I decided that I could read labels and decline foods of unknown carb content and deny myself the satisfaction that eating a soft pretzel smothered in yellow mustard would bring in the name of skinniness.
I decided one more week would surely do it.
OK - One entire week is not exactly truthful. I did eat a peice of birthday cake, grainy horrible icing and all when my entire company turned out to celebrate my CEO's 60th. My VP, who would have given me a pass, nearly fainted at the sight. I told her one day would not derail my diet. I'd get back in the saddle tomorrow.
Saturday morning came and I was feeling wispy and thin. I could hardly wait to step on the scale, though I did have a little conversation with myself about the possibility that the birthday cake would have curtailed my results a little bit.
I stepped on the scale. Six more pounds had melted away! I was thrilled! I shreaked to Lars. He came running (Eventually. Ok, maybe "running" is an exaggeration. After all, he had nothing to gain by my achievement in the svelteness department.)
I told him how thrilled I was to have lost 6 more pounds, and stepped on the scale to show him.
But it showed that I'd lost nine! What?
Three more pounds in 10 minutes?
Lars looked at me like I'd gone mad. I stepped off the scale and then stepped back on. This time it showed that I'd gained 8 pounds!
Lars shook his head and walked away chuckling to himself. "Something is wrong with the scale," he gloated. It was all I could do not to pick it up and throw it at him. For the next ten minutes I stepped on and off of the scale repeatedly. A gain of 4. A loss of 7. A gain of 2. A gain of 11. A lost of 6. I was beside myself.
I knew I'd lost weight. I knew it. My clothes were swimming on me. My pants were loose. My skirts were hanging.
I avoided the urge to stuff my face with powdered sugar doughnuts and instead drove to Bed Bath and Beyond to buy a new scale. I had to know the truth.
I took the new scale out of the box and carefully read how to calibrate it. How to make sure the surface it was placed on did not interfere with the results. I peed. Then I stepped on the scale.
I stepped off and stepped on again. And again. It showed that I had not lost a pound since last week.
And I knew it was not the birthday cake.
I'd thought I'd needed to lose 10 pounds. And I guess I had. But I had not counted on one thing.
The scale had been wrong from the beginning. I'd really had 20 pounds to lose. All that I had done and I was still only half way there.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
The War on Carbs
The war on carbs is no small undertaking. For someone like me, something as simple as breakfast is a challenge. And by “someone like me,” I mean “someone who does not have the time to boil or poach an egg every day while trying to get showered and dressed and make it to work on time with two children attached to me." And anything else is loaded with carbs. It is the Devil’s Bargain.
But what is far worse than the availability of foods that are easy to grab and go with that won’t send you into deficit spending on the carb count, is the alarming lack of anything satisfyingly crunchy on the carb-less list. Eggs. Cheese. Meat. Mush. Moosh. Mash.
Yuck.
By day two I am dying for something with a healthy resistance to my teeth and a satisfying crunch when I bite it. The closest thing I can come to that is bacon.
Not that I was going to complain. Any diet that allows you to eat bacon is miles ahead of any other in my book. But after a while, I found my approach to food a little disconcerting.
First, I lay claim to the biggest steak, the largest chicken breast, the last hot dog, and all the lunch meat. Lars would look at me like I was insane when I’d serve dinner and I would have the Fred Flintstone sized steak to his dainty portion. I’d use the excuse that his plate was also filled with mashed potatoes, and point to the gaping vacant space on my plate where the mashed potatoes might have been in a past life.
Next, I went nuts for nuts. As snack foods go they are a little expensive, but they are low in carbs and if I could control myself and not eat an entire pound bag, they were satisfying and crunchy. I would make semi-weekly trips to my local nut store for 2 pound bags of unsalted mixed nuts. I am sure the owner was ready to call the authorities to report my erratic behavior.
Most alarmingly, I craved soda. I never drink soda. Haven’t had a regular soda habit since college when every day began with a Diet Coke on the way to class. But suddenly without any sugar sources, the lure of Diet Cherry Vanilla Coke became a force to be reckoned with. I drank two a day.
I discovered that heavy cream, the Devil in White for most dieters, has very few carbs. I used it to cook. I used it in coffee. I used it in Sugar-Free Instant Chocolate Pudding to make it through the night.
I ate like a horse. When you don’t have to pay attention to fat grams but only need to be vigilant about carb grams, snacking can be very satisfying. If I got hungry at 10 pm, a few slices of bacon and a couple of pieces of cheese did the trick. And I’d still wake up the next day feeling like a stick figure.
The end of the first bizarre week came and I stepped on the scale. I’d lost 7 pounds. It had been torture, but it had begun to pay off. Seven pounds in seven days? I was on my way! I could do this for three more days….Couldn’t I?
But what is far worse than the availability of foods that are easy to grab and go with that won’t send you into deficit spending on the carb count, is the alarming lack of anything satisfyingly crunchy on the carb-less list. Eggs. Cheese. Meat. Mush. Moosh. Mash.
Yuck.
By day two I am dying for something with a healthy resistance to my teeth and a satisfying crunch when I bite it. The closest thing I can come to that is bacon.
Not that I was going to complain. Any diet that allows you to eat bacon is miles ahead of any other in my book. But after a while, I found my approach to food a little disconcerting.
First, I lay claim to the biggest steak, the largest chicken breast, the last hot dog, and all the lunch meat. Lars would look at me like I was insane when I’d serve dinner and I would have the Fred Flintstone sized steak to his dainty portion. I’d use the excuse that his plate was also filled with mashed potatoes, and point to the gaping vacant space on my plate where the mashed potatoes might have been in a past life.
Next, I went nuts for nuts. As snack foods go they are a little expensive, but they are low in carbs and if I could control myself and not eat an entire pound bag, they were satisfying and crunchy. I would make semi-weekly trips to my local nut store for 2 pound bags of unsalted mixed nuts. I am sure the owner was ready to call the authorities to report my erratic behavior.
Most alarmingly, I craved soda. I never drink soda. Haven’t had a regular soda habit since college when every day began with a Diet Coke on the way to class. But suddenly without any sugar sources, the lure of Diet Cherry Vanilla Coke became a force to be reckoned with. I drank two a day.
I discovered that heavy cream, the Devil in White for most dieters, has very few carbs. I used it to cook. I used it in coffee. I used it in Sugar-Free Instant Chocolate Pudding to make it through the night.
I ate like a horse. When you don’t have to pay attention to fat grams but only need to be vigilant about carb grams, snacking can be very satisfying. If I got hungry at 10 pm, a few slices of bacon and a couple of pieces of cheese did the trick. And I’d still wake up the next day feeling like a stick figure.
The end of the first bizarre week came and I stepped on the scale. I’d lost 7 pounds. It had been torture, but it had begun to pay off. Seven pounds in seven days? I was on my way! I could do this for three more days….Couldn’t I?
Friday, January 27, 2012
Carbs Are Not My Friend
Do you have any idea how hard it is to limit your carb intake to five grams or less? Do you? Everything is just oozing with carbs! It is not just a matter torturing yourself by eliminating such staples as bread and pasta and rice (and Froot Loops, and Yodels and soft pretzels and Pop Tarts) from your diet! Nooooo! It is so much more than that! You can't even eat foods that are traditionally NOT prohibited while you are dieting. Things that aren't even all that fun or satisfying to begin with! Like granola (bird food) and yogurt (baby food) and prunes (old people food).
But a few years ago, when I was still clinging to the last 10 pounds of pregnancy fat, a blubbery layer of flub that stretched from clavicle to hip bone but avoided my arms and legs, giving me the appearance of a potato with toothpicks strategically inserted in it, I attended one of Kate's boys' baptisms. And at the party afterwards, I remarked to Kate that she looked fabulous.
And she did. She was slim and trim and her clothes did not take on the appearance of casing on sausage like mine had a tendency to do. I asked what she had done and prayed that she didn't say "I run 10 miles everyday and walk to work." I'd have to put down my cake and strangle her for that.
