not until you have a whole string of episodes and inklings and other tell tale sound bites that a clear picture emerges.

I almost didn't marry Lars. Have I mentioned that?

We were engaged once and had some pretty rocky moments. I actually went away for the weekend with Estelle once during my engagement to try to decide whether or not I should go through with it.

Again, was this God's way of telling me to think, think, think, think, think, think before making a commitment that isn't easily undone?

I resolved to remain engaged that weekend. And only later did I learn that a college friend Mom and I had run into while away, a guy who I'd liked quite a lot but hadn't met until we were about to graduate, had pulled Estelle aside while I was in the ladies room and told her not to let me go through with it. I had assumed when she'd told me that he had selfish motivations. He really hadn't. As an outside observer, and someone who cared for me, he thought I was headed for a world of trouble. He was right. (Sorry, Ralph, for not taking you seriously.)

Eventually, I did call off my wedding. Took a bath on some of the down payments, cried a whole lot, made a lot of sad phone calls. I had not had the fortitude to just tell Lars "This is a mistake." Instead I had picked a fight over something irrelevant and had used that to springboard into a litany of complaints and issues and other things that indicated to me that we were out of alignment.

By then, we had chosen an apartment in which to begin our life. I was buying dishes and linens and had begun to move things from my childhood home into it. Lars had moved in.

And when I finally picked the fight and chucked the ring at him and screamed and carried on like a loon, I also realized how lost I was. How much in limbo I felt. I could not simply move back in with my Dad and brother like I'd never left. I had to move forward. My sanity depended on it.

I began to get little local papers with For Rent ads in the classifieds, right there next to the yard sale ads, and Wanted To Buy ads, and the Cherry Dining Room Set for sale ads, and the Wedding Dress for Sale, Never Worn, Size 8 ads. I for one just took my dress to be preserved. I was not that hopeless about my marriage prospects. But I did need a place to live, so I scoured the two or three best local weeklies with the most promising neighborhoods listed. I went to see a few affordable efficiencies. No way. I went to see a few above-store one bedrooms I could manage financially. They all seemed so lonely. I began responding to Houses to Share ads and saw some lovely, stately homes that 10 or 11 bikers called home and parked their Harleys in front of. I saw a couple of houses that looked like they might be held together by the crud that had hardened on all of the flat surfaces.

And then there was one last ad. A house to share, walking distance from my train, in a lovely little neighborhood. One of the roommates was getting married and moving away. One of the roommates was practically living with her very successful boyfriend and was never home, but left behind fabulous clothes she didn't mind the roommates wearing. The other roommate was Kate.

Without further discussion with Lars, I told the gals I'd love to share their home and set my sights on enjoying life as a single with a roommate in a three-bedroom twin home with a yard and a washer and dryer in the basement. And I got the big bedroom.

The Origins of Insanity

I think we've already established that my biggest mistake in this life (so far, anyway) was to have children with The World's Biggest Asshole.

That is to say, the mistake was not in having the children, per se, as Hil and Pat are the light of my life and have been since conception. The mistake was in who I chose to procreate with. (I give myself a little break in knowing that it is customary to have children with the person you are married to, so once I went down that road, the choices for fathers was pretty limited.)

Lars was a marginal spouse from the start, but I wasn't totally unhappy. I had great friends and a nice career and interesting things in my life that plugged all the holes and filled in gaps that would normally be fulfilled by a spouse. I don't expect a spouse to cover all the deficits. That is really asking a lot from one person. And if a spouse could be everything, then what would you need other people and interests for? I would think that would be lonely.

Anyway, it wasn't until we had Pat and Hil, in one-two punch succession after months of fertility treatment that I began to notice that things were unraveling.

I have actually voiced the question that wonders if all the fertility problems, and failures to conceive and unsuccessful drug therapies were all God's way of trying to tell me that having children with Lars was not something He specifically endorsed. And that by having Pat and then conceiving Hil 4 months later was a gift. A gift from Him to each other. So they would not have to endure what would eventually happen alone.

Lars is a nut. But he comes by his insanity honestly. His parents were awful. Should have gone to jail for things they did and things they failed to do and things they stood idly by and let happen to their children. His story reads like a Quentin Tarantino movie plot. Outrageous characters. Incredible plot lines. Cringe-worthy horror.

The fact that Lars' parents were substance-abusing self absorbed nutcases is only half the story. Despite the abuse and neglect, Lars and at least one of his siblings went on to be somewhat successful. Appeared to have overcome all of that.

But I have said before, right here in these pages, that nothing brings out your family weirdness like a wedding or a new baby. And that can only be magnified 100 times over when they are your own wedding and baby.

And shortly after Pat was born and Hil came screaming into the world 13 months later, while both little darlings were still in diapers, all the demons that plagued Lars for years and had quieted themselves and gone into hiding for a time, came home to roost.

Only by then, there was a new family in the coop.