Days go by. Scott and I talk regularly.
I thought that would be enough. It is not.
I am surprised to hear myself say this. Even if only to myself.
To be truthful, as I was envisioning solitude and accepting it, I was dreaming of something fun but manageable. A little more balanced. An elephant I could carve up and deal with in bite sized pieces. In truth, I was kind of looking forward to a distance relationship. Not a long distance relationship necessarily, where someone had to board a plane to spend a weekend together, but enough of a distance where there would not be any surprises. No impromptu visits. No intrusions. OK – No liberties being taken or unwelcome oppressive attention.
I apologize if that makes me sound like George Clooney. I know it does. It’s not that I don’t want the company and attention that comes with a relationship. It's that I want them in manageable, unintrusive doses. And frankly, I want to call the shots.
I have J. to thank for this sudden, selfish realization.
When we were spending the summer months sputtering out to a stall and then complete engine failure, J. did what every man does on the verge of losing something he desperately wants to keep. He claws and clings and traps whatever it is like Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater. Nothing makes you feel more like the kitty being foisted into the well by the bully than that. Even if it is all carried out under the auspices of true love.
So when J. was doing everything in his power to demonstrate what a committed partner he was, everything that is except the things I needed to see him do, the attention was smothering. Full on pillow-over-the-face-oh-my-God-I-think-I might-just-die-this-way smothering.
Showing up on my doorstep even as we are talking on the phone while I assume he is at home. The landscapers/contractors/insurance people/mortgage brokers sent to my house to weed and seed or paint and tile or insure my life and limb or refinance me to greater financial security all without being asked.
Gifts for my children. Flowers. Notes on my windshield.
Offers of rides to the airport.
Impromptu visits to my office to take me to lunch.
Expensive meals sent to resorts where I was staying with girlfriends on a long weekend. Completely unnecessary and unwelcome favors done without being asked.
Excessive concern for the well-being of people that are important to me that rises to a new level of creepiness.
And then abuses of privileges.
Checking my phone for unfamiliar numbers – especially those dialed or texted while I was away from him. Including people from my office.
Being in my house, and denying that he had been. In the face of a pant load of evidence to the contrary.
The silver bullet - Showing up unexpectedly and unannounced at the sacred Girls Weekend.
The crucifix to the heart - Getting a tattoo that forever connects the two of us in a way that made my blood run cold and had me fleeing my office to race home and change the locks and call the police.
After all that smothering profession of true love, which was actually just sick and twisted obsessive desperation, I was looking forward to a relationship that was a little closer to my weight class. A little less emotionally taxing. One where I could have my cake and eat it, too.
I want to be George Clooney.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
A Whole New World
Scott and I talk on the phone – yet again – as I shake, stir, garnish and guzzle my finish line martini. A Dean Martin strength antidote for my nerves and my muscles – both worn to shreds by the tense, white knuckle endless drive across state lines, a la Smokey and the Bandit.
I have new appreciation for how Christopher Columbus must have felt when he finally beached the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria on the banks of The New World. Betcha he was opening a flask too.
Scott is relieved beyond words that I am home and remain in one, albeit trembling, piece. Tells me he’d have been crushed if something were to have happened to me. He’d not expected to love me this much this soon.
What?
Happy Kwanzaa to me!!!!!
Who would have thought?
This is a completely unexpected place for me to be in. Consider this: I have twice now elected to be alone rather than swim around in the drainage ditch of misery that was my then current relationship, and twice have had my mind changed by a lovely person.
When my marriage was crumbling and forming a sucking pool of quicksand around my feet, and I was scared out of my mind about all the unknowns yet to come, I had one simple truth to hold onto with both hands, even as my fingernails dug into my palms as I gripped it.
I knew beyond any shred of doubt that if I were to remain alone for the rest of my natural life – never find another partner, never enjoy another long term meaningful relationship, never walk down the aisle in front of 300 of my closest family and friends, that I would choose solitude - no matter how lonely, or boring, or overburdened with responsibilities, or fraught with financial concerns and bereft of companionship – I would choose that isolation, and it would be a far better choice than to remain in the troubled, unhealthy, abusive, denigrating and all around unpleasant situation I was subject to as a married person.
And then J. came along. And in many ways he spackled and painted over a lot of the cracks and holes and ugliness. I began to envision a life of happiness as a real possibility. I had much of what I craved and a better partner than I’d ever had in marriage.
Or at least I thought so for some time. Too much time. I think that J. could keep up the illusion of near perfection for only so long. And since we’ve all come to understand how divorce and custody impacts your normal routines and dictates much of how you live out your life from the decree signing forward, we needed more time than he had stamina.
And little by little, as he failed to keep up with the maintenance, the poor craftsmanship came to light. Cracks formed. Nails popped. Leaks sprung and weight-bearing beams buckled under pressure. The whole thing was out of plumb. We were crumbling.
And again, after months of waxing and waning and talking and compromising, through eyes bloodshot with tears, I saw what I needed to see. And then said what needed to be said, even as my voice shook. And again I thought solitude would be a far better choice. And it truly would have been.
But this time I had the benefit of having been happy for a time. If J. gave me anything it was the ability to see myself capable of finding real happiness and the ability to understand what real happiness looks like. I was hopeful that I could find it, but even more importantly, now I was confident that I didn’t need it to be in the shape of a relationship with a man. It could simply be a joyous life with my children, a fulfilling career, and the love and company of wonderful, buoyant friends. I had those things already. Anything more would be candles on the cake.
Get out your matches. Here comes Scott.
I have new appreciation for how Christopher Columbus must have felt when he finally beached the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria on the banks of The New World. Betcha he was opening a flask too.
Scott is relieved beyond words that I am home and remain in one, albeit trembling, piece. Tells me he’d have been crushed if something were to have happened to me. He’d not expected to love me this much this soon.
What?
Happy Kwanzaa to me!!!!!
Who would have thought?
This is a completely unexpected place for me to be in. Consider this: I have twice now elected to be alone rather than swim around in the drainage ditch of misery that was my then current relationship, and twice have had my mind changed by a lovely person.
When my marriage was crumbling and forming a sucking pool of quicksand around my feet, and I was scared out of my mind about all the unknowns yet to come, I had one simple truth to hold onto with both hands, even as my fingernails dug into my palms as I gripped it.
I knew beyond any shred of doubt that if I were to remain alone for the rest of my natural life – never find another partner, never enjoy another long term meaningful relationship, never walk down the aisle in front of 300 of my closest family and friends, that I would choose solitude - no matter how lonely, or boring, or overburdened with responsibilities, or fraught with financial concerns and bereft of companionship – I would choose that isolation, and it would be a far better choice than to remain in the troubled, unhealthy, abusive, denigrating and all around unpleasant situation I was subject to as a married person.
And then J. came along. And in many ways he spackled and painted over a lot of the cracks and holes and ugliness. I began to envision a life of happiness as a real possibility. I had much of what I craved and a better partner than I’d ever had in marriage.
Or at least I thought so for some time. Too much time. I think that J. could keep up the illusion of near perfection for only so long. And since we’ve all come to understand how divorce and custody impacts your normal routines and dictates much of how you live out your life from the decree signing forward, we needed more time than he had stamina.
And little by little, as he failed to keep up with the maintenance, the poor craftsmanship came to light. Cracks formed. Nails popped. Leaks sprung and weight-bearing beams buckled under pressure. The whole thing was out of plumb. We were crumbling.
And again, after months of waxing and waning and talking and compromising, through eyes bloodshot with tears, I saw what I needed to see. And then said what needed to be said, even as my voice shook. And again I thought solitude would be a far better choice. And it truly would have been.
But this time I had the benefit of having been happy for a time. If J. gave me anything it was the ability to see myself capable of finding real happiness and the ability to understand what real happiness looks like. I was hopeful that I could find it, but even more importantly, now I was confident that I didn’t need it to be in the shape of a relationship with a man. It could simply be a joyous life with my children, a fulfilling career, and the love and company of wonderful, buoyant friends. I had those things already. Anything more would be candles on the cake.
Get out your matches. Here comes Scott.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Road Less Traveled
But I had a cell phone. And a cell phone charger. And I had a credit card. And I had Scott.
The credit card would be for when I desperately had to stop driving. Due to lack of visibility, lack of gas, or lack of fortitude. Any one of them a distinct possibility.
But in the mean time, the phone was charging, the earpiece was affixed to my head, and I was chatting regularly with Scott.
Him: “Where are you now?”
Me: “Mile marker…umm...I don’t know.”
But my interest in appearing calm to him as he wrung his hands actually calmed me. I had no need to send him into a tailspin of panic. He was already pacing the floor. I did not want him to turn into John Boy Walton and heading out into the storm searching for me.
And I could only gain from remaining as calm as possible. Who wants a panic-stricken out of control nerveen for a girlfriend? And a little mind over matter might keep my otherwise pit-stained self from breaking into a full on flopsweat.
To be truthful, if I were not alone in my frozen little encapsulated toboggan to Hell, this would be kind of fun. Maybe even an adventure.
If say, Joy or Kate or Priscilla were with me, I could see it being a hoot! Just as irresponsible as me, they would find the fun in the disaster. Take a detour, find a hotel, check in, head to the bar. We can always go home tomorrow.
None of that is fun by yourself.
And neither is the notion that all the life and death decisions are yours to own. When I had cars on the road with me, I followed them to ensure I would stay on the road. And then I nearly followed one off the road into a ditch. And then another onto an exit ramp in God Only Knows Where. All the mistakes are mine to make.
Is that a good place to pull over and scrape ice off my car? Or will I get creamed by a Mack truck driven by a lunatic who hasn’t slept in 4 days courtesy of a jumbo roll of No-Doz?
Stopping to scape every 10 miles and calling Scott every 15 helped to pass the time and the miles themselves. Soon, but not soon enough, I was on the bridge to my home state. Familiar territory. I can get home from anywhere on this side of the river. The bridge was windy but dry. The route home more crowded and well lit than any other I’d been on all day or night.
I called the kids.
Lars answered. He’s not going in to work until later tomorrow. It’s bad out…can the kids just stay until morning?
My first reaction is to tell him no. I miss them. I want to kiss their little faces.
But I reconsider.
By all means yes. Momma needs a hot shower and a cold martini.
The credit card would be for when I desperately had to stop driving. Due to lack of visibility, lack of gas, or lack of fortitude. Any one of them a distinct possibility.
But in the mean time, the phone was charging, the earpiece was affixed to my head, and I was chatting regularly with Scott.
Him: “Where are you now?”
Me: “Mile marker…umm...I don’t know.”
But my interest in appearing calm to him as he wrung his hands actually calmed me. I had no need to send him into a tailspin of panic. He was already pacing the floor. I did not want him to turn into John Boy Walton and heading out into the storm searching for me.
And I could only gain from remaining as calm as possible. Who wants a panic-stricken out of control nerveen for a girlfriend? And a little mind over matter might keep my otherwise pit-stained self from breaking into a full on flopsweat.
To be truthful, if I were not alone in my frozen little encapsulated toboggan to Hell, this would be kind of fun. Maybe even an adventure.
If say, Joy or Kate or Priscilla were with me, I could see it being a hoot! Just as irresponsible as me, they would find the fun in the disaster. Take a detour, find a hotel, check in, head to the bar. We can always go home tomorrow.
None of that is fun by yourself.
And neither is the notion that all the life and death decisions are yours to own. When I had cars on the road with me, I followed them to ensure I would stay on the road. And then I nearly followed one off the road into a ditch. And then another onto an exit ramp in God Only Knows Where. All the mistakes are mine to make.