No, she said she did the Atkins Diet.(Atkins? Atkins who? I don't diet per se, but understand that I have been on a diet of my own design for nearly 30 years.) Then she corrected herself and said she followed a modified Atkins Diet. (Ok so it is modified. It still means nothing to me. What does Atkins eat and what did you change the menu to?)
She said simply that she limited her carb intake to under 5 grams of carbs. She referenced our friend who lost scads of weight on the Zone Diet and said it was like that only better.
OK. What's a carb?
I was not an experienced carb, calorie or fat gram counter, but Kate explained the rules of the road and where to look for hidden carbs. Stick to things with labels so there is no guessing. Work hard. I'd see results. She'd lost 10 pounds in a week.
Now THOSE are results worth torturing yourself for.
I figured I had about 10 pounds to lose, judging from the flab. I stepped on the scale on Monday and then placed my feet on the path to svelteness. I was a size 8. I can do anything for a week.I was anxious to see where this would take me.
Where it took me was to obsession with label reading and menu-fixing and a burning desire to eat something crunchy.
I decided that that Monday was a good time to start for two reasons. One, I was not about to weigh THIS much THAT much longer. And two, I worked in a small office with only two other people. Two other people that were always baking something and bringing it in. Or ordering a pizza and offering the remaining 6 slices to the rest of us. Or stopping for doughnuts to bring to our meeting. Or bringing in junk food from their houses so it wouldn't derail their diets. And I didn't need the temptation - or the unsolicited commentary about the weird foods I would be eating.
Because really, to do this, you need to eat weird food.
But a few years ago, when I was still clinging to the last 10 pounds of pregnancy fat, a blubbery layer of flub that stretched from clavicle to hip bone but avoided my arms and legs, giving me the appearance of a potato with toothpicks strategically inserted in it, I attended one of Kate's boys' baptisms. And at the party afterwards, I remarked to Kate that she looked fabulous.
And she did. She was slim and trim and her clothes did not take on the appearance of casing on sausage like mine had a tendency to do. I asked what she had done and prayed that she didn't say "I run 10 miles everyday and walk to work." I'd have to put down my cake and strangle her for that.
No, she said she did the Atkins Diet.(Atkins? Atkins who? I don't diet per se, but understand that I have been on a diet of my own design for nearly 30 years.) Then she corrected herself and said she followed a modified Atkins Diet. (Ok so it is modified. It still means nothing to me. What does Atkins eat and what did you change the menu to?)
She said simply that she limited her carb intake to under 5 grams of carbs. She referenced our friend who lost scads of weight on the Zone Diet and said it was like that only better.
OK. What's a carb?
I was not an experienced carb, calorie or fat gram counter, but Kate explained the rules of the road and where to look for hidden carbs. Stick to things with labels so there is no guessing. Work hard. I'd see results. She'd lost 10 pounds in a week.
Now THOSE are results worth torturing yourself for.
I figured I had about 10 pounds to lose, judging from the flab. I stepped on the scale on Monday and then placed my feet on the path to svelteness. I was a size 8. I can do anything for a week.I was anxious to see where this would take me.
Where it took me was to obsession with label reading and menu-fixing and a burning desire to eat something crunchy.
I decided that that Monday was a good time to start for two reasons. One, I was not about to weigh THIS much THAT much longer. And two, I worked in a small office with only two other people. Two other people that were always baking something and bringing it in. Or ordering a pizza and offering the remaining 6 slices to the rest of us. Or stopping for doughnuts to bring to our meeting. Or bringing in junk food from their houses so it wouldn't derail their diets. And I didn't need the temptation - or the unsolicited commentary about the weird foods I would be eating.
Because really, to do this, you need to eat weird food.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Cookies, and Cupcakes and Brownies Oh My
And as the reality of winter settles in and the holidays fizzle out and leave nothing but endless stretches of cold, gray, doldrums ahead of us, Scott and I decide to plan something. Anything. Anything to break up the long wait for Spring and the day the boat goes back into the water.
Scott's birthday is in the Spring and I want to take him on a trip to celebrate. I decided that would be our tradition on his birthday last year. What else would you do for the man who has everything? Plenty of cool clothes. No interest in jewelry. Owns dozens of phenomenal toys: Boat, jet ski, snowboard, skis, trick skis, rollerblades, great bike, cars, and every electronic gizmo you can name. (As opposed to J. whose niftiest gadget was a pacemaker, thank you.)
Scott and I travel well together. We both relax and enjoy it all wherever we go. No pressure. No rushing. Nothing to be highstrung about. No fussiness about accommodations or where we dine or what time we do anything. Or how much luggage to bring. (By comparison, J. only carried a suitcase so he'd have someplace to conceal his cigarettes and could not understand why I'd need more than an outfit change or two in the fashion capital of the world.)
Scott's birthday is a Big One so I'd like to do something special. (Move over Charlotte, you have more company in your age bracket!) I am thinking Ireland. He is thinking warm and sunny and sandy.
Key West. Of course.
We get on line. We investigate flight options. We read hotel reviews. We examine maps of the island. I ask a friend who travels there often for advice. We log onto Expedia and book airfare, hotel, and car. I am already packing in my imagination. Making lists. Putting together outfits. We leave in a month.
A month!
OMG - I have a month to shed the Just-One-Christmas-Cookie-Won't-Hurt-Anything tonnage I've put on since Thanksgiving.
OK, it is really only four pounds but really, on my frame, 4 pounds looks like I'm wearing a lifejacket. Sorry. "Personal Flotation Device." My apologies to the Girl Scouts of America.
I look at my treadmill. It has boxes containing all the contents of Hil's bedroom furniture sitting all along the tread. I have no intention of moving them. Yet I know that a few turns on the treadmill would surely get me in fit, firm, fighting shape. And still I have virtually no motivation to clear off the boxes and hop on.
Instead I'd rather eat salads and drink skinny cocktails or even take up smoking to shed the 4 pounds. And sit here with my laptop writing my blog instead of running on the treadmill next to the ironing board and the kitty climbing thing.
What is wrong with me? Do I have SAD or whatever psychobabble excuse for being lazy and lethargic during the winter? In the summer, I would pick up and go, walk, run anywhere, lift and carry anything, swim, do yard work, wash the car...anything to get myself in motion and sweating. Now all I want to do is curl up in an electric blanket. Not even the need to shed 4 pound in 4 weeks motivates me.
I know what to do. I will do the Atkins diet as modified by Kate the year she tricked me into losing 20 pounds. No more than 5 grams of carbs a day. I'll be a shadow of my former self in no time.
Scott's birthday is in the Spring and I want to take him on a trip to celebrate. I decided that would be our tradition on his birthday last year. What else would you do for the man who has everything? Plenty of cool clothes. No interest in jewelry. Owns dozens of phenomenal toys: Boat, jet ski, snowboard, skis, trick skis, rollerblades, great bike, cars, and every electronic gizmo you can name. (As opposed to J. whose niftiest gadget was a pacemaker, thank you.)
Scott and I travel well together. We both relax and enjoy it all wherever we go. No pressure. No rushing. Nothing to be highstrung about. No fussiness about accommodations or where we dine or what time we do anything. Or how much luggage to bring. (By comparison, J. only carried a suitcase so he'd have someplace to conceal his cigarettes and could not understand why I'd need more than an outfit change or two in the fashion capital of the world.)
Scott's birthday is a Big One so I'd like to do something special. (Move over Charlotte, you have more company in your age bracket!) I am thinking Ireland. He is thinking warm and sunny and sandy.
Key West. Of course.
We get on line. We investigate flight options. We read hotel reviews. We examine maps of the island. I ask a friend who travels there often for advice. We log onto Expedia and book airfare, hotel, and car. I am already packing in my imagination. Making lists. Putting together outfits. We leave in a month.
A month!
OMG - I have a month to shed the Just-One-Christmas-Cookie-Won't-Hurt-Anything tonnage I've put on since Thanksgiving.
OK, it is really only four pounds but really, on my frame, 4 pounds looks like I'm wearing a lifejacket. Sorry. "Personal Flotation Device." My apologies to the Girl Scouts of America.
I look at my treadmill. It has boxes containing all the contents of Hil's bedroom furniture sitting all along the tread. I have no intention of moving them. Yet I know that a few turns on the treadmill would surely get me in fit, firm, fighting shape. And still I have virtually no motivation to clear off the boxes and hop on.
Instead I'd rather eat salads and drink skinny cocktails or even take up smoking to shed the 4 pounds. And sit here with my laptop writing my blog instead of running on the treadmill next to the ironing board and the kitty climbing thing.
What is wrong with me? Do I have SAD or whatever psychobabble excuse for being lazy and lethargic during the winter? In the summer, I would pick up and go, walk, run anywhere, lift and carry anything, swim, do yard work, wash the car...anything to get myself in motion and sweating. Now all I want to do is curl up in an electric blanket. Not even the need to shed 4 pound in 4 weeks motivates me.
I know what to do. I will do the Atkins diet as modified by Kate the year she tricked me into losing 20 pounds. No more than 5 grams of carbs a day. I'll be a shadow of my former self in no time.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Hooray for Parents
And thus the holidays are officially over. Nothing douses the last glowing embers of the holidays like a family member's floundering marriage to someone you don't like anyway, and your mother's insistence that you become involved with the rescue mission. Whether the victim you are rescuing is your family member or the marriage is immaterial. Both options are equally sucky.
And one night, as I am sitting at Kate's house having a beer and her father's Hot Dish recipe and exchanging Christmas gifts while our children make a Hollywood quality short film about vampires and murder with a tripod and video camera, I am struck by something.
Kate and I have remarkably similar lives and are generally in sync with one another, yet to look at our mothers, you'd expect something different.
Consider the party Kate threw so her friends could see her parents. (I said we'd get to that.)
Kate invites her parents to see her son sing in a Christmas concert and they not only accept the invitation, but fly up for 5 or 6 nights, and stay in her house. They also spend time with their grandchildren, go on outings with Kate and her family, and do little projects around the house (like remove and paint all the shutters.)
My mother migrates once a year, only for Christmas, unless there is something she can not save face and blow off (like a high school graduation) But she and Bill won't stay for more than a day or two, and won't even stick around for the party, natch. Something like a recital or concert would never rank. (And we've already been over the issue of accommodations.) Until this year, (and Mom moved away 14 years ago), Mom never stayed with me or Charlotte. She usually stayed with the Lushes, as Mrs. Lush was someone she called her "BF" or "Breast Friend." (I am not making this up.) She was her BF for years and spent every Christmas with her. (Before, I guess, she became NFAA, aka No Friend At All) There was that one time she spent Christmas Eve with me so that I would not have to wake up alone on my first Christmas morning without the kids. But even then Bill would not come. And certainly wasn't painting my shutters.
Kate celebrates her parents and throws a party. Mostly because we, her girlfriends, all want to see them (or even if it is not too much to ask, to be adopted by them) and immediately place the party on our calendars. In ink. Charlotte and I, on the other hand, invite our friends for Christmas Eve only as a matter of survival, and of course, avoiding lengthy jail sentences for murdering our mother or her spouse in fits of rage. We offset the parents with friends, and a 2:1 ratio is most favorable. The more the merrier. More eyes to roll in the kitchen when my mother brings up some dicey topic. Like Viagra. Or politics. Or race relations.
And I had worked myself into a lather about my mother meeting Scott, not because she might not like him (not a chance, and who cares anyway?) but because she might torture him endlessly and/or run him off as Mothers-in-Law from Hell often do.
Meanwhile, I could not wait to introduce Scott to Mr. and Mrs. Kate's Parent's. Because they are important and I care that they meet him. And because they are loads of fun. And they have grown up relationships with their children and enjoy their company. And have gotten to know their children's friends. And socialize without getting completely plastered and passing out. And without insulting, talking over, admonishing, or denigrating any of the other guests. How novel! Kate's Dad spent the evening mixing killer Old Fashioneds and her Mom buzzed about filling glasses and getting caught up on everyone's lives. Even Scott's! Kate's Mom even remarked to him that "Liza's last boyfriend was a real dud!" You can't buy parents like these!
Kate's sisters came to celebrate. One from the Heartland and one from the Sunny South. They all cried when they realized they were all miraculously together for Christmas. Joe and Charlotte and I haven't occupied the same room since about the time of my Dad's funeral. And don't want to. If forced to do so, there would indeed be tears but not like those shed by Kate and her sibs.
And my children were ooohed and aaahed over by Kate's parents and sisters and generally made to feel special and wonderful and good. And all the girlfriends could enjoy one another's company and catch up without having to worry if anyone had wandered off and passed out in the yard by the blow up snowman, or if anyone was being raked over the hot coals for their political views being too far to the left. And no one got yelled at for having a messy room.
A lovely night, and over much too soon. I wonder if Kate's parents would join us on Christmas Eve next year? I may need a couple of replacement parents by then.
And one night, as I am sitting at Kate's house having a beer and her father's Hot Dish recipe and exchanging Christmas gifts while our children make a Hollywood quality short film about vampires and murder with a tripod and video camera, I am struck by something.
Kate and I have remarkably similar lives and are generally in sync with one another, yet to look at our mothers, you'd expect something different.
Consider the party Kate threw so her friends could see her parents. (I said we'd get to that.)
Kate invites her parents to see her son sing in a Christmas concert and they not only accept the invitation, but fly up for 5 or 6 nights, and stay in her house. They also spend time with their grandchildren, go on outings with Kate and her family, and do little projects around the house (like remove and paint all the shutters.)
My mother migrates once a year, only for Christmas, unless there is something she can not save face and blow off (like a high school graduation) But she and Bill won't stay for more than a day or two, and won't even stick around for the party, natch. Something like a recital or concert would never rank. (And we've already been over the issue of accommodations.) Until this year, (and Mom moved away 14 years ago), Mom never stayed with me or Charlotte. She usually stayed with the Lushes, as Mrs. Lush was someone she called her "BF" or "Breast Friend." (I am not making this up.) She was her BF for years and spent every Christmas with her. (Before, I guess, she became NFAA, aka No Friend At All) There was that one time she spent Christmas Eve with me so that I would not have to wake up alone on my first Christmas morning without the kids. But even then Bill would not come. And certainly wasn't painting my shutters.
Kate celebrates her parents and throws a party. Mostly because we, her girlfriends, all want to see them (or even if it is not too much to ask, to be adopted by them) and immediately place the party on our calendars. In ink. Charlotte and I, on the other hand, invite our friends for Christmas Eve only as a matter of survival, and of course, avoiding lengthy jail sentences for murdering our mother or her spouse in fits of rage. We offset the parents with friends, and a 2:1 ratio is most favorable. The more the merrier. More eyes to roll in the kitchen when my mother brings up some dicey topic. Like Viagra. Or politics. Or race relations.
And I had worked myself into a lather about my mother meeting Scott, not because she might not like him (not a chance, and who cares anyway?) but because she might torture him endlessly and/or run him off as Mothers-in-Law from Hell often do.
Meanwhile, I could not wait to introduce Scott to Mr. and Mrs. Kate's Parent's. Because they are important and I care that they meet him. And because they are loads of fun. And they have grown up relationships with their children and enjoy their company. And have gotten to know their children's friends. And socialize without getting completely plastered and passing out. And without insulting, talking over, admonishing, or denigrating any of the other guests. How novel! Kate's Dad spent the evening mixing killer Old Fashioneds and her Mom buzzed about filling glasses and getting caught up on everyone's lives. Even Scott's! Kate's Mom even remarked to him that "Liza's last boyfriend was a real dud!" You can't buy parents like these!
Kate's sisters came to celebrate. One from the Heartland and one from the Sunny South. They all cried when they realized they were all miraculously together for Christmas. Joe and Charlotte and I haven't occupied the same room since about the time of my Dad's funeral. And don't want to. If forced to do so, there would indeed be tears but not like those shed by Kate and her sibs.