Is that a good place to pull over and scrape ice off my car? Or will I get creamed by a Mack truck driven by a lunatic who hasn’t slept in 4 days courtesy of a jumbo roll of No-Doz?
Stopping to scape every 10 miles and calling Scott every 15 helped to pass the time and the miles themselves. Soon, but not soon enough, I was on the bridge to my home state. Familiar territory. I can get home from anywhere on this side of the river. The bridge was windy but dry. The route home more crowded and well lit than any other I’d been on all day or night.
I called the kids.
Lars answered. He’s not going in to work until later tomorrow. It’s bad out…can the kids just stay until morning?
My first reaction is to tell him no. I miss them. I want to kiss their little faces.
But I reconsider.
By all means yes. Momma needs a hot shower and a cold martini.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
And Miles to Go Before I Sleep
Forty-five minutes later.
I am fewer than 10 miles from Scott’s house.
I am being microwaved alive by the windshield vent heat.
My coat and scarf are like a straight jacket.
My windshield wipers are crusted in ice.
I have to pee.
I pull into the rest stop a mile from the freeway I need to get on.
First things first. I empty my bladder and buy some bubblegum.
I ditch the scarf and coat and gloves and retrieve the long and the short scrapers from the back of the car. I remove what I can from the caked wiper blades. There are three blades and I can only reach two of them. I set out again.
I am in low gear 4WD. No speed above 20 mph. All traction.
It is going to be a long drive.
What follows is actually four and a half hours of slipping, skidding, spinning, drifting, zero visibility white knuckle terror that I will never forget.
And will never complain about.
I will never forget because I never saw so many drivers lose control and end up in ditches or embankments or wooded areas, turned around and upside down with no ability to right themselves or help their own families.
I have never had such full on panic as when I realized that daylight hours were waning and the freeway is not lit and there were so few drivers (so few people idiot enough to drive…) that my headlights, caked with ice, were the only things to light my way.
I never experienced the blind confusion that comes when a driver can’t see what is on the side of the road – a shoulder? A ditch? Another vehicle? – and therefore can’t determine how safe it would be (or would not be…) to pull over to de-ice the headlights and clean the wiper blades that are so caked with ice that they no longer glide along the surface of the windshield but are inches above it – and there is a toll booth a short distance ahead and the cattle chutes are not visible under the current conditions and I am clearly a goner if I can't take care of this NOW.
I never knew how lonely it could be to lose the tail lights of the only other car on the road with you as they pull on to an exit ramp and leave you to travel the road less traveled all alone, and without even the kindness of strangers to rely upon.
I will not complain because this was my choice.
When it became clear that the trek back to Scott’s would be no shorter and no safer than the trek still ahead, I came to the realization that whatever my fate on this snowy, dangerous, impossibly bad night, I had only myself to blame.
What a lonely place.
I am fewer than 10 miles from Scott’s house.
I am being microwaved alive by the windshield vent heat.
My coat and scarf are like a straight jacket.
My windshield wipers are crusted in ice.
I have to pee.
I pull into the rest stop a mile from the freeway I need to get on.
First things first. I empty my bladder and buy some bubblegum.
I ditch the scarf and coat and gloves and retrieve the long and the short scrapers from the back of the car. I remove what I can from the caked wiper blades. There are three blades and I can only reach two of them. I set out again.
I am in low gear 4WD. No speed above 20 mph. All traction.
It is going to be a long drive.
What follows is actually four and a half hours of slipping, skidding, spinning, drifting, zero visibility white knuckle terror that I will never forget.
And will never complain about.
I will never forget because I never saw so many drivers lose control and end up in ditches or embankments or wooded areas, turned around and upside down with no ability to right themselves or help their own families.
I have never had such full on panic as when I realized that daylight hours were waning and the freeway is not lit and there were so few drivers (so few people idiot enough to drive…) that my headlights, caked with ice, were the only things to light my way.
I never experienced the blind confusion that comes when a driver can’t see what is on the side of the road – a shoulder? A ditch? Another vehicle? – and therefore can’t determine how safe it would be (or would not be…) to pull over to de-ice the headlights and clean the wiper blades that are so caked with ice that they no longer glide along the surface of the windshield but are inches above it – and there is a toll booth a short distance ahead and the cattle chutes are not visible under the current conditions and I am clearly a goner if I can't take care of this NOW.
I never knew how lonely it could be to lose the tail lights of the only other car on the road with you as they pull on to an exit ramp and leave you to travel the road less traveled all alone, and without even the kindness of strangers to rely upon.
I will not complain because this was my choice.
When it became clear that the trek back to Scott’s would be no shorter and no safer than the trek still ahead, I came to the realization that whatever my fate on this snowy, dangerous, impossibly bad night, I had only myself to blame.
What a lonely place.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
But I have Promises to Keep
Eventually, I need to pry myself away from Scott, the pups and the warmth of the fire to start my drive home. I get my kiddos back tonight.
But it would be so much nicer if I could stay in my jammies, pups piled on my legs and feet, watching movies by the fire with my head on Scott’s chest while his girls baked chocolate chip cookies and built snow forts out in the yard.
But I am dying to see the kiddos.
Later than I should have, I hoist myself from the sofa, dogs and Scott, repack my bag of tricks, zshzsh myself a bit so that at least what hovered above the steering wheel would resemble a human head, grab a bottle of water and an apple and begin my goodbyes.
Scott is in a panic. It is really snowing. It has snowed nearly a foot. I have to literally march to my car – in really impractical shoes, no less. (Fashion comes at a cost. Sometimes it takes the form of toes lost to frostbite.)
I am not daunted by the storm. At least not at that moment.
I drive what could be described as a tank; a huge, behemoth, manual transmission, military-style, 6 speed war vehicle with 4WD, Low gear 4WD, and off-roading features. (because there are so many off-roading opportunities in the suburban north east of the US).
But I have lived and driven my whole life in this region where Old Man Winter loves a good joke. This is a walk in the park. A day at the beach. Taking candy from a baby.
Scott is a wreck. Kicking himself for not being the voice of reason and insisting that I stay where I was last night.
I’m sorry, love. That ship has clearly sailed. I need to begin the journey home. A journey of a thousand miles begins with the turning of the engine key, so please stand aside and allow me to rev my engine.
Actually, Scott had started it 10 minutes ago. It is already purring and the interior is toasty warm. So nice. Lars would have left me to brave the elements entirely on my own as a little lesson to me about my many foolish notions.
I tell Scott that I swear, and would swear on a stack of Bibles if I had one handy, that if I set out and find that it is too harsh or too dangerous, I will turn immediately around and come back to his house, and tell Lars I have been traveling and can not get home because of the weather. (Truth be told, I would rather boil off an appendage in a Fry Baby before placing that phone call, but a girl has to say what a girl has to say.)
A final kiss goodbye and I put the Sherman tank in reverse, crunching out of the driveway in the new fallen snow. With zero visibility and a full tank of gas.
My first fishtail is 6 houses away at the end of Scott’s street, and thankfully, well out of view from where he is surely still watching at the end of his driveway.
But it would be so much nicer if I could stay in my jammies, pups piled on my legs and feet, watching movies by the fire with my head on Scott’s chest while his girls baked chocolate chip cookies and built snow forts out in the yard.
But I am dying to see the kiddos.
Later than I should have, I hoist myself from the sofa, dogs and Scott, repack my bag of tricks, zshzsh myself a bit so that at least what hovered above the steering wheel would resemble a human head, grab a bottle of water and an apple and begin my goodbyes.
Scott is in a panic. It is really snowing. It has snowed nearly a foot. I have to literally march to my car – in really impractical shoes, no less. (Fashion comes at a cost. Sometimes it takes the form of toes lost to frostbite.)
I am not daunted by the storm. At least not at that moment.
I drive what could be described as a tank; a huge, behemoth, manual transmission, military-style, 6 speed war vehicle with 4WD, Low gear 4WD, and off-roading features. (because there are so many off-roading opportunities in the suburban north east of the US).
But I have lived and driven my whole life in this region where Old Man Winter loves a good joke. This is a walk in the park. A day at the beach. Taking candy from a baby.
Scott is a wreck. Kicking himself for not being the voice of reason and insisting that I stay where I was last night.
I’m sorry, love. That ship has clearly sailed. I need to begin the journey home. A journey of a thousand miles begins with the turning of the engine key, so please stand aside and allow me to rev my engine.
Actually, Scott had started it 10 minutes ago. It is already purring and the interior is toasty warm. So nice. Lars would have left me to brave the elements entirely on my own as a little lesson to me about my many foolish notions.
I tell Scott that I swear, and would swear on a stack of Bibles if I had one handy, that if I set out and find that it is too harsh or too dangerous, I will turn immediately around and come back to his house, and tell Lars I have been traveling and can not get home because of the weather. (Truth be told, I would rather boil off an appendage in a Fry Baby before placing that phone call, but a girl has to say what a girl has to say.)
A final kiss goodbye and I put the Sherman tank in reverse, crunching out of the driveway in the new fallen snow. With zero visibility and a full tank of gas.
My first fishtail is 6 houses away at the end of Scott’s street, and thankfully, well out of view from where he is surely still watching at the end of his driveway.
Monday, February 21, 2011
We Are Not in Kansas Anymore
Dogs are a really nice ice breaker.
So long as you have food they will follow you anywhere and make great conversation pieces as they scramble around in an attempt to get the last morsel from your fingertips.
I am not what I would describe as a Dog Person, but I will play along for the morning. Playing with the dogs takes my mind off of my “what was I thinking” obsessive compulsive need to explain that I don’t regularly “do this.”
“This” being something I am not sure how to define.
Scott, bless his heart, likes a hot breakfast. Sausage. Toast. Canadian bacon. And the piece de resistance, scrapple! Everything but the squeal, somehow congealed together and packed into a 3 dimensional trapezoidal shape. You love it or hate it. And if you love it, you fry it to death in little crispy slices. If you hate it, you nearly have to leave the dwelling to avoid the smell.
How nice. Scott and I are in the Loves Scrapple category. It should be on the questionnaire on singles online dating sites. For most people it is a deal breaker.
And the pups are scrapple lovers too. Scott and I drink coffee and cook scrapple and chat about nothing in particular and flirt for a bit while the dogs circle around us. They really are adorable – each with its own personality. Neurotic and scratching Charlie. Sad eyed, patient, sweet Snoopy. Attention seeking and loyal Buddy, who I can't stop calling Ernie. I have no idea what breeds they are. Is there a Cuteness breed? As I flip little pieces of scrapple on the hot griddle, and they in turn sizzle and pop and explode like shrapnel, the dogs cling to me like tweeners to Justin Bieber. It's sort of endearing.
And when the scrapple is cooked to sizzling, crispy, perfection and is laid out on paper towels to have the grease soaked from it, and Scott and I finally pop the first delectable crunchies into our mouths, the dogs go ape.
Of course we are not going to eat the whole pound! Scott lets me share a few pieces myself with the dogs as a good will gesture, and suddenly I am queen of his castle. I am not sure I haven’t been all along.
The girls wake up and stagger sleepily into the kitchen. I am feeling the love so much from the pups that I don’t recognize the moment of truth for what it is.
We all say hello. Polite smiles all around. Scott launches, not at all nervously or self-consciously by the way, into a run down of breakfast possibilities. He evidently has already established that the girls are not eating scrapple. (Must have gotten their mother’s scrapple genes)
They don’t act like I am any big deal, don’t make a production, don’t show off, don’t become insolent little territorialists. It’s as though I was always there. Or am not there.