And my children were ooohed and aaahed over by Kate's parents and sisters and generally made to feel special and wonderful and good. And all the girlfriends could enjoy one another's company and catch up without having to worry if anyone had wandered off and passed out in the yard by the blow up snowman, or if anyone was being raked over the hot coals for their political views being too far to the left. And no one got yelled at for having a messy room.
A lovely night, and over much too soon. I wonder if Kate's parents would join us on Christmas Eve next year? I may need a couple of replacement parents by then.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Damn Yankees
If Mom is frustrated that I have not returned her call, she doesn't show it. I thought for sure she's call to object to my impersonal, texted advice to Joe, which was surely not what she had in mind. I am sure she envisioned a sweet phone call, inviting Joe and maybe even Steve, out for a beer, since we're all in the same neighborhood now, how convenient. And I am sure she wanted me to say something that sounds like "There, there, everything will be just fine, and here are the 200 things you need to do, and since I am your big sister and have a few more pounds of gray matter than you two nitwits put together, I will take care of all of it for you, and pay our tab tonight, too. How's that? Feeling better?"
She doesn't call me (Joe must not have figured out how to forward the text on his pre-paid flip phone yet) and instead she calls Charlotte, presumably to hit her up for some warm and fuzzy advice for Joe. She has a better chance at getting a walk on try out with the Yankees.
But while Mom is haranguing Charlotte, she tries to pluck her heart strings (which in all matters concerning Joe, Charlotte has let dry rot) and pleads for her help. Tells her Joe "isn't wordly."
No shit, Ma. He isn't even neighborhoodly. Maybe not even backyardly. But whose problem is that? He can't catch up now! He's 45 years old and can't navigate his way out of a proverbial paperbag. And now Charlotte and I are supposed to give him a quick tutorial on How Not to Fuck Up Your Life Beyond Any Hope of Repair 101 in the hopes that he will suddenly figure out how to successfully save or end his marriage without irreparable financial, emotional, or physical damage? Really? Try a Novena.
What I want to do is call Mom and tell her that when we were kids she flew the coop and left Joe to figure it all out for himself when it was patently clear to everyone that he could not, and if the results of that decision have finally come home to roost, then so should she. I am not paying for her parenting transgressions or her decision to move 5 states away. Inconvenience yourself for once. I am through paying for your sins. If she wants something fixed she can do it herself.
But I won't. She gets to live another day without a guilty thought in the world.
She doesn't call me (Joe must not have figured out how to forward the text on his pre-paid flip phone yet) and instead she calls Charlotte, presumably to hit her up for some warm and fuzzy advice for Joe. She has a better chance at getting a walk on try out with the Yankees.
But while Mom is haranguing Charlotte, she tries to pluck her heart strings (which in all matters concerning Joe, Charlotte has let dry rot) and pleads for her help. Tells her Joe "isn't wordly."
No shit, Ma. He isn't even neighborhoodly. Maybe not even backyardly. But whose problem is that? He can't catch up now! He's 45 years old and can't navigate his way out of a proverbial paperbag. And now Charlotte and I are supposed to give him a quick tutorial on How Not to Fuck Up Your Life Beyond Any Hope of Repair 101 in the hopes that he will suddenly figure out how to successfully save or end his marriage without irreparable financial, emotional, or physical damage? Really? Try a Novena.
What I want to do is call Mom and tell her that when we were kids she flew the coop and left Joe to figure it all out for himself when it was patently clear to everyone that he could not, and if the results of that decision have finally come home to roost, then so should she. I am not paying for her parenting transgressions or her decision to move 5 states away. Inconvenience yourself for once. I am through paying for your sins. If she wants something fixed she can do it herself.
But I won't. She gets to live another day without a guilty thought in the world.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Double, Double, Toil and Trouble
I labor over whether to not to call Mom, sufficiently to derail any genuine productivity at the office. I am thankful that Scott texts me. Even more thankful that on his way home from an appointment, he has elected to stop by to say, "Hello."
I am jonesing for a cup of coffee from the cafe in the lobby (the free coffee in our lunch room could be easily be mistaken for a potful of waste water from a treatment plant) and I meet Scott in the lobby. Fed him all the tasty morsels of the latest crap sandwich I'd been served by Mom. Tell him about my quandary. To call or not to call.
He listens patiently and after a moment or two of reflection says, "Why don't you just NOT call her, and wait for her to call you a second time. Then you can tell her exactly how you feel but you haven't started the trouble by doing the dialing."
It really is that simple.
After Scott leaves, I get my coffee, get my blood flowing and text Charlotte the plan. It isn't totally satisfying, but it makes me feel better to not have to come out swinging. I will throw my punches after she throws one first.
Then I text Joe. It's not that I don't want him to have the right advice. It is that I am not interested in participating in resolving his problem. If I show him the slightest willingness, he will dump it all on me. A text maintains distance. I write:
"Mom wants me to call you with advice. My only advice is that you hire a lawyer who specializes in matrimonial law. Advice from ANYONE else, including me, is of no value."
A few hours go by and he texts back. "She called me from work last night and said that she still wants me in her life."
And then "I am really confused?" (Is that a question?)
I don't reply. Mary-ellen is a flake and I am convinced all of her carrying on is merely posturing. She is all talk and very little follow-through. I really think she can't communicate and threatens and pushes just to elicit some reaction or change or recognition from Joe. And he is just too dim to get it.
I have no time for this...but I am struck by his first text. Mary-ellen called to say she still wants him in her life?
That doesn't sound like she was stirring the pot as Mom had described.
So who is doing the pot stirring?
I am jonesing for a cup of coffee from the cafe in the lobby (the free coffee in our lunch room could be easily be mistaken for a potful of waste water from a treatment plant) and I meet Scott in the lobby. Fed him all the tasty morsels of the latest crap sandwich I'd been served by Mom. Tell him about my quandary. To call or not to call.
He listens patiently and after a moment or two of reflection says, "Why don't you just NOT call her, and wait for her to call you a second time. Then you can tell her exactly how you feel but you haven't started the trouble by doing the dialing."
It really is that simple.
After Scott leaves, I get my coffee, get my blood flowing and text Charlotte the plan. It isn't totally satisfying, but it makes me feel better to not have to come out swinging. I will throw my punches after she throws one first.
Then I text Joe. It's not that I don't want him to have the right advice. It is that I am not interested in participating in resolving his problem. If I show him the slightest willingness, he will dump it all on me. A text maintains distance. I write:
"Mom wants me to call you with advice. My only advice is that you hire a lawyer who specializes in matrimonial law. Advice from ANYONE else, including me, is of no value."
A few hours go by and he texts back. "She called me from work last night and said that she still wants me in her life."
And then "I am really confused?" (Is that a question?)
I don't reply. Mary-ellen is a flake and I am convinced all of her carrying on is merely posturing. She is all talk and very little follow-through. I really think she can't communicate and threatens and pushes just to elicit some reaction or change or recognition from Joe. And he is just too dim to get it.
I have no time for this...but I am struck by his first text. Mary-ellen called to say she still wants him in her life?
That doesn't sound like she was stirring the pot as Mom had described.
So who is doing the pot stirring?
Friday, January 20, 2012
Damned if I Do
Mom is Hell bent on getting me to call Joe when I know that I will not. She prattles on and on about Mary-ellen’s trouble making and foul mouth and then provides me with every cell phone and land line that I can reach Joe or Steve on.
Like I would call Steve for any reason ever. I would sooner run him over with my car.
She finally signs off with an impersonal and trailing off “Thank yooouuu…” It was the same impersonal, calling-someone-at-the-bank tone of voice she used when she made the obligatory call on New Year’s Eve to wish me and Scott and Happy New Year. She said all the right words but her tone was strictly I’m-making-this-call-out-of-obligation-only. I could practically see the gun at her head.
Charlotte texts me while I am on my conference call. Asks about how my day is going. I text back that it is exhausting…and so is our mother. She asks me to call her. I do, on the way from the conference call to an Affirmative Action meeting. Fill her in on the deets. She is appropriately horrified.
I tell her my knee-jerk reaction is to call Mom and tell her that I have way more serious issues to deal with than to become sucked into Joe’s nightmare, and that I have no intention of making his problems my problem.