I am not at all sure what to do or what to think. Maybe they see sleepover dates all the time. Maybe I am just one more number in the cell phone. Don’t worry about remembering my name. You won’t need to recall it after tomorrow…And OMG I am in my pajamas and am rocking Thriller Video hair and makeup.
But Scott is being absolutely darling. And he is not wigging at all. Couldn't be sweeter, or more attentive. I take my lead from him. Go with the flow. Fill up our coffee cups again and turn on the weather channel.
I have an 80 mile trek home. And the weather is epic.
So long as you have food they will follow you anywhere and make great conversation pieces as they scramble around in an attempt to get the last morsel from your fingertips.
I am not what I would describe as a Dog Person, but I will play along for the morning. Playing with the dogs takes my mind off of my “what was I thinking” obsessive compulsive need to explain that I don’t regularly “do this.”
“This” being something I am not sure how to define.
Scott, bless his heart, likes a hot breakfast. Sausage. Toast. Canadian bacon. And the piece de resistance, scrapple! Everything but the squeal, somehow congealed together and packed into a 3 dimensional trapezoidal shape. You love it or hate it. And if you love it, you fry it to death in little crispy slices. If you hate it, you nearly have to leave the dwelling to avoid the smell.
How nice. Scott and I are in the Loves Scrapple category. It should be on the questionnaire on singles online dating sites. For most people it is a deal breaker.
And the pups are scrapple lovers too. Scott and I drink coffee and cook scrapple and chat about nothing in particular and flirt for a bit while the dogs circle around us. They really are adorable – each with its own personality. Neurotic and scratching Charlie. Sad eyed, patient, sweet Snoopy. Attention seeking and loyal Buddy, who I can't stop calling Ernie. I have no idea what breeds they are. Is there a Cuteness breed? As I flip little pieces of scrapple on the hot griddle, and they in turn sizzle and pop and explode like shrapnel, the dogs cling to me like tweeners to Justin Bieber. It's sort of endearing.
And when the scrapple is cooked to sizzling, crispy, perfection and is laid out on paper towels to have the grease soaked from it, and Scott and I finally pop the first delectable crunchies into our mouths, the dogs go ape.
Of course we are not going to eat the whole pound! Scott lets me share a few pieces myself with the dogs as a good will gesture, and suddenly I am queen of his castle. I am not sure I haven’t been all along.
The girls wake up and stagger sleepily into the kitchen. I am feeling the love so much from the pups that I don’t recognize the moment of truth for what it is.
We all say hello. Polite smiles all around. Scott launches, not at all nervously or self-consciously by the way, into a run down of breakfast possibilities. He evidently has already established that the girls are not eating scrapple. (Must have gotten their mother’s scrapple genes)
They don’t act like I am any big deal, don’t make a production, don’t show off, don’t become insolent little territorialists. It’s as though I was always there. Or am not there.
I am not at all sure what to do or what to think. Maybe they see sleepover dates all the time. Maybe I am just one more number in the cell phone. Don’t worry about remembering my name. You won’t need to recall it after tomorrow…And OMG I am in my pajamas and am rocking Thriller Video hair and makeup.
But Scott is being absolutely darling. And he is not wigging at all. Couldn't be sweeter, or more attentive. I take my lead from him. Go with the flow. Fill up our coffee cups again and turn on the weather channel.
I have an 80 mile trek home. And the weather is epic.
Friday, February 18, 2011
My Hair Had a Party Last Night
Morning and a ton of snow.
This idea seemed much more brilliant the night before when I was driving.
I hear Scott whistling for dogs to come in and smell coffee perking. Oh, thank God.
A peek at the clock tells me it is 8:30 in the morning. It is hard to tell with the weather doing all that it is doing.
I listen for sounds of the girls.
Who am I kidding? They are teen-aged-sleep-‘til- nooners. I will have a full caffeine buzz cranking before their feet hit the carpet for the first time. I should get up.
Thankfully, Scott has a bathroom in his bedroom. I am sure I have zshzshing to do. I get up and assess the damage.
Fright wig.
A nylon, day-glo Rocky Horror wig would be better. I am somewhere between Joey Heatherton “Come Hither” (http://www.peoplequiz.com/images/bios/joey-heatherton.jp-2222.jpg) and Phyllis Diller “Run Screaming” (http://watchoutfor.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/PhyllisDiller-pic1-main_Full.jpg). I quietly rifle through all the drawers in Scott’s bathroom. He has all the hair accoutrements you would expect a man to have. Some kind of harsh, manly, hair rubber cement and a standard barber-issued black comb.
I am doomed. Between the Addams Family hair do and the mascara smeared into the bags under my eyes, which I could easily tuck into the waistband of my pajama bottoms, I will be lucky if Scott doesn’t pretend to have amnesia and struggle to recall my identity.
Before scrubbing his entire person with a wire brush and some kind of abrasive cleanser.
I am sure the glue and the comb in any combination will leave my head looking more like a tumbleweed than a human appendage. I should sneak into the girls’ bathroom and swipe a dollop of de-frizzing, gravity defying goo.
But with my luck, I’d get busted.
“Hi. I’m Mary. Your Dad’s ummm, friend. From high school. Well, I'm not actually in high school. Obviously. And these are my pajamas. Pleased to meet you. I was just filching some of your overpriced salon quality hair relaxing schmutz that I am sure you paid for yourself with your hard earned babysitting money. Sorry. 'Scuse my appearance. I don’t really have a blood disorder. I am just...really tired. And a little hungover, actually. To be completely truthful. So! Off I go! See you aroud – around your house, I guess. You live here.”
Umm. No.
I opt for a little water and some hand lotion that I find in my purse. The right proportion tames the hair a little and can remove the dark tarry half moons from my bloodshot eye area. Brushing the teeth does wonders for my disposition. So does a little Chapstick Scott has in his drawer of man stuff. Thank God he skis.
As zshzshed as I can get with what survival gear I can find, I pad quietly into the hall and out toward the kitchen hoping to be able to survey the situation before making my presence known.
How naïve. Scott has 3 dogs who smell me coming from a mile away, and not because I had been drinking the night before.
Scott turns with two coffee mugs filled with steaming liquid confidence and his smile is all I need.
Suddenly, I am ready to face the dogs, the girls and the day, fright wig and all.
This idea seemed much more brilliant the night before when I was driving.
I hear Scott whistling for dogs to come in and smell coffee perking. Oh, thank God.
A peek at the clock tells me it is 8:30 in the morning. It is hard to tell with the weather doing all that it is doing.
I listen for sounds of the girls.
Who am I kidding? They are teen-aged-sleep-‘til- nooners. I will have a full caffeine buzz cranking before their feet hit the carpet for the first time. I should get up.
Thankfully, Scott has a bathroom in his bedroom. I am sure I have zshzshing to do. I get up and assess the damage.
Fright wig.
A nylon, day-glo Rocky Horror wig would be better. I am somewhere between Joey Heatherton “Come Hither” (http://www.peoplequiz.com/images/bios/joey-heatherton.jp-2222.jpg) and Phyllis Diller “Run Screaming” (http://watchoutfor.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/PhyllisDiller-pic1-main_Full.jpg). I quietly rifle through all the drawers in Scott’s bathroom. He has all the hair accoutrements you would expect a man to have. Some kind of harsh, manly, hair rubber cement and a standard barber-issued black comb.
I am doomed. Between the Addams Family hair do and the mascara smeared into the bags under my eyes, which I could easily tuck into the waistband of my pajama bottoms, I will be lucky if Scott doesn’t pretend to have amnesia and struggle to recall my identity.
Before scrubbing his entire person with a wire brush and some kind of abrasive cleanser.
I am sure the glue and the comb in any combination will leave my head looking more like a tumbleweed than a human appendage. I should sneak into the girls’ bathroom and swipe a dollop of de-frizzing, gravity defying goo.
But with my luck, I’d get busted.
“Hi. I’m Mary. Your Dad’s ummm, friend. From high school. Well, I'm not actually in high school. Obviously. And these are my pajamas. Pleased to meet you. I was just filching some of your overpriced salon quality hair relaxing schmutz that I am sure you paid for yourself with your hard earned babysitting money. Sorry. 'Scuse my appearance. I don’t really have a blood disorder. I am just...really tired. And a little hungover, actually. To be completely truthful. So! Off I go! See you aroud – around your house, I guess. You live here.”
Umm. No.
I opt for a little water and some hand lotion that I find in my purse. The right proportion tames the hair a little and can remove the dark tarry half moons from my bloodshot eye area. Brushing the teeth does wonders for my disposition. So does a little Chapstick Scott has in his drawer of man stuff. Thank God he skis.
As zshzshed as I can get with what survival gear I can find, I pad quietly into the hall and out toward the kitchen hoping to be able to survey the situation before making my presence known.
How naïve. Scott has 3 dogs who smell me coming from a mile away, and not because I had been drinking the night before.
Scott turns with two coffee mugs filled with steaming liquid confidence and his smile is all I need.
Suddenly, I am ready to face the dogs, the girls and the day, fright wig and all.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
I Drove All Niiiiiggggghhhhtttt...
Turns out Mom was right about the storm.
A nasty nor’easter that dumped more than a foot of freezing, swirling, icy snow everywhere you looked where I live.
And even in the state where Scott lives. And I know this because while we were driving home from Jack’s relatives’ house, having spent the evening dodging Jane, cheating at poker, raking certain NFL commentators over the coals, laughing at horrific bad dates, and swearing on a stack of Bibles that we’d see each other between now and the next holiday, I sent a text to Scott telling him that I wished the holiday were ending the way it had begun. With him.
And then a volley of texts later, and an outfit change and a little zshzshing later, I started a long trek over a river and into the woods in a neighboring state.
At this point, Cyndi Lauper’s wailing rendition of “I Drove All Night” would make an appropriate sound track.
I drove what seemed like all night to Scott’s house – which seemed like Green Acres. Remote – woodsy – and occupied by Scott, his two daughters, 3 dogs, a rabbit and a cat. I looked around for signs of a snake, a fish and a bird in a cage.
The dogs were quite the welcoming committee. Scrambling all over one another to greet me on the door step. Each one adorable and wagging and whimpering (and in some cases, peeing) more than the next. Kitty glanced over and ignored the commotion.
I’d meet the girls in the morning.
How was THAT going to be?
By contrast, J. and I had played things so much more cautiously.
Concealed the relationship for months (until Lars spilled the beans in order to inaccurately suggest to our children that I’d been cheating on him…such a responsible Dad!)
We’d met each other’s children only after deciding we were truly a long term thing. Ten months into the deal.
We introduced them to each other only after the year anniversary and the first Christmas dictated by custody agreements.
In retrospect, it was probably a better idea on paper than in practice. How was any child supposed to feel free to dislike or ignore or generally misbehave in front of the new partner when his parent had presented the person as a de facto shoe-in winner? The votes had been counted. Too bad if you think he or she is all wrong for the job!
If I had it all to do over again…Oh right! I do!
Scott was proving to be a way cooler customer. To his mind, we were solid enough to safely bet on spending a good bit of time together getting to know one another (again). Why not let the kids in on the big secret?
OK – truth be told, Scott was married once more since divorcing his kids’ mother. His girls had probably witnessed a few more dates than my kids had as their parents’ marriage faded from view in the rear view mirror of their lives.
My kids had known J. – and only J. - for a long time.
But they’d met Casey and had been crazy about the idea of my prospective opportunity for romance (anyone but J.!) - at least until any notion of romance withered and turned to dust in the noxious plume of gas that was Casey’s breath.
Alrighty then – in the morning, I’d zshzsh a little more and say a brave “Hello” to the girls over coffee.
I am sure I have absolutely no idea what I am doing.
A nasty nor’easter that dumped more than a foot of freezing, swirling, icy snow everywhere you looked where I live.