I wish I’d known better when he and Mary-ellen were buying their first house and they were getting in way over their heads in a really tragic business deal. He would share new little shreds of alarming information and I would tell him, in between contractions of premature labor with Hil, that he needed to cancel the deal, get a lawyer, put on the brakes, tear up the contract, anything to be able to walk away, and he would not listen and would do nothing as the settlement date drew ever nearer. I ended up calling my mother and telling her that he was causing me physical distress with his nonsense, and she ended up engaging a lawyer to get him out of his contract. He’s that useless to himself.
I toy with the idea of making this call and wonder how I can go about doing so without screaming loudly and disrupting my entire office like raving lunatic.
Because really, that is the direction the conversation would quickly take. If not because I dare to refuse to do what she says (at the ripe old age of 40-something) then because I will not be able to refrain from screwing up my face and asking why in the Hell she would begin any phone message with the words “I know you probably don’t want to hear from me….”
And inevitably, that question would be followed by something like “I enjoy hearing from you, Mom. It is your miserable old drunken slob husband I don’t ever need to speak with again. But since he’s probably shared all of his complaints about me with you, maybe you and I don’t actually need to speak very much. And before you play dumb, let me tell you that I knew what he’d said to Charlotte by the time you reached the end of her driveway, and if you are curious, call her and ask her. And while you are at it, ask her what complaints he has about you, too. Since he was dumb enough to cover all of that material in great detail, too.”
But something stops me. I just don’t have the will to beat her about the head and torso about this right now. And I just can’t comply with her directive either. And all of this makes me feel defeated. Damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.
Like I would call Steve for any reason ever. I would sooner run him over with my car.
She finally signs off with an impersonal and trailing off “Thank yooouuu…” It was the same impersonal, calling-someone-at-the-bank tone of voice she used when she made the obligatory call on New Year’s Eve to wish me and Scott and Happy New Year. She said all the right words but her tone was strictly I’m-making-this-call-out-of-obligation-only. I could practically see the gun at her head.
Charlotte texts me while I am on my conference call. Asks about how my day is going. I text back that it is exhausting…and so is our mother. She asks me to call her. I do, on the way from the conference call to an Affirmative Action meeting. Fill her in on the deets. She is appropriately horrified.
I tell her my knee-jerk reaction is to call Mom and tell her that I have way more serious issues to deal with than to become sucked into Joe’s nightmare, and that I have no intention of making his problems my problem.
I wish I’d known better when he and Mary-ellen were buying their first house and they were getting in way over their heads in a really tragic business deal. He would share new little shreds of alarming information and I would tell him, in between contractions of premature labor with Hil, that he needed to cancel the deal, get a lawyer, put on the brakes, tear up the contract, anything to be able to walk away, and he would not listen and would do nothing as the settlement date drew ever nearer. I ended up calling my mother and telling her that he was causing me physical distress with his nonsense, and she ended up engaging a lawyer to get him out of his contract. He’s that useless to himself.
I toy with the idea of making this call and wonder how I can go about doing so without screaming loudly and disrupting my entire office like raving lunatic.
Because really, that is the direction the conversation would quickly take. If not because I dare to refuse to do what she says (at the ripe old age of 40-something) then because I will not be able to refrain from screwing up my face and asking why in the Hell she would begin any phone message with the words “I know you probably don’t want to hear from me….”
And inevitably, that question would be followed by something like “I enjoy hearing from you, Mom. It is your miserable old drunken slob husband I don’t ever need to speak with again. But since he’s probably shared all of his complaints about me with you, maybe you and I don’t actually need to speak very much. And before you play dumb, let me tell you that I knew what he’d said to Charlotte by the time you reached the end of her driveway, and if you are curious, call her and ask her. And while you are at it, ask her what complaints he has about you, too. Since he was dumb enough to cover all of that material in great detail, too.”
But something stops me. I just don’t have the will to beat her about the head and torso about this right now. And I just can’t comply with her directive either. And all of this makes me feel defeated. Damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
R-A-N-T Rant
Mom starts out telling me about the trial separation Joe and Mary-ellen are going through and tells me a few factoids I already know.
And then she really starts.
She needs me to get in touch with Joe. (Really? I think “needs” might be over-doing it, Ma.)
“He is really going through such a hard time with Mary-ellen. He’s not abandoning anyone, she just makes it so hard for him to be there – picking fights and cursing and all that nonsense. She really is such a pig, you know.” (Are we just now realizing this?) “And she just makes it impossible for him to stay.” (Did I just hear an excuse?)
“And Joe said that he’d come back to the house on the nights that she works, and stay with the kids until they get off to school in the morning or she gets home, and last night she called well after midnight and he was asleep and she woke him up and started a big hullabaloo and then did the same thing when she got home in the morning and she’s really just so awful.”
“But Joe really needs some advice. He just doesn’t know what to do about this whole mess. And he’s staying with Steve. You probably remember Steve. He’s a really nice guy.”
NO. SHE. DIDN’T.
My burning recollections of Steve include weirdness along the lines of comedian Steve Wright without the funniness, and morbid depression. And working in a hardware store. But the most distinctive recollection of Steve is not that he is nice at all, but that he is a first class pig.
And why do I think that? I will tell you. A long, long time ago, when I was unfortunately dating Lars, I had the additional misfortune of bumping into Joe and Steve at a Pub. Lars and I were not anxious to spend any great amount of time with either of them and quickly scrammed to another pub with higher quality clientele.
A short time after that dubious encounter, Joe approaches me to tell me that Steve, whom I’d never met, thought I was pretty cute.
And if that weren’t enough to make my skin crawl, he added that Steve had commented that he’d like to do The Nasty with me. (I don’t recall the precise terminology but it was something equally distasteful and just as poor a choice of phrases to use when commenting on or to one’s sister.) I think there were some facial expressions and odd throat noises made immediately following.
I’ll pause while you let that one percolate for a moment.
And I asked in reply, once I’d recovered the ability to speak, what Joe had said to indicate that Steve had better A) shop in his own pay grade, and B) keep the filthy comments to himself if he planned to keep his rotten little yellowing teeth for much longer.
And he’d said nothing. And I’d been horrified. And when the argument got loud and Dad came running in from the sidelines and had said very little but had made a face that said “How on Earth did I raise my son to be this big a moron?” and Joe had called Mom, Mom had said I was overreacting.
And that friends, is just one more telling little glimpse into My Life with Joe, that might serve to explain why he never makes the guest list.
And oh, good, Mom’s message isn’t even half over.
And then she really starts.
She needs me to get in touch with Joe. (Really? I think “needs” might be over-doing it, Ma.)
“He is really going through such a hard time with Mary-ellen. He’s not abandoning anyone, she just makes it so hard for him to be there – picking fights and cursing and all that nonsense. She really is such a pig, you know.” (Are we just now realizing this?) “And she just makes it impossible for him to stay.” (Did I just hear an excuse?)
“And Joe said that he’d come back to the house on the nights that she works, and stay with the kids until they get off to school in the morning or she gets home, and last night she called well after midnight and he was asleep and she woke him up and started a big hullabaloo and then did the same thing when she got home in the morning and she’s really just so awful.”
“But Joe really needs some advice. He just doesn’t know what to do about this whole mess. And he’s staying with Steve. You probably remember Steve. He’s a really nice guy.”
NO. SHE. DIDN’T.
My burning recollections of Steve include weirdness along the lines of comedian Steve Wright without the funniness, and morbid depression. And working in a hardware store. But the most distinctive recollection of Steve is not that he is nice at all, but that he is a first class pig.
And why do I think that? I will tell you. A long, long time ago, when I was unfortunately dating Lars, I had the additional misfortune of bumping into Joe and Steve at a Pub. Lars and I were not anxious to spend any great amount of time with either of them and quickly scrammed to another pub with higher quality clientele.
A short time after that dubious encounter, Joe approaches me to tell me that Steve, whom I’d never met, thought I was pretty cute.