And even in the state where Scott lives. And I know this because while we were driving home from Jack’s relatives’ house, having spent the evening dodging Jane, cheating at poker, raking certain NFL commentators over the coals, laughing at horrific bad dates, and swearing on a stack of Bibles that we’d see each other between now and the next holiday, I sent a text to Scott telling him that I wished the holiday were ending the way it had begun. With him.
And then a volley of texts later, and an outfit change and a little zshzshing later, I started a long trek over a river and into the woods in a neighboring state.
At this point, Cyndi Lauper’s wailing rendition of “I Drove All Night” would make an appropriate sound track.
I drove what seemed like all night to Scott’s house – which seemed like Green Acres. Remote – woodsy – and occupied by Scott, his two daughters, 3 dogs, a rabbit and a cat. I looked around for signs of a snake, a fish and a bird in a cage.
The dogs were quite the welcoming committee. Scrambling all over one another to greet me on the door step. Each one adorable and wagging and whimpering (and in some cases, peeing) more than the next. Kitty glanced over and ignored the commotion.
I’d meet the girls in the morning.
How was THAT going to be?
By contrast, J. and I had played things so much more cautiously.
Concealed the relationship for months (until Lars spilled the beans in order to inaccurately suggest to our children that I’d been cheating on him…such a responsible Dad!)
We’d met each other’s children only after deciding we were truly a long term thing. Ten months into the deal.
We introduced them to each other only after the year anniversary and the first Christmas dictated by custody agreements.
In retrospect, it was probably a better idea on paper than in practice. How was any child supposed to feel free to dislike or ignore or generally misbehave in front of the new partner when his parent had presented the person as a de facto shoe-in winner? The votes had been counted. Too bad if you think he or she is all wrong for the job!
If I had it all to do over again…Oh right! I do!
Scott was proving to be a way cooler customer. To his mind, we were solid enough to safely bet on spending a good bit of time together getting to know one another (again). Why not let the kids in on the big secret?
OK – truth be told, Scott was married once more since divorcing his kids’ mother. His girls had probably witnessed a few more dates than my kids had as their parents’ marriage faded from view in the rear view mirror of their lives.
My kids had known J. – and only J. - for a long time.
But they’d met Casey and had been crazy about the idea of my prospective opportunity for romance (anyone but J.!) - at least until any notion of romance withered and turned to dust in the noxious plume of gas that was Casey’s breath.
Alrighty then – in the morning, I’d zshzsh a little more and say a brave “Hello” to the girls over coffee.
I am sure I have absolutely no idea what I am doing.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Jane Says, Have You Seen My Wig Around?
Jane moves in for the kill. I take a step backwards to find someone right behind me at the hummus. Oh good! Backup! Misery loves company. I can deftly exit stage left as soon as the other person has the floor.
Not so fast. The other person has fled the table already. I swear I saw a glance, horrified recognition of what was to come, and then a hasty retreat and abandonment of a plate of cheese dip and Triscuits. I am alone in the cross hairs.
Jane introduces herself. I introduce myself and explain how I have come to be at this party in the first place (omitting the details about how heinous it is to have to share my children with a hateful, beer swilling lunatic on the holiday and my mother’s nomadic, grudge-inspired disappearance, and sticking just to the facts…I was on my own and invited to spend the holiday with Charlotte and Jack.) Enough said.
But Jane has decided that I look familiar and wants to know why.
I am not in any mood to lengthen the conversation so I refrain from saying anything that I normally would have said in response to a similar remark, depending upon the audience:
I have one of those faces. Everyone thinks they know me.
I know, I know. Jamie Lee Curtis. Before she let herself go gray and frowzy, I hope.
Sad but true. I’ve been told I look like Blossom. www.tvguide.com/tvshows/blossom/100062
I cop out and say that I just must bear a strong resemblance to my dear sister Charlotte. Yes, Charlotte. And speaking of Charlotte, where has my sister gotten to? Better go track her down! Buh-bye!
Not so fast.
Jane squints and says that she thinks it may be a professional connection.
I have seldom wished for vanishing powers with quite this intensity.
I am in Human Resources. If you know me from work and I don’t remember you, chances are you are not someone I’ve hired. Chances are more likely that I have fired you, meted out some kind of disciplinary action to you, or interviewed you and declined your application.
These are not the people I want to be standing next to a lit Sterno can with.
She thinks she may have contacted me about placing people in one of the companies I’ve worked for. A third party placement agency.
Oh goody. My favorite. These are the folks that get to deal with the worst side of me. The I’ll-have-you-for-breakfast-and-not-think-twice-about-leaving-your-face-in-shreds-if-you-don’t-give-me-the-contract-terms-I-want persona I trot out when the stakes are high and the candidates few, but I have a budget to meet and a pretty unimpressive threshold for pain and aggravation of this sort.
Maybe she is thinking she should step away from the Sterno?
No such luck.
She is on to regaling me with how her company, no she specifically, sets herself apart from the rest, yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah blah blah with no end in sight.
Ever the diplomat, I politely suggest that she call me at work so we can talk more specifically about how she sets the world on fire, hand her my card, and accept hers.
I privately vow never to answer the phone again until I’ve heard that she’s been cremated.
Not so fast. The other person has fled the table already. I swear I saw a glance, horrified recognition of what was to come, and then a hasty retreat and abandonment of a plate of cheese dip and Triscuits. I am alone in the cross hairs.
Jane introduces herself. I introduce myself and explain how I have come to be at this party in the first place (omitting the details about how heinous it is to have to share my children with a hateful, beer swilling lunatic on the holiday and my mother’s nomadic, grudge-inspired disappearance, and sticking just to the facts…I was on my own and invited to spend the holiday with Charlotte and Jack.) Enough said.
But Jane has decided that I look familiar and wants to know why.
I am not in any mood to lengthen the conversation so I refrain from saying anything that I normally would have said in response to a similar remark, depending upon the audience:
I have one of those faces. Everyone thinks they know me.
I know, I know. Jamie Lee Curtis. Before she let herself go gray and frowzy, I hope.
Sad but true. I’ve been told I look like Blossom. www.tvguide.com/tvshows/blossom/100062
I cop out and say that I just must bear a strong resemblance to my dear sister Charlotte. Yes, Charlotte. And speaking of Charlotte, where has my sister gotten to? Better go track her down! Buh-bye!
Not so fast.
Jane squints and says that she thinks it may be a professional connection.
I have seldom wished for vanishing powers with quite this intensity.
I am in Human Resources. If you know me from work and I don’t remember you, chances are you are not someone I’ve hired. Chances are more likely that I have fired you, meted out some kind of disciplinary action to you, or interviewed you and declined your application.
These are not the people I want to be standing next to a lit Sterno can with.
She thinks she may have contacted me about placing people in one of the companies I’ve worked for. A third party placement agency.
Oh goody. My favorite. These are the folks that get to deal with the worst side of me. The I’ll-have-you-for-breakfast-and-not-think-twice-about-leaving-your-face-in-shreds-if-you-don’t-give-me-the-contract-terms-I-want persona I trot out when the stakes are high and the candidates few, but I have a budget to meet and a pretty unimpressive threshold for pain and aggravation of this sort.
Maybe she is thinking she should step away from the Sterno?
No such luck.
She is on to regaling me with how her company, no she specifically, sets herself apart from the rest, yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah blah blah with no end in sight.
Ever the diplomat, I politely suggest that she call me at work so we can talk more specifically about how she sets the world on fire, hand her my card, and accept hers.
I privately vow never to answer the phone again until I’ve heard that she’s been cremated.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Eat, Prey, Love
To be truthful, it was a delightfully quirky and terrifically fun evening.
A Currier & Ives-inspired house, beautifully appointed and cozy as a Hallmark movie set would insist it be. Warm and crowded with holiday themed things that seem to be taken from a simpler era.
A table overflowing with scrumptious dishes and pretty serving pottery.
A countertop covered with lots of corked bottles of wine.
I get a few pointers about Invisalign Orthodontia from the hostess, who is a patron – and on whom the treatment is indeed invisible. Yay me. I start my treatment next month hoping not to have my mother’s teeth as I head into middle age. Bad enough that gravity takes its share of beauty.
My nephews and some of the other young people play penny poker and all cheat shamelessly. It is hilarious to watch.
I take a seat on the sofa and regale a few of Jack’s nieces with my moderately embellished story of Casey and his atrocious, room-clearing, weapons-grade halitosis. The one niece nearly croaks at the part where he ordered his filet “medium-well.” As a waitress in college, she and her fellow servers use to share a private joke by placing ketchup on the tables occupied by similar uncultured boobs. The unsolicited and premature comments about my behind get the best belly laughs. Bad dates make great cocktail party material.
And then I step into the dining room for some more artichoke dip before it congeals into something putrid and inedible.
And there, I am accosted by Jane.
I look skittishly about the room for backup.
The boys are still cheating at poker and are not in my sight line.
Where the Hell is Charlotte? Probably wisely visiting the bar.
In my head I am screaming “Officer down! Officer down!” but in three quick strides Jane is upon me. Cornered with nothing but a small plate of artichoke dip between us.
A Currier & Ives-inspired house, beautifully appointed and cozy as a Hallmark movie set would insist it be. Warm and crowded with holiday themed things that seem to be taken from a simpler era.
A table overflowing with scrumptious dishes and pretty serving pottery.
A countertop covered with lots of corked bottles of wine.
I get a few pointers about Invisalign Orthodontia from the hostess, who is a patron – and on whom the treatment is indeed invisible. Yay me. I start my treatment next month hoping not to have my mother’s teeth as I head into middle age. Bad enough that gravity takes its share of beauty.
My nephews and some of the other young people play penny poker and all cheat shamelessly. It is hilarious to watch.
I take a seat on the sofa and regale a few of Jack’s nieces with my moderately embellished story of Casey and his atrocious, room-clearing, weapons-grade halitosis. The one niece nearly croaks at the part where he ordered his filet “medium-well.” As a waitress in college, she and her fellow servers use to share a private joke by placing ketchup on the tables occupied by similar uncultured boobs. The unsolicited and premature comments about my behind get the best belly laughs. Bad dates make great cocktail party material.
And then I step into the dining room for some more artichoke dip before it congeals into something putrid and inedible.
And there, I am accosted by Jane.
I look skittishly about the room for backup.
The boys are still cheating at poker and are not in my sight line.
Where the Hell is Charlotte? Probably wisely visiting the bar.
In my head I am screaming “Officer down! Officer down!” but in three quick strides Jane is upon me. Cornered with nothing but a small plate of artichoke dip between us.
Monday, February 14, 2011
All That Is Missing Is the Perfoming Bear
The ride with the family was as entertaining as ever. Particularly after a warming Mad Elf to grease the skids.
Travel with teenagers is enlightening. We are in 3 rows of seats – elbow to elbow on Christmas Day. Charlotte and I have loads to talk about: News on the kid front (including but not limited to their Christmas with Father Scrooge and their reaction to Mom’s no-show), a rehashing of the defining elements of Mom’s no-show. Excitement about Scott (I am thrilled to have a fabulous new Someone. She is thrilled that I have a fabulous Someone who is not J.)
Charlotte and Jack have a college sophomore home on break, a high school junior looking at and being wooed by schools, and a high school sophomore with girls of all ages throwing themselves at him (whether it has to do with his Bieber-esque hair or his sparkling personality is immaterial – there is a cast of thousands.)
And the three of them have nothing to talk about.
What?
They pop a movie into the now-standard-issue DVD player. I am surprised there is not a tub of popcorn along for the ride.
Charlotte and I yak away and I am riding along in joyful anticipation of spending Christmas with Jack’s extended family. I know many of the relatives but will meet a bunch more today. I am looking forward to it and say as much. The boys turn from the movie to enlighten me. It is a warning about one family member in particular.
Jane.
“Whatever you do, don’t get trapped in a conversation with Jane.”
“If you get cornered by Jane, feign some kind of atrocious bathroom-related emergency and scram.”
“We should have some kind of “tell” if you need to be rescued from Jane.”
I am secretly wondering if I can get away with pretending I have a hearing impairment or if there will be family members who recall that I hear perfectly well and give me up.
I love other people’s families. They make mine seem normal.
OK maybe that is overstating the facts.
Maybe it is more accurate to say that it is “sort of normalizing” to observe other families’ dynamics in full swing – that my sister-in-law's Kodak film box yellow hair, Disney jumpers and Keds for every occassional would be less of a show stopper - but that is not exactly true either.
There is nothing bizarre enough, with the exception of perhaps the movie The Hotel New Hampshire, that could completely level the playing field for my family to compete fairly on the Stanley Kubrick Scale of Normal. We clearly have the unfair advantage and can out-weird any family’s pulp fiction non-fiction.
We pull up in front of the beautiful little house in the quaint little hamlet where Jack’s family is celebrating.
Jack’s mother is outside with a bottle of wine under her coat. She smells of cigarettes. She’s clearly had her Jane encounter.
Welcome to The Hotel New Hampshire.
Travel with teenagers is enlightening. We are in 3 rows of seats – elbow to elbow on Christmas Day. Charlotte and I have loads to talk about: News on the kid front (including but not limited to their Christmas with Father Scrooge and their reaction to Mom’s no-show), a rehashing of the defining elements of Mom’s no-show. Excitement about Scott (I am thrilled to have a fabulous new Someone. She is thrilled that I have a fabulous Someone who is not J.)
Charlotte and Jack have a college sophomore home on break, a high school junior looking at and being wooed by schools, and a high school sophomore with girls of all ages throwing themselves at him (whether it has to do with his Bieber-esque hair or his sparkling personality is immaterial – there is a cast of thousands.)
And the three of them have nothing to talk about.
What?
They pop a movie into the now-standard-issue DVD player. I am surprised there is not a tub of popcorn along for the ride.
Charlotte and I yak away and I am riding along in joyful anticipation of spending Christmas with Jack’s extended family. I know many of the relatives but will meet a bunch more today. I am looking forward to it and say as much. The boys turn from the movie to enlighten me. It is a warning about one family member in particular.
Jane.
“Whatever you do, don’t get trapped in a conversation with Jane.”
“If you get cornered by Jane, feign some kind of atrocious bathroom-related emergency and scram.”
“We should have some kind of “tell” if you need to be rescued from Jane.”
I am secretly wondering if I can get away with pretending I have a hearing impairment or if there will be family members who recall that I hear perfectly well and give me up.
I love other people’s families. They make mine seem normal.
OK maybe that is overstating the facts.
Maybe it is more accurate to say that it is “sort of normalizing” to observe other families’ dynamics in full swing – that my sister-in-law's Kodak film box yellow hair, Disney jumpers and Keds for every occassional would be less of a show stopper - but that is not exactly true either.
There is nothing bizarre enough, with the exception of perhaps the movie The Hotel New Hampshire, that could completely level the playing field for my family to compete fairly on the Stanley Kubrick Scale of Normal. We clearly have the unfair advantage and can out-weird any family’s pulp fiction non-fiction.
We pull up in front of the beautiful little house in the quaint little hamlet where Jack’s family is celebrating.
Jack’s mother is outside with a bottle of wine under her coat. She smells of cigarettes. She’s clearly had her Jane encounter.
Welcome to The Hotel New Hampshire.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Ain't No Mountain High Enough
Mom and Bill have apparently hit the road.
It is Christmas Day and they are in their car, bombing over hill and dale to the sunny south, one day earlier than even their usual truncated visit.
They are evidently worried about the weather.
A quick peek outside indicates nothing apocalyptic. No wind, no rain, nor winter storm…I am singing Diana Ross in my head. Evidently Diana had more guts than Mom and Bill, or maybe a better car, because they could not stop her (baby!). Maybe Diana just had more interest in seeing her family. Ain’t no mountain high enough. Ain’t no valley low enough. And no river wide enough…
It apparently didn’t take much to stop Mom and Bill.
They stopped briefly at Charlotte and Jack’s to drop off gifts for my children and me. I suppose I live too far out of their way. A detour just wouldn’t be prudent with such a storm brewing. They are running about like the hare in Alice in Wonderland.
And I have to ask myself: If the storm of the century were to hit overnight, and they could not get on the road according to schedule in the morning, would the world stop spinning on its axis? Would another day or two be of any great expense, imposition, or torture?
To hear my nephews retell the tale of the visit is comical. Loud and blustering to the end, they came in rambling jubilantly about all manner of topics. They present Jack with an (average) bottle of wine they raved on and on about. Went on an on with no end in sight, protesting too much about the weather. Shared a few scant tidbits about all the hellacious goings on since they crossed the border into our state. Gotta run. Need to get on the road before more Hell breaks loose. Locusts. Frogs. Famine. Drought. Something Biblical is afoot for sure.
My nephews deduce that Bill is drunk.
It is 9 am.
I ask how they know this. Did Bill brag that he’d hit the paint at breakfast? I wouldn’t be at all surprised.
No he was slurring the syllables he was booming in their kitchen.
Did he smell like alcohol.
A round of grimaces.
No, they weren’t about to get that close.
I tell them he probably wasn’t deranged enough to drink before a 9 hour drive. And when he has been drinking he’s fairly vocal about how bad a driver my mother is and how he can’t let her drive because he can’t relax. Could he still be lit up from the night before? Could a good morning belt in the coffee be his way to ensure he can relax while Mom bobs and weaves across the Colonies?
It’s anyone’s guess really. I am glad I will have the benefit of my Mad Elf for the ride.
Truly I can not believe that Mom has really left town and has not so much as called my children to say Merry Christmas.
I place the carton of gifts in my car before we head to Jack’s family’s home. I admit, I listened carefully to hear if anything was ticking. Hopefully any detonation will occur while I am welcomed by another more accepting family for the holiday.
It is Christmas Day and they are in their car, bombing over hill and dale to the sunny south, one day earlier than even their usual truncated visit.
They are evidently worried about the weather.
A quick peek outside indicates nothing apocalyptic. No wind, no rain, nor winter storm…I am singing Diana Ross in my head. Evidently Diana had more guts than Mom and Bill, or maybe a better car, because they could not stop her (baby!). Maybe Diana just had more interest in seeing her family. Ain’t no mountain high enough. Ain’t no valley low enough. And no river wide enough…
It apparently didn’t take much to stop Mom and Bill.
They stopped briefly at Charlotte and Jack’s to drop off gifts for my children and me. I suppose I live too far out of their way. A detour just wouldn’t be prudent with such a storm brewing. They are running about like the hare in Alice in Wonderland.
And I have to ask myself: If the storm of the century were to hit overnight, and they could not get on the road according to schedule in the morning, would the world stop spinning on its axis? Would another day or two be of any great expense, imposition, or torture?
To hear my nephews retell the tale of the visit is comical. Loud and blustering to the end, they came in rambling jubilantly about all manner of topics. They present Jack with an (average) bottle of wine they raved on and on about. Went on an on with no end in sight, protesting too much about the weather. Shared a few scant tidbits about all the hellacious goings on since they crossed the border into our state. Gotta run. Need to get on the road before more Hell breaks loose. Locusts. Frogs. Famine. Drought. Something Biblical is afoot for sure.
My nephews deduce that Bill is drunk.
It is 9 am.
I ask how they know this. Did Bill brag that he’d hit the paint at breakfast? I wouldn’t be at all surprised.
No he was slurring the syllables he was booming in their kitchen.
Did he smell like alcohol.
A round of grimaces.
No, they weren’t about to get that close.
I tell them he probably wasn’t deranged enough to drink before a 9 hour drive. And when he has been drinking he’s fairly vocal about how bad a driver my mother is and how he can’t let her drive because he can’t relax. Could he still be lit up from the night before? Could a good morning belt in the coffee be his way to ensure he can relax while Mom bobs and weaves across the Colonies?
It’s anyone’s guess really. I am glad I will have the benefit of my Mad Elf for the ride.
Truly I can not believe that Mom has really left town and has not so much as called my children to say Merry Christmas.
I place the carton of gifts in my car before we head to Jack’s family’s home. I admit, I listened carefully to hear if anything was ticking. Hopefully any detonation will occur while I am welcomed by another more accepting family for the holiday.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
I'll Be Home for Christmas
Christmas Day comes and it is unremarkable except for Scott, who has brightened the outlook considerably. No pressure to bound out of bed, or whip up a royal breakfast or open gifts at a neck-breaking pace.
I am in my jammies far too long, make lots of Merry Christmas phone calls to lots of friends and respond to lots of glad tidings on Facebook. Facebook has made the world so much smaller and eliminated the pressure to go over the river and through the woods or risk alienating friends and relatives the across the globe with one inadvertent slight.
Later in the day, I shower and szhszh once again and dress to join Charlotte and her family on their annual trek to see family tucked away in a quaint little town about 90 minutes away. I can’t find the other gift bag I know I assembled for Charlotte from my son and I am in such a good mood I am not even really all that agitated by it.
I am greeted by Charlotte’s husband, Jack. Hellos, kisses, Merry Christmases and I am handed a glass.
I am a little confused (mostly by its emptiness!) but turn to share additional hellos, kisses and Merry Christmases with each of Charlotte and Jack’s teenage boys, practically giving myself a Charlie Horse getting up on my tippy toes to kiss their freshly shaven faces way up there near the tops of their 6 foot frames.
Charlotte calls her greetings from somewhere in the clouds, evidently involved in some last minute szhszhing herself.
I touch down on the kitchen tiles once again and turn to find that my glass once empty is now full. And not just figuratively. Of course my cup runneth over. But now my beer glass is brimming as well. Lucky me.
There is a reason for this. I am a fan of warm up drinks, natch but this is something more than a pre-game belt.
Jack has saved me a story. A story that must be accompanied by a super strong, spicy beer known to the enlightened as Mad Elf. It’s that good a story.
And who might be the leading stars of the show?
Wait for it.
Mom and Bill.
I take a few swigs of Mad Elf and remember why it is so named. High alcohol content. Smooth as silk. A troublemaker’s beer.
How apropos!
I am in my jammies far too long, make lots of Merry Christmas phone calls to lots of friends and respond to lots of glad tidings on Facebook. Facebook has made the world so much smaller and eliminated the pressure to go over the river and through the woods or risk alienating friends and relatives the across the globe with one inadvertent slight.
Later in the day, I shower and szhszh once again and dress to join Charlotte and her family on their annual trek to see family tucked away in a quaint little town about 90 minutes away. I can’t find the other gift bag I know I assembled for Charlotte from my son and I am in such a good mood I am not even really all that agitated by it.
I am greeted by Charlotte’s husband, Jack. Hellos, kisses, Merry Christmases and I am handed a glass.
I am a little confused (mostly by its emptiness!) but turn to share additional hellos, kisses and Merry Christmases with each of Charlotte and Jack’s teenage boys, practically giving myself a Charlie Horse getting up on my tippy toes to kiss their freshly shaven faces way up there near the tops of their 6 foot frames.
Charlotte calls her greetings from somewhere in the clouds, evidently involved in some last minute szhszhing herself.