And if that weren’t enough to make my skin crawl, he added that Steve had commented that he’d like to do The Nasty with me. (I don’t recall the precise terminology but it was something equally distasteful and just as poor a choice of phrases to use when commenting on or to one’s sister.) I think there were some facial expressions and odd throat noises made immediately following.
I’ll pause while you let that one percolate for a moment.
And I asked in reply, once I’d recovered the ability to speak, what Joe had said to indicate that Steve had better A) shop in his own pay grade, and B) keep the filthy comments to himself if he planned to keep his rotten little yellowing teeth for much longer.
And he’d said nothing. And I’d been horrified. And when the argument got loud and Dad came running in from the sidelines and had said very little but had made a face that said “How on Earth did I raise my son to be this big a moron?” and Joe had called Mom, Mom had said I was overreacting.
And that friends, is just one more telling little glimpse into My Life with Joe, that might serve to explain why he never makes the guest list.
And oh, good, Mom’s message isn’t even half over.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Hello, Liza, This is Hell Calling
By some act of God, I miss the call. I'd left my iPhone on my desk while I went to pee before having to participate in a conference call, and came back to see the little message that I'd missed a call. I hope the "I Wanna Be Sedated" ringtone did not disturb the people in the cubicles around my office. And then while I was busy thinking "Wow! Dodged a bullet that time!" I get the jingly little notification that she'd left a message.
Must be some message.
I hesitate to listen to the message. It can't be anything good. The odds are completely against that. But I have a conference call and if I don't listen now, it could be more than an hour before I get another chance. I decide that I may as well let curiosity kill the cat.
I press the little icon on my grubby little touch screen and am almost immediately sorry that I do.
"Liza, it's Mom." Like I could ever be mistaken about THAT.
"I know you probably don't want to hear from me..."
WHAT????
I stop the message and start over just to make sure I'd heard the insanity correctly.
Yep. There it is again.
"Liza, it's Mom. I know you probably don't want to hear from me..."
Now why on God's green Earth would she start a message with those words?
I know why.
Despite all the effort to enjoy each other's company. And regardless of all the laughing and lovely gifts, and in contrast with all the reminiscing and deference and polite graciousness and peaceful, mature coexistence, and even with all the careful sidestepping of landmine issues, she believes I would not want to hear from her.
She must believe I hold a grudge against her.
Why would she think that?
I am almost too overwhelmed with visions of choking Bill to listen to the rest of the message.
But I do and then wish I hadn't.
Must be some message.
I hesitate to listen to the message. It can't be anything good. The odds are completely against that. But I have a conference call and if I don't listen now, it could be more than an hour before I get another chance. I decide that I may as well let curiosity kill the cat.
I press the little icon on my grubby little touch screen and am almost immediately sorry that I do.
"Liza, it's Mom." Like I could ever be mistaken about THAT.
"I know you probably don't want to hear from me..."
WHAT????
I stop the message and start over just to make sure I'd heard the insanity correctly.
Yep. There it is again.
"Liza, it's Mom. I know you probably don't want to hear from me..."
Now why on God's green Earth would she start a message with those words?
I know why.
Despite all the effort to enjoy each other's company. And regardless of all the laughing and lovely gifts, and in contrast with all the reminiscing and deference and polite graciousness and peaceful, mature coexistence, and even with all the careful sidestepping of landmine issues, she believes I would not want to hear from her.
She must believe I hold a grudge against her.
Why would she think that?
I am almost too overwhelmed with visions of choking Bill to listen to the rest of the message.
But I do and then wish I hadn't.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Home Away from Home
What I want to write back is "Congratulations. High fucking time you unloaded that rabid cow. Be more selective next time."
But of course I don't. A girl can dream.
He sends me another.
"I'm staying near you."
Oh goody. Time to move. My knee-jerk reply might have gone something like "Don't expect a dinner invitation anytime soon." But my sensibilities really just want to be assured that I won't be bumping into him in the local Starbucks. So instead I reply, "Where?"
He replies with the name of some condominium complex that when we were kids were The World's Worst Apartments. If a boy from there asked you out, he might as well have also admitted to performing animal sacrifices. I know he hasn't gone out and signed a lease. He must be staying with someone. I am not even remotely curious. But I do assume that his shrew wife has thrown him out.
I don't want to engage in any further exchange of information or heinously personal details. To know too much is to be sucked into his shit storm. To be sucked in is to drown in the quicksand Joe creates for himself with the problems he can't solve for himself. To be ignorant of the details is to sidestep disaster.
I simply write, "When Lars and I were separating, I was advised that the person who moves out is not responsible for the mortgage payment. Hire a divorce lawyer. You need advice."
He didn't reply. I guess he didn't particularly care for that advice.
Some time later, he texted something about putting his check into his own account.
Well, I should hope so, Slick.
I call Scott and fill him in on all the latest developments. And when he senses certain doom, I reassure him. I tell him I have made a conscious decision to refuse to be involved. I verbalize that I am fully aware that my responsibilities to my kids, my obligations at work, my commitment to my relationship with him and my generally sunny disposition are too important to sacrifice on the funeral pyre of my brother's doomed marriage.
And then Estelle calls.
But of course I don't. A girl can dream.
He sends me another.
"I'm staying near you."
Oh goody. Time to move. My knee-jerk reply might have gone something like "Don't expect a dinner invitation anytime soon." But my sensibilities really just want to be assured that I won't be bumping into him in the local Starbucks. So instead I reply, "Where?"
He replies with the name of some condominium complex that when we were kids were The World's Worst Apartments. If a boy from there asked you out, he might as well have also admitted to performing animal sacrifices. I know he hasn't gone out and signed a lease. He must be staying with someone. I am not even remotely curious. But I do assume that his shrew wife has thrown him out.
I don't want to engage in any further exchange of information or heinously personal details. To know too much is to be sucked into his shit storm. To be sucked in is to drown in the quicksand Joe creates for himself with the problems he can't solve for himself. To be ignorant of the details is to sidestep disaster.
I simply write, "When Lars and I were separating, I was advised that the person who moves out is not responsible for the mortgage payment. Hire a divorce lawyer. You need advice."
He didn't reply. I guess he didn't particularly care for that advice.
Some time later, he texted something about putting his check into his own account.
Well, I should hope so, Slick.
I call Scott and fill him in on all the latest developments. And when he senses certain doom, I reassure him. I tell him I have made a conscious decision to refuse to be involved. I verbalize that I am fully aware that my responsibilities to my kids, my obligations at work, my commitment to my relationship with him and my generally sunny disposition are too important to sacrifice on the funeral pyre of my brother's doomed marriage.
And then Estelle calls.
Monday, January 16, 2012
The Good, the Bad, and the Pathetic
So at least for now, Charlotte and Jack have won the Least Controversial trophy.
While they are gracious (and evidently tirelessly accommodating) hosts, Joe and I dare commit a multitude of unforgivable sins.
Joe sucks the life and most of the joy out of the holiday with his latest marital SNAFU - not only because his shrew wife is a raging, unrelenting bitch with no regard for timing, but because he is so completely incapable, he has to suck all of the merrymakers into his swirling little cess pool of woe.
I breeze in and out of Charlotte and Jack's home with the greatest of ease and with observable need to apologize, hang my head in shame or tuck my tail between my shapely little legs. If anyone as expecting me to run on my sword over last year's conflict, they miscalculated the whole equation.
Joe has the nerve to want to actually see my mother on her once annual migration north, and is interfering with Bill's domination of the itinerary. How dare he?
I show up with my devastatingly handsome boyfriend who clearly adores me and is virtually flawless, and who renders all other concerns immaterial. I am spending Christmas with my wonderful children, a wonderful man I love madly, and my fabulous sister and her family, and for us, it is a big love fest. Pardon me, Bill, if I don't cower at the sight of you, and trip over my feet to make amends. I barely notice you for all of Scott's shininess.
Geez. I can hardly wait until next year!
But for now Mom and Bill have bombed at astonishing speeds back to the sunny south where absolutely nothing awaits them. And to be truthful, Joe had asked that Mom accompany him to support him in something pertaining to his crumbling marriage - a court date or a mediation appointment, I don't know exactly what - but Bill had objected and Mom made her choice. Joe will be facing Team Mary-ellen solo. Let's just be glad it isn't Cancer.