I touch down on the kitchen tiles once again and turn to find that my glass once empty is now full. And not just figuratively. Of course my cup runneth over. But now my beer glass is brimming as well. Lucky me.
There is a reason for this. I am a fan of warm up drinks, natch but this is something more than a pre-game belt.
Jack has saved me a story. A story that must be accompanied by a super strong, spicy beer known to the enlightened as Mad Elf. It’s that good a story.
And who might be the leading stars of the show?
Wait for it.
Mom and Bill.
I take a few swigs of Mad Elf and remember why it is so named. High alcohol content. Smooth as silk. A troublemaker’s beer.
How apropos!
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
A Long Ride on the Hellish-Go-Round
So in spite of it all I had a delightful Christmas.
Scott and I opened a bottle of wine, laughed our heads off, exchanged lovely, meaningful gifts. He wrote me a beautiful card. Talked way past midnight. Made an effort to get to know each other as adults, and parents, and career people, and friends, as opposed to teenagers, and progeny and members of the marching band and college bound boneheads. And listened critically to each other's stories about our once happy marriages and how they little by little, year over year, incident after episode disintegrated to the point of bonds being put asunder. How we arrived at this place where only Facebook could connect our dots after so much disillusioned wandering of the Earth’s crust.
He did not seem like a stranger, even after looking like one for the better part of 30 years. Sure, I’d have stopped him on the street if I’d seen him – and did think about knocking on the door of his parents’ beach house when I’d walk past (not knowing they’d moved to another when I was still in college…) and would have been thrilled to have seen him at another of our friend Roger’s magnificent Christmas parties if Roger had been inclined to throw one once he found the love of his life and settled into married-no-party-throwing life. But none of that happened. At least not very often. And certainly not in the last dozen years.
Marriage and motherhood and moneymaking had consumed me. And on most days, I felt like I was challenged to put one foot reliably in front of the other without doing a face plant, and was silently and solitarily enduring the miseries of a marriage in disintegration. It's hard to reach out and find old friends when you don't have a friend in your marriage and reaching out would surely get your hand slapped.
Every day was the same: Get up, get groomed and dressed, get little people groomed and dressed while Daddy takes care of himself singularly and without distraction, pack lunches I’ve made or diaper bags I’ve packed and other essentials I’ve thought to bring into the car, and drive to the day care that I found and engaged to care for our children and/or the schools I dealt with teachers and principals about. Work all day accomplishing executive level achievements and cultivating meaningful, lucrative, important relationships, occasionally giving thought to what I’d need to do to get dinner on the table and what my sweet children might be doing while I toiled away at something I hoped would be rewarding, or what housework could be shoehorned into the fading hours of day, or what appointments the children might have that I’d need to attend before putting on my pajamas and checking backpacks and packing lunches. Give baths, comb out tangly hair, read stories and sing songs and play little learning games with each child to wind down their days before placing them lovingly into crib or bed with lovey toys and butterfly kisses and smooches on chubby, freshly washed cheeks before retiring to the kitchen to begin the prep for the next day’s round of Working Mom’s Hell. The only consolation being a glass of chardonnay while smearing peanut butter on bread that I’d cut into the shape of a heart or a smiley face.
Who would have known that Scott was on that same hellish ride too – and that when his second marriage seemed to be a far more horrible sequel to the first, and they were strangers in their own home, that he had started looking for me?
Scott and I opened a bottle of wine, laughed our heads off, exchanged lovely, meaningful gifts. He wrote me a beautiful card. Talked way past midnight. Made an effort to get to know each other as adults, and parents, and career people, and friends, as opposed to teenagers, and progeny and members of the marching band and college bound boneheads. And listened critically to each other's stories about our once happy marriages and how they little by little, year over year, incident after episode disintegrated to the point of bonds being put asunder. How we arrived at this place where only Facebook could connect our dots after so much disillusioned wandering of the Earth’s crust.
He did not seem like a stranger, even after looking like one for the better part of 30 years. Sure, I’d have stopped him on the street if I’d seen him – and did think about knocking on the door of his parents’ beach house when I’d walk past (not knowing they’d moved to another when I was still in college…) and would have been thrilled to have seen him at another of our friend Roger’s magnificent Christmas parties if Roger had been inclined to throw one once he found the love of his life and settled into married-no-party-throwing life. But none of that happened. At least not very often. And certainly not in the last dozen years.
Marriage and motherhood and moneymaking had consumed me. And on most days, I felt like I was challenged to put one foot reliably in front of the other without doing a face plant, and was silently and solitarily enduring the miseries of a marriage in disintegration. It's hard to reach out and find old friends when you don't have a friend in your marriage and reaching out would surely get your hand slapped.
Every day was the same: Get up, get groomed and dressed, get little people groomed and dressed while Daddy takes care of himself singularly and without distraction, pack lunches I’ve made or diaper bags I’ve packed and other essentials I’ve thought to bring into the car, and drive to the day care that I found and engaged to care for our children and/or the schools I dealt with teachers and principals about. Work all day accomplishing executive level achievements and cultivating meaningful, lucrative, important relationships, occasionally giving thought to what I’d need to do to get dinner on the table and what my sweet children might be doing while I toiled away at something I hoped would be rewarding, or what housework could be shoehorned into the fading hours of day, or what appointments the children might have that I’d need to attend before putting on my pajamas and checking backpacks and packing lunches. Give baths, comb out tangly hair, read stories and sing songs and play little learning games with each child to wind down their days before placing them lovingly into crib or bed with lovey toys and butterfly kisses and smooches on chubby, freshly washed cheeks before retiring to the kitchen to begin the prep for the next day’s round of Working Mom’s Hell. The only consolation being a glass of chardonnay while smearing peanut butter on bread that I’d cut into the shape of a heart or a smiley face.
Who would have known that Scott was on that same hellish ride too – and that when his second marriage seemed to be a far more horrible sequel to the first, and they were strangers in their own home, that he had started looking for me?
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Moscow Rule 10 - Keep Your Options Open
This is hard for me to do. Before I pour myself a glass of chardonnay - or in this case, a Jack Rabbit Slim, (the brilliant low carb cocktail that combines Jack Daniels and sugar-free lemonade, yum) I want to know the game plan and switch to auto-pilot. Otherwise, I am not at all relaxed, and high strung neurotic people tend to make crappy party hostesses. Just sayin'.
So I awaken on Christmas Eve when my children do...excited beyond description are they. Too cute. We'd gone through the motions of placing cookies and milk and an apple for the reindeer near the fireplace the night before, and I'd dutifully eaten a bunch, and left a few telltale partially eaten cookies to make the scene more convincing...even though no one wants to admit they still want to believe. They are happy to see that.
"Christmas" is a frenzy of colorful paper and ribbons and tags and tissue paper and squealing at the top of our lungs. What has taken weeks to purchase and artfully prepare has taken moments to unravel and spread across the floor plan of the first floor living space. Christmas music is on. Lights are lit. Cinnamon buns are baking. Coffee is brewed and being guzzled. Children are assembling and placing batteries and giving new things a whirl. All is right with our little world.
At about mid day, we all shower and dress to receive our first visitors. Wine is chilled, ice buckets filled, beer is in tubs on the porch by the outdoor Christmas tree. I've set a lovely table of all manner of nosh. All on festive plates and platters with holiday napkins and dishes. I intend to eat a millions grams of fat and carbs one small plate at a time.
Charlotte and her gang arrive. Drinks are poured and gifts are opened. This is how it should be. We are soon joined by more friends and then more friends and then a few more and there is lots of fa la la la la-ing all about the house.
But no Mom.
Dare I ask?
I do.
Charlotte has seen Mom. However briefly.
Evidently, the evening before, there arose such a clatter at the Lush household that there has been a change of plans.
Mr. and Mrs. Lush are evidently on the proverbial skids. On the back nine. In the final turn.
And though Estelle swears on her Mr. Bostons Bartending Guide that she and Bill and Mr. Lush had had nothing ("Nothing! Nothing I tell ya!") to drink, (was this party at 8 am?) leaving us to assume that Mrs. Lush had had more than her fair share from the mini-bar, (one of these things is not like the others...), it sounds like they wound up in the kind of argument that can only be born of gross over consumption of all manner of wine and spirits by people who could easily swing from laughing drunks to crying drunks to nasty drunks to fighting drunks.
My mother's explanation is that they had to get out of there pronto. (Mrs. Lush in reality probably told them to scram and flung a half empty bottle of Southern Comfort end-over-end at the backs of their retreating heads.) They grabbed their Vera Bradleys and vamoosed. But not to the safety of Charlotte's home, and certainly not to mine. To some other friends, the Snoots. So upset and scorched by indecency are they (the Lushes, according to my mother, had a wildly inappropriate conversation in their company...as if my mother would recognize propriety if it ever bit her on the ass...and that's how the chaos began) that they have taken refuge at the home of their other second tier friends, and will remain there licking their wounds and probably smothering them with Crown Royal.
So no Mom after all. No call to say Merry Christmas and we're so sorry we can't join you. Just more nothing.
As it should be, I suppose.
And my holiday party went on quite merrily. And my children transitioned from party to Mass to lair without incident, so joyous was the day. And upon my return home, I reflected on the day, what was and what might have been, and was in a truly peaceful place when Scott came to my door bearing lovely unexpected gifts.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
So I awaken on Christmas Eve when my children do...excited beyond description are they. Too cute. We'd gone through the motions of placing cookies and milk and an apple for the reindeer near the fireplace the night before, and I'd dutifully eaten a bunch, and left a few telltale partially eaten cookies to make the scene more convincing...even though no one wants to admit they still want to believe. They are happy to see that.
"Christmas" is a frenzy of colorful paper and ribbons and tags and tissue paper and squealing at the top of our lungs. What has taken weeks to purchase and artfully prepare has taken moments to unravel and spread across the floor plan of the first floor living space. Christmas music is on. Lights are lit. Cinnamon buns are baking. Coffee is brewed and being guzzled. Children are assembling and placing batteries and giving new things a whirl. All is right with our little world.
At about mid day, we all shower and dress to receive our first visitors. Wine is chilled, ice buckets filled, beer is in tubs on the porch by the outdoor Christmas tree. I've set a lovely table of all manner of nosh. All on festive plates and platters with holiday napkins and dishes. I intend to eat a millions grams of fat and carbs one small plate at a time.
Charlotte and her gang arrive. Drinks are poured and gifts are opened. This is how it should be. We are soon joined by more friends and then more friends and then a few more and there is lots of fa la la la la-ing all about the house.
But no Mom.
Dare I ask?
I do.
Charlotte has seen Mom. However briefly.
Evidently, the evening before, there arose such a clatter at the Lush household that there has been a change of plans.
Mr. and Mrs. Lush are evidently on the proverbial skids. On the back nine. In the final turn.
And though Estelle swears on her Mr. Bostons Bartending Guide that she and Bill and Mr. Lush had had nothing ("Nothing! Nothing I tell ya!") to drink, (was this party at 8 am?) leaving us to assume that Mrs. Lush had had more than her fair share from the mini-bar, (one of these things is not like the others...), it sounds like they wound up in the kind of argument that can only be born of gross over consumption of all manner of wine and spirits by people who could easily swing from laughing drunks to crying drunks to nasty drunks to fighting drunks.
My mother's explanation is that they had to get out of there pronto. (Mrs. Lush in reality probably told them to scram and flung a half empty bottle of Southern Comfort end-over-end at the backs of their retreating heads.) They grabbed their Vera Bradleys and vamoosed. But not to the safety of Charlotte's home, and certainly not to mine. To some other friends, the Snoots. So upset and scorched by indecency are they (the Lushes, according to my mother, had a wildly inappropriate conversation in their company...as if my mother would recognize propriety if it ever bit her on the ass...and that's how the chaos began) that they have taken refuge at the home of their other second tier friends, and will remain there licking their wounds and probably smothering them with Crown Royal.
So no Mom after all. No call to say Merry Christmas and we're so sorry we can't join you. Just more nothing.
As it should be, I suppose.
And my holiday party went on quite merrily. And my children transitioned from party to Mass to lair without incident, so joyous was the day. And upon my return home, I reflected on the day, what was and what might have been, and was in a truly peaceful place when Scott came to my door bearing lovely unexpected gifts.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Moscow Rule 9 - Pick the Time and Place for Action
The time and place for action was any other time but the present and any other place than on the phone.
I know from decades of experience that Mom can be counted on for very little, except for drama and a lot of yelling. Keeping a plan, not so much. As unpredictable as a summer storm, Mom can move in a thousand directions at top speed, and is as hard to follow as a cockroach when the lights have just some on.
The planner in me wants to get it all ironed out in advance. Tell Mom - OK, tell Charlotte since Mom and I aren't exactly speaking (I repeat, this is so stupid) - that Mom is of course (Duh!) welcome in my home at Christmas. With bells on! But that I am going to wind down the evening at 6 pm when I take my children, and anyone who wants to grab a Road Coke and go, to Mass at Our Lady of Condemnation for Christmas Eve Mass before depositing them tearfully at their father's for what remains of the holiday double header. And then, I will return home, run a comb through my hair, gargle with something minty, reapply lipstick, spritz with perfume and do any other szhszhing that needs to be done (Thank you Carson, for the most excellent word!) and await the arrival of my Christmas present to me, Scott.
So Mom needs to be in her vehicle, Road Coke and all, and en route to the Lushes before Scott darkens my door, and not padding around my house in her Ooomphies and flannels remarking about all the decor that has changed since the last visit, pouring wine and popping in the family videos.
But that is ill advised. A planner and a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pantser are always at odds with how to handle anything more than 10 seconds in the future.
Chances are, Mom will change her plans, or even has changed her plans without notification to Charlotte, 3 or 4 times since their last confab. I could go and make sure that everyone's expectations about Christmas Eve are calibrated correctly (and with sensitivity and respect) and inadvertently create a shit storm of rants about my selfishness and self absorption completely unnecessarily.
So for now, I will do nothing.
Nothing except keep my ear to the ground, await intel from Charlotte, and keep my fingers crossed.
I know from decades of experience that Mom can be counted on for very little, except for drama and a lot of yelling. Keeping a plan, not so much. As unpredictable as a summer storm, Mom can move in a thousand directions at top speed, and is as hard to follow as a cockroach when the lights have just some on.
The planner in me wants to get it all ironed out in advance. Tell Mom - OK, tell Charlotte since Mom and I aren't exactly speaking (I repeat, this is so stupid) - that Mom is of course (Duh!) welcome in my home at Christmas. With bells on! But that I am going to wind down the evening at 6 pm when I take my children, and anyone who wants to grab a Road Coke and go, to Mass at Our Lady of Condemnation for Christmas Eve Mass before depositing them tearfully at their father's for what remains of the holiday double header. And then, I will return home, run a comb through my hair, gargle with something minty, reapply lipstick, spritz with perfume and do any other szhszhing that needs to be done (Thank you Carson, for the most excellent word!) and await the arrival of my Christmas present to me, Scott.
So Mom needs to be in her vehicle, Road Coke and all, and en route to the Lushes before Scott darkens my door, and not padding around my house in her Ooomphies and flannels remarking about all the decor that has changed since the last visit, pouring wine and popping in the family videos.
But that is ill advised. A planner and a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pantser are always at odds with how to handle anything more than 10 seconds in the future.
Chances are, Mom will change her plans, or even has changed her plans without notification to Charlotte, 3 or 4 times since their last confab. I could go and make sure that everyone's expectations about Christmas Eve are calibrated correctly (and with sensitivity and respect) and inadvertently create a shit storm of rants about my selfishness and self absorption completely unnecessarily.
So for now, I will do nothing.
Nothing except keep my ear to the ground, await intel from Charlotte, and keep my fingers crossed.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Moscow Rule 8 - Don't Harass the Opposition
What is so odd about Mom’s change of heart is that she asks Charlotte if it would be okay to come to my house at Christmas.
Who needs the Big Girl Panties now?
So far as Mom knows, I know nothing of her lunatic rantings about the horrible person I’ve always been to all manner of audiences. I am sure Joe didn’t call her and sarcastically thank her for dragging him into it and thereby leaving him without a resume writing source.
Our last genuine interaction was weeks ago. She left a message and then I wrote a letter. My letter clearly stated that she was welcome at my house. As far as she would know, nothing has changed, except if she is genuinely giving some thought to the fact that she may have really dug her own grave this time.
A girl can hope.
Maybe things will all turn out just ducky?
What if they turn out too ducky?
What if I tell Charlotte to tell Mom (this is really so stupid…) that of course she is welcome at Christmas. Duh, Mom and Bill have always been welcome.
And what if she comes and has a great time and enjoys everyone’s company and manages to keep her trap shut on the subject of politics and between the wine and the song feels so warm and fuzzy that she offers to uphold the original plan and spend Christmas Eve and Christmas morning holding my hand while I boo hoo hoo through the holiday?
I HAVE A DATE!
So if Mom has her Grinch/Whoville transformation and makes the suggestion, what do I do?
Tell her thanks but no thanks? I am sure that will put her feet right back on the Road to Perdition and begin a bench-clearing brawl the neighbors will talk about for years to come.
But I don’t want to cancel Scott. It’s his Christmas, too.
This is my fork in the road.
Who needs the Big Girl Panties now?
So far as Mom knows, I know nothing of her lunatic rantings about the horrible person I’ve always been to all manner of audiences. I am sure Joe didn’t call her and sarcastically thank her for dragging him into it and thereby leaving him without a resume writing source.
Our last genuine interaction was weeks ago. She left a message and then I wrote a letter. My letter clearly stated that she was welcome at my house. As far as she would know, nothing has changed, except if she is genuinely giving some thought to the fact that she may have really dug her own grave this time.
A girl can hope.
Maybe things will all turn out just ducky?
What if they turn out too ducky?
What if I tell Charlotte to tell Mom (this is really so stupid…) that of course she is welcome at Christmas. Duh, Mom and Bill have always been welcome.
And what if she comes and has a great time and enjoys everyone’s company and manages to keep her trap shut on the subject of politics and between the wine and the song feels so warm and fuzzy that she offers to uphold the original plan and spend Christmas Eve and Christmas morning holding my hand while I boo hoo hoo through the holiday?
I HAVE A DATE!
So if Mom has her Grinch/Whoville transformation and makes the suggestion, what do I do?
Tell her thanks but no thanks? I am sure that will put her feet right back on the Road to Perdition and begin a bench-clearing brawl the neighbors will talk about for years to come.
But I don’t want to cancel Scott. It’s his Christmas, too.
This is my fork in the road.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Moscow Rule 7 - Lull Them Into A Sense of Complacency
Now I really had my plate full:
Lots of gifts yet to wrap.
A couple little items yet to buy for Scott.
An open house to shop and prepare food for.
My house to finish decorating and to clean for goodness sake.
An outfit to select. It will take some doing to find something that transitions from Christmas party to church to date without much stepping into a nearby phonebooth.
And Mom.
So about her change of heart, however small. (The change, not the heart.) She mentioned to Charlotte that she'd like to come to my house at some point in her visit.
I assume it is not due to any big transformation a la the Grinch and the citizens of Whoville. I assume it is simply to continue to conceal the rift from Bill or to see my children. Or some combination of the two obligations.
By now, enough distance and time passed can allow for the objectivity I would have loved to have had a few weeks ago when all of this began.
I am in a great place now. I have a great holiday planned for the kiddos. I have a sweet, attentive, adorable new Someone in my life. I am feeling good about holding my ground. Of course Mom can come.
And of course I will escort her to the door on her tippy toes if she so much as attempts to continue the battle in my home. Or brings my brother with her. Or stirs up any other manner of crap by waving her broomstick around.
Don't think it can't happen. It can.
I can see how it would all unfold.
I am happy as a clam that my kids have had a lovely Christmas morning complete with piles of gifts and ooey gooey cinnamon buns.
My table is set and the food is scrumptious.
My guests begin to arrive and the music is festive and the cocktails are flowing - even at lunch time.
We are all laughing and mistletoeing and fa la la la laing .
Mom arrives. Hugs and kisses and gifts all around.
More wine and spirits.
Mom makes an off color political joke no one finds funny and nearly everyone is offended by.
Charlotte politely mentions to her that Christmas is not the time to discuss healthcare reform OR the NRA.
Mom lashes out indiscriminately and has everyone scrambling to find their coats so they can leave before the fur really begins to fly.
In my head I can visualize this happening.
But somehow, I am not at all daunted.
Lots of gifts yet to wrap.
A couple little items yet to buy for Scott.
An open house to shop and prepare food for.
My house to finish decorating and to clean for goodness sake.
An outfit to select. It will take some doing to find something that transitions from Christmas party to church to date without much stepping into a nearby phonebooth.
And Mom.
So about her change of heart, however small. (The change, not the heart.) She mentioned to Charlotte that she'd like to come to my house at some point in her visit.
I assume it is not due to any big transformation a la the Grinch and the citizens of Whoville. I assume it is simply to continue to conceal the rift from Bill or to see my children. Or some combination of the two obligations.
By now, enough distance and time passed can allow for the objectivity I would have loved to have had a few weeks ago when all of this began.
I am in a great place now. I have a great holiday planned for the kiddos. I have a sweet, attentive, adorable new Someone in my life. I am feeling good about holding my ground. Of course Mom can come.
And of course I will escort her to the door on her tippy toes if she so much as attempts to continue the battle in my home. Or brings my brother with her. Or stirs up any other manner of crap by waving her broomstick around.
Don't think it can't happen. It can.
I can see how it would all unfold.
I am happy as a clam that my kids have had a lovely Christmas morning complete with piles of gifts and ooey gooey cinnamon buns.
My table is set and the food is scrumptious.
My guests begin to arrive and the music is festive and the cocktails are flowing - even at lunch time.
We are all laughing and mistletoeing and fa la la la laing .
Mom arrives. Hugs and kisses and gifts all around.
More wine and spirits.
Mom makes an off color political joke no one finds funny and nearly everyone is offended by.
Charlotte politely mentions to her that Christmas is not the time to discuss healthcare reform OR the NRA.
Mom lashes out indiscriminately and has everyone scrambling to find their coats so they can leave before the fur really begins to fly.
In my head I can visualize this happening.
But somehow, I am not at all daunted.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Moscow Rule 6 - Vary Your Pattern and Stay Within Your Cover
So I had a distraction. A distraction that would minimize the importance of the horror show my mother was bent on making of the holidays.
And as it turns out, Mom was having an ever so slight, almost imperceptible change of heart.
Maybe I have Leona to thank for that. Perhaps I should send her a Christmas card.
So while I was enjoying the exhilarating, butterflies-in-my-stomach, giddy, squealing with delight newness of Scott, and all the hopeful anticipation and possibility that brings to one's life, Mom was taking a detour from the Road to Perdition and planning to, perhaps, make a brief stop in my life at the holidays.
I am not really sure how to feel about that.
We've already established that divorce changes everything. And while a lot of the changes are good, like the complete absence of the presence of the one person in the world who rankles you and leaves your nerve endings in shreds, there are some pretty significant losses. Christmas really takes a beating. It did for me as a child, and it did for me as a divorcee. The wholeness and peacefulness of it are dented and dinged and even though you somehow create something beautiful and memorable out of what remains and what you can add from a new life, it is not the same.