And then, a few days later, I get a text from Joe.
"Mary-ellen and I are trying a separation."
While they are gracious (and evidently tirelessly accommodating) hosts, Joe and I dare commit a multitude of unforgivable sins.
Joe sucks the life and most of the joy out of the holiday with his latest marital SNAFU - not only because his shrew wife is a raging, unrelenting bitch with no regard for timing, but because he is so completely incapable, he has to suck all of the merrymakers into his swirling little cess pool of woe.
I breeze in and out of Charlotte and Jack's home with the greatest of ease and with observable need to apologize, hang my head in shame or tuck my tail between my shapely little legs. If anyone as expecting me to run on my sword over last year's conflict, they miscalculated the whole equation.
Joe has the nerve to want to actually see my mother on her once annual migration north, and is interfering with Bill's domination of the itinerary. How dare he?
I show up with my devastatingly handsome boyfriend who clearly adores me and is virtually flawless, and who renders all other concerns immaterial. I am spending Christmas with my wonderful children, a wonderful man I love madly, and my fabulous sister and her family, and for us, it is a big love fest. Pardon me, Bill, if I don't cower at the sight of you, and trip over my feet to make amends. I barely notice you for all of Scott's shininess.
Geez. I can hardly wait until next year!
But for now Mom and Bill have bombed at astonishing speeds back to the sunny south where absolutely nothing awaits them. And to be truthful, Joe had asked that Mom accompany him to support him in something pertaining to his crumbling marriage - a court date or a mediation appointment, I don't know exactly what - but Bill had objected and Mom made her choice. Joe will be facing Team Mary-ellen solo. Let's just be glad it isn't Cancer.
And then, a few days later, I get a text from Joe.
"Mary-ellen and I are trying a separation."
Friday, January 13, 2012
You Can't Take It With You
And just as Charlotte was about to start clicking the heels of her not-so-ruby slippers to transport herself to anywhere else on the planet, Jack came striding in from his run. He must have sensed the need for rescue. Immediately redirected the conversation.
Later, he asked what the problem had been and Charlotte related every last pitifully inappropriate detail.
It's not that Bill hasn't done all of this before. He's commented that Estelle is difficult to live with. (We know that, idiot, but she's your wife. You picked her. You also decided to move 5 states away where you have no friends or family or jobs or distractions to create even the slightest buffer between the two of you. Not only do you both have abrasive personalities, you have nothing but endless stretches of time together. No one would blame either of you for jumping off a bridge.) I am beginning to understand the drinking and passing out by dinnertime thing, to be honest.
But never before has Bill mentioned the pre-nup thing. He's told me before (in one of those endless, uncomfortable meandering conversations I've mentioned) that he will see to it that my brother doesn't get any money or any of their prized antiques when they die, but it has always seemed like a beef he has with my idiot sister-in-law. The one he used to openly bash while seated two chairs away at many a holiday table. It seemed as though he were saying, "Your mother thinks that all of our children will be getting some big pile of loot when I bite the dust but I have different ideas." And truthfully, I don't care what happens to Bill's money or any of his crap when he finally takes his last nap in the dirt. Let him find a way to take it with him for all I care.
But mentioning the pre-nup makes me and Charlotte think that there is some kind of plan afoot. Like he's started to get his business in order. He's making his list. He's checking it twice. What an asshole.
Charlotte is torn. Now that Bill's cat is out of its bag, she wants to let Mom in on The Big Secret. Tell her all the wonderful things that Bill had to say to her...many of which for the zillionth time.
Jack disagrees. And so does Scott. And while I share Charlotte's concern for our mother and would like nothing more than for her to be in a winning position to confront Bill, I think I agree with Scott and Jack.
Mom and Bill are bombing down the highway, chatting and sipping coffee and holding hands and singing to the radio, and talking about what a complete bitch I am, and what a shrew Joe is married to, but wasn't it a lovely Christmas? And Mom is blissfully unaware that she is traveling across five states to a home she shares with a man who is plotting to leave her alone and penniless.
Telling her all of this won't convince her that it is true. For her own survival she will have to decide that it is her wicked daughters making trouble again.
Later, he asked what the problem had been and Charlotte related every last pitifully inappropriate detail.
It's not that Bill hasn't done all of this before. He's commented that Estelle is difficult to live with. (We know that, idiot, but she's your wife. You picked her. You also decided to move 5 states away where you have no friends or family or jobs or distractions to create even the slightest buffer between the two of you. Not only do you both have abrasive personalities, you have nothing but endless stretches of time together. No one would blame either of you for jumping off a bridge.) I am beginning to understand the drinking and passing out by dinnertime thing, to be honest.
But never before has Bill mentioned the pre-nup thing. He's told me before (in one of those endless, uncomfortable meandering conversations I've mentioned) that he will see to it that my brother doesn't get any money or any of their prized antiques when they die, but it has always seemed like a beef he has with my idiot sister-in-law. The one he used to openly bash while seated two chairs away at many a holiday table. It seemed as though he were saying, "Your mother thinks that all of our children will be getting some big pile of loot when I bite the dust but I have different ideas." And truthfully, I don't care what happens to Bill's money or any of his crap when he finally takes his last nap in the dirt. Let him find a way to take it with him for all I care.
But mentioning the pre-nup makes me and Charlotte think that there is some kind of plan afoot. Like he's started to get his business in order. He's making his list. He's checking it twice. What an asshole.
Charlotte is torn. Now that Bill's cat is out of its bag, she wants to let Mom in on The Big Secret. Tell her all the wonderful things that Bill had to say to her...many of which for the zillionth time.
Jack disagrees. And so does Scott. And while I share Charlotte's concern for our mother and would like nothing more than for her to be in a winning position to confront Bill, I think I agree with Scott and Jack.
Mom and Bill are bombing down the highway, chatting and sipping coffee and holding hands and singing to the radio, and talking about what a complete bitch I am, and what a shrew Joe is married to, but wasn't it a lovely Christmas? And Mom is blissfully unaware that she is traveling across five states to a home she shares with a man who is plotting to leave her alone and penniless.
Telling her all of this won't convince her that it is true. For her own survival she will have to decide that it is her wicked daughters making trouble again.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
A Few Parting Words
Understand that even the most benign topics make for painful conversation with Bill. Even as his pointless stories meander aimlessly from boring factoid to uninteresting event to ho-hum a-ha moment, it is difficult not to get the anxious sense of dread that the story will eventually lead to some supremely uncomfortable topic. And coverage of that topic will inevitably cause his voice to rise, his demeanor to become wildly animated and his word choices to become, well, R-rated. I usually find myself wishing I had secret vanishing powers. Praying for them, actually.
So I can only imagine the way Charlotte's skin was crawling with bugs when Bill went down the rabbit hole that is trashing her sister.
Make no mistake. I do not claim to be an innocent. I have made my wicked comments and have done battle quite voluntarily more times than I can recount for you. (Go back and read this blog from the beginning!) But at least I can say that I make an effort to be direct. Follow the rules of engagement. I may wag my finger in your face but at least it is your face I wag it in.
Bill in his cowardice is fighting like a girl. There are words for men like that. Only I don't generally use them. They were all probably running through Charlotte's mind that morning.
She tried to stop him. Stop him before the point of no return. Bill, she'd said, "Remember who you are talking to." And when that caution flag went unnoticed, she said, "Bill, Liza is my sister." And as he blew through that road block, she said, "Bill, Liza is my best friend. We talk every day. Sometimes more than once. Remember who I am to her."
Oblivious as usual, he continued. I am not clear how many more of my flagrant insults and injuries he recounted for Charlotte as she buzzed nervously around her kitchen hoping for an earthquake, but eventually, Bill moved on to an even more controversial topic. Our mother, his wife, Estelle.
While Estelle was assumed to be teasing, back-combing, spraying and molding her hair into its usual helmet formation, Bill took an ill-advised opportunity to rehash all manner of complaints about her.
Some of the stories were years old. Have been rewarmed and served repeatedly. But all of the comments, every one, touches on the same themes:
Mom is difficult to live with. (Oh right, Bill, like you are a day at the beach.)
That he can not tolerate the attention she gives Joe. (Well, Bill, Mom just hasn't gotten around to running him off just yet, like you've done with everyone else in your lives. Be patient.)
That they are on the road to divorce, whether Estelle knows it or not, and that when their marriage finally disintegrates, all of the money is his. "You know we don't have a pre-nup. All that money she thinks is hers belongs to me, and I'll leave it to my grandchildren. Your brother won't ever get a cent."
Yes, he's that big an idiot.
So I can only imagine the way Charlotte's skin was crawling with bugs when Bill went down the rabbit hole that is trashing her sister.
Make no mistake. I do not claim to be an innocent. I have made my wicked comments and have done battle quite voluntarily more times than I can recount for you. (Go back and read this blog from the beginning!) But at least I can say that I make an effort to be direct. Follow the rules of engagement. I may wag my finger in your face but at least it is your face I wag it in.
Bill in his cowardice is fighting like a girl. There are words for men like that. Only I don't generally use them. They were all probably running through Charlotte's mind that morning.
She tried to stop him. Stop him before the point of no return. Bill, she'd said, "Remember who you are talking to." And when that caution flag went unnoticed, she said, "Bill, Liza is my sister." And as he blew through that road block, she said, "Bill, Liza is my best friend. We talk every day. Sometimes more than once. Remember who I am to her."
Oblivious as usual, he continued. I am not clear how many more of my flagrant insults and injuries he recounted for Charlotte as she buzzed nervously around her kitchen hoping for an earthquake, but eventually, Bill moved on to an even more controversial topic. Our mother, his wife, Estelle.
While Estelle was assumed to be teasing, back-combing, spraying and molding her hair into its usual helmet formation, Bill took an ill-advised opportunity to rehash all manner of complaints about her.
Some of the stories were years old. Have been rewarmed and served repeatedly. But all of the comments, every one, touches on the same themes:
Mom is difficult to live with. (Oh right, Bill, like you are a day at the beach.)
That he can not tolerate the attention she gives Joe. (Well, Bill, Mom just hasn't gotten around to running him off just yet, like you've done with everyone else in your lives. Be patient.)
That they are on the road to divorce, whether Estelle knows it or not, and that when their marriage finally disintegrates, all of the money is his. "You know we don't have a pre-nup. All that money she thinks is hers belongs to me, and I'll leave it to my grandchildren. Your brother won't ever get a cent."
Yes, he's that big an idiot.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Where's the Beef?
Evidently, Bill has at least one more beef with me. (There are probably hundreds but when you repeat every story at least three times, there is only so much ground you can cover. Especially when the person you are talking with is actively trying to terminate the conversation using any and all possible means, including running screaming from the building yelling "Fire!")
He relates to Charlotte (at least once...) that I didn't say anything - not one word of thanks - about the shelves.
The #@%^&* shelves! Really?
What the #@%^&* is he talking about?
I distinctly recall that I very convincingly feigned being impressed with their beauty and craftsmanship while reviewing the zillion photos, and made empathetic frowny faces when he told his little tale of woe about not being able to sell a single one at the flea market.
When Mom presented a set to me out of the clear blue sky I remarked on what a beautiful job Bill had done on them. Oooohed and aaaahed about them. Thanked her profusely, however insincerely.
What the #@%^&* is he babbling about?
What Bill doesn't seem to be able to wrap his little balding head around is the fact that he crashed and burned at six o'clock.
Six!
There were nearly two hours of festivities that took place after he had been assisted to bed in an alcohol haze and staggered unsteadily off to the Land of Nod. And that for presumably several hours before that, his brain had been saturated in booze to the point of being unable to observe and report on any of the festivities occurring around him.
Whether I thanked him for the #@%^&* shelves or not, he is in no position to say with any certainty at all whether I did or I didn't - or anything else for that matter. One of the boys could have announced his plans to become a monk. A squirrel could have emerged from a nest in the Christmas tree. Charlotte's dog could have gotten up and performed a comedy routine - Bill would have no way of knowing, thanks to acute pickling of the brain.
But he is convinced that he is correct and no one can convince him otherwise. And this latest alleged affront from me fits nicely in with the opinion he was itching to assert about me in the first place. And whether I walked into his trap or not, he thinks I did.
And again, I don't care. One more person of such alarming insignificance that good, bad or indifferent, his opinion is immaterial and of no consequence. Maybe I'll write him a letter in my head tomorrow in traffic.
But what is troubling is that he is so misguidedly comfortable in sharing his nasty little musings about me with my sister. And he has a few he'd like to share about my mother as well.
He relates to Charlotte (at least once...) that I didn't say anything - not one word of thanks - about the shelves.
The #@%^&* shelves! Really?
What the #@%^&* is he talking about?
I distinctly recall that I very convincingly feigned being impressed with their beauty and craftsmanship while reviewing the zillion photos, and made empathetic frowny faces when he told his little tale of woe about not being able to sell a single one at the flea market.
When Mom presented a set to me out of the clear blue sky I remarked on what a beautiful job Bill had done on them. Oooohed and aaaahed about them. Thanked her profusely, however insincerely.
What the #@%^&* is he babbling about?
What Bill doesn't seem to be able to wrap his little balding head around is the fact that he crashed and burned at six o'clock.
Six!
There were nearly two hours of festivities that took place after he had been assisted to bed in an alcohol haze and staggered unsteadily off to the Land of Nod. And that for presumably several hours before that, his brain had been saturated in booze to the point of being unable to observe and report on any of the festivities occurring around him.
Whether I thanked him for the #@%^&* shelves or not, he is in no position to say with any certainty at all whether I did or I didn't - or anything else for that matter. One of the boys could have announced his plans to become a monk. A squirrel could have emerged from a nest in the Christmas tree. Charlotte's dog could have gotten up and performed a comedy routine - Bill would have no way of knowing, thanks to acute pickling of the brain.
But he is convinced that he is correct and no one can convince him otherwise. And this latest alleged affront from me fits nicely in with the opinion he was itching to assert about me in the first place. And whether I walked into his trap or not, he thinks I did.
And again, I don't care. One more person of such alarming insignificance that good, bad or indifferent, his opinion is immaterial and of no consequence. Maybe I'll write him a letter in my head tomorrow in traffic.
But what is troubling is that he is so misguidedly comfortable in sharing his nasty little musings about me with my sister. And he has a few he'd like to share about my mother as well.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
A Kiss is Just a Kiss
My phone rings moments later. It is Charlotte, of course. Time for the post-game show.
I am sure she is loathe to tell me all the hateful things Bill has had to say about me, so I invite her to tell me. Open the door. "So Bill is still mad at me for telling you how badly they behaved at the cottage two summers ago, eh?"
"Well, yes, there is that..."
"Oh Geez. What else did I do? I thought I was doing a darn good job remaining pleasantly neutral. I didn't bristle at the rude political jokes or shame anyone for the racial comments. Did I make a face that gave me away? Yawn during the photo slide show? Did they figure out that I can't stand being stuck talking to them? What did I get busted for?"
What comes out of her mouth is completely unexpected. Getting busted for not holding back a face that screams "What an asshole remark!" is something I am used to. My apparent social sins from yesterday were entirely off my guilt radar.
"Bill suspects that you are no more on peaceful terms with them than they are with you. And do you know how he thinks he knows this?"
I am baffled. (Jeopardy tune playing loudly in my head now.) Did I stage whisper something catty and get caught?
Bill, evidently fancies himself a body language expert.
Charlotte says, to my ever lasting horror, "Bill says that when he went to kiss you hello, you turned your head so he had to kiss your cheek."
Oh.
My.
God.
I am completely grossed out and completely amazed at the stupidity of his assumption.
"What???? He did not really say that to you!"
"Yes. Yes he did."
Scott is looking at me in anticipation. "Oh I can't wait to hear this!"
"So what he means to say is, that the warmth and familiarity of the greeting kiss