This year, like only one year since Lars finally fell through the booby hatch, I will spend Christmas Eve night alone and wake up on Christmas Day without my children. They will awaken that morning with Lars. Joy Noel.
The last time this happened, things with me and Mom were considerably better terms. For reasons that don't compute, she and Bill returned from the Lush's to my house, which was newly quiet from the kids' recent departure. Bill stumbled of to bed, Mom and I put on our PJs and poured some wine. We sat and looked at old family films and laughed at all the stories they made us remember.
This was the plan again this year - at least until my psychotic break and subsequent railing against my mother and the atrocities she has visited upon us for decades.
Make no mistake. I was fully aware that after all that transpired, I could not expect her to keep me company and hold my hand while I boo hoo hooed away the holiday without my beloved cherubs. It was an emotional risk I'd be willing to take. A change of plans that I could not avoid.
Charlotte suggested I join them overnight.
I thought about it. I know I am family and would be welcome for anything. I also want to respect that their family unit deserves to enjoy their traditions as well. I would put on my Big Girl Panties and drink alone.
Charlotte suggested that I join them for their annual pilgrimage to Aunt Paula's house in the afternoon of Christmas Day.
That I could do. Perfect. Someone else's family dysfunction to observe and roll eyes about.
And as it turns out, Scott has custody issues of his own. His ex-wife will have his girls on Christmas Eve too, and he will pick them up on Christmas morning. He'll be alone with his wine and a couple of pooches.
Not if I can help it.
I suggest we spend our lonely Christmas Eves being less lonely together.
And as odd as it sounds, before you know it, I had a date for Christmas Eve.
And as it turns out, Mom was having an ever so slight, almost imperceptible change of heart.
Maybe I have Leona to thank for that. Perhaps I should send her a Christmas card.
So while I was enjoying the exhilarating, butterflies-in-my-stomach, giddy, squealing with delight newness of Scott, and all the hopeful anticipation and possibility that brings to one's life, Mom was taking a detour from the Road to Perdition and planning to, perhaps, make a brief stop in my life at the holidays.
I am not really sure how to feel about that.
We've already established that divorce changes everything. And while a lot of the changes are good, like the complete absence of the presence of the one person in the world who rankles you and leaves your nerve endings in shreds, there are some pretty significant losses. Christmas really takes a beating. It did for me as a child, and it did for me as a divorcee. The wholeness and peacefulness of it are dented and dinged and even though you somehow create something beautiful and memorable out of what remains and what you can add from a new life, it is not the same.
This year, like only one year since Lars finally fell through the booby hatch, I will spend Christmas Eve night alone and wake up on Christmas Day without my children. They will awaken that morning with Lars. Joy Noel.
The last time this happened, things with me and Mom were considerably better terms. For reasons that don't compute, she and Bill returned from the Lush's to my house, which was newly quiet from the kids' recent departure. Bill stumbled of to bed, Mom and I put on our PJs and poured some wine. We sat and looked at old family films and laughed at all the stories they made us remember.
This was the plan again this year - at least until my psychotic break and subsequent railing against my mother and the atrocities she has visited upon us for decades.
Make no mistake. I was fully aware that after all that transpired, I could not expect her to keep me company and hold my hand while I boo hoo hooed away the holiday without my beloved cherubs. It was an emotional risk I'd be willing to take. A change of plans that I could not avoid.
Charlotte suggested I join them overnight.
I thought about it. I know I am family and would be welcome for anything. I also want to respect that their family unit deserves to enjoy their traditions as well. I would put on my Big Girl Panties and drink alone.
Charlotte suggested that I join them for their annual pilgrimage to Aunt Paula's house in the afternoon of Christmas Day.
That I could do. Perfect. Someone else's family dysfunction to observe and roll eyes about.
And as it turns out, Scott has custody issues of his own. His ex-wife will have his girls on Christmas Eve too, and he will pick them up on Christmas morning. He'll be alone with his wine and a couple of pooches.
Not if I can help it.
I suggest we spend our lonely Christmas Eves being less lonely together.
And as odd as it sounds, before you know it, I had a date for Christmas Eve.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Moscow Rule 5 - Go With the Flow, Blend In
Charlotte goes with the flow. I go with the flow. We are all flowing.
No one is rattling anyone else’s cages. At least not noticeably.
Mom has widened the path of destruction to include people from other states. She’s infiltrated the Sunshine State to complain to her friend Leona about me. Leona has known me since childhood, and frankly, the last time Mom and I saw Leona, Leona looked at me a few times like “Aren’t you going to throw a bag over her head and race on over to the local Looney Bin? This woman has clearly lost her grasp on reality!” So Leona, who is pretty level headed and open minded, and not about to be loyal to anyone for loyalty’s sake, is not a threat to me. It is just a little sad that Mom has gone to such great lengths to rally troops for her cause.
I have begun to care less and less.
I have a fabulous new Someone.
The fabulous date from days before? Him!
OK – maybe it isn’t entirely truthful to say he’s new. He’s new again. The truth is I went to High School with him.
Before you roll your eyes, and I know that you are, I am well aware of the fact that I am supposed to be meeting NEW people. As in shiny, unbeknownst-to-me-prior-to-this-day people. I get that. If I keep repeating the same dates I will doom myself to repeating the same mistakes.
J. was someone I new from childhood. And while that was largely a lovely experience, it was eventually doomed to failure. Poof. Up in smoke. Flamed out.
And Casey was someone I met in Junior High School. Had potential from the start. But since it was clear that he was still the adolescent I’d known in 7th grade, and sealed the deal with breath that could shatter glass, that blew up in no time. Boom. Gas Bomb. Incinerated my face off.
Third time’s a charm?
Scott was The Guy in High School. Adorable. Different. Not a jerk. Dated lots of people. Offended no one. OK, it's a good bet that the people he unceremoniously dumped were offended at first, I am sure. I know. I was one. Maybe it’s unfair to say it was unceremonious. I am not sure 5 or 6 dates requires much ceremony. Anyway, he did what any 17 year old with women throwing themselves at him should do. He tried a lot on for size.
He tried me on twice. Once in the beginning of my sophomore year when I had the good fortune to be in the drill team formation which lined up on the field just behind the trumpet line he was in. I got to stare at Scott’s rear view for a good 20 yards at the beginning of every halftime show. He was handsome. Handsome enough that I could ignore the dorky spats and Royal Order of Buffalos Grand Poobah hat. He smiled a lot. He was funny. He was cool in a way that was neither too Star Athlete Snobby nor too Burnout Troublemaker Morose. He had a cool car.
And he liked me.
And as soon as that cat was out of the proverbial bag, women of all shapes and sizes flocked to my side to be my friend because I momentarily had his attention. It was daunting. I was in over my head. I liked him a lot but was panicked about how in the world I would ever keep him with all the high drama. Put him in a pumpkin shell? When he moved on to the next girl I was heartbroken in my 15 year old way, but in some ways relieved. I was not equipped for a social crisis. I could barely dress myself.
We'd become friends and we stayed friends.
We had a few more dates late in my sophomore year before he met another girl and took her to prom. Even then, my Sweet 16 self was still not equipped for the social crisis. The other girl had her hands full with all the other girls suddenly trying to be her friend just to occupy the same space with her boyfriend.
He's a good guy. We’d stay friends.
And we did. For a while. And then college and careers and other loves moved the friendship from the top of the priority list for both of us. He’d resurface in my life every so often. And I would resurface in his. At the beach. At a party. He was still special in a way that set him apart from other guys his age, but my life and his were spinning in different directions. Who knew what the other was thinking?
We each got married. We each had kids. We both lost track of one another. We both divorced. We both attempted to alternately rejuvenate and wreck our lives a few times. Decades flew by.
And then, Facebook happened. God bless Mark Zuckerberg and his penchant for making things that help people connect and share what’s important to them. This was his finest hour.
No one is rattling anyone else’s cages. At least not noticeably.
Mom has widened the path of destruction to include people from other states. She’s infiltrated the Sunshine State to complain to her friend Leona about me. Leona has known me since childhood, and frankly, the last time Mom and I saw Leona, Leona looked at me a few times like “Aren’t you going to throw a bag over her head and race on over to the local Looney Bin? This woman has clearly lost her grasp on reality!” So Leona, who is pretty level headed and open minded, and not about to be loyal to anyone for loyalty’s sake, is not a threat to me. It is just a little sad that Mom has gone to such great lengths to rally troops for her cause.
I have begun to care less and less.
I have a fabulous new Someone.
The fabulous date from days before? Him!
OK – maybe it isn’t entirely truthful to say he’s new. He’s new again. The truth is I went to High School with him.
Before you roll your eyes, and I know that you are, I am well aware of the fact that I am supposed to be meeting NEW people. As in shiny, unbeknownst-to-me-prior-to-this-day people. I get that. If I keep repeating the same dates I will doom myself to repeating the same mistakes.
J. was someone I new from childhood. And while that was largely a lovely experience, it was eventually doomed to failure. Poof. Up in smoke. Flamed out.
And Casey was someone I met in Junior High School. Had potential from the start. But since it was clear that he was still the adolescent I’d known in 7th grade, and sealed the deal with breath that could shatter glass, that blew up in no time. Boom. Gas Bomb. Incinerated my face off.
Third time’s a charm?
Scott was The Guy in High School. Adorable. Different. Not a jerk. Dated lots of people. Offended no one. OK, it's a good bet that the people he unceremoniously dumped were offended at first, I am sure. I know. I was one. Maybe it’s unfair to say it was unceremonious. I am not sure 5 or 6 dates requires much ceremony. Anyway, he did what any 17 year old with women throwing themselves at him should do. He tried a lot on for size.
He tried me on twice. Once in the beginning of my sophomore year when I had the good fortune to be in the drill team formation which lined up on the field just behind the trumpet line he was in. I got to stare at Scott’s rear view for a good 20 yards at the beginning of every halftime show. He was handsome. Handsome enough that I could ignore the dorky spats and Royal Order of Buffalos Grand Poobah hat. He smiled a lot. He was funny. He was cool in a way that was neither too Star Athlete Snobby nor too Burnout Troublemaker Morose. He had a cool car.
And he liked me.
And as soon as that cat was out of the proverbial bag, women of all shapes and sizes flocked to my side to be my friend because I momentarily had his attention. It was daunting. I was in over my head. I liked him a lot but was panicked about how in the world I would ever keep him with all the high drama. Put him in a pumpkin shell? When he moved on to the next girl I was heartbroken in my 15 year old way, but in some ways relieved. I was not equipped for a social crisis. I could barely dress myself.
We'd become friends and we stayed friends.
We had a few more dates late in my sophomore year before he met another girl and took her to prom. Even then, my Sweet 16 self was still not equipped for the social crisis. The other girl had her hands full with all the other girls suddenly trying to be her friend just to occupy the same space with her boyfriend.
He's a good guy. We’d stay friends.
And we did. For a while. And then college and careers and other loves moved the friendship from the top of the priority list for both of us. He’d resurface in my life every so often. And I would resurface in his. At the beach. At a party. He was still special in a way that set him apart from other guys his age, but my life and his were spinning in different directions. Who knew what the other was thinking?
We each got married. We each had kids. We both lost track of one another. We both divorced. We both attempted to alternately rejuvenate and wreck our lives a few times. Decades flew by.
And then, Facebook happened. God bless Mark Zuckerberg and his penchant for making things that help people connect and share what’s important to them. This was his finest hour.
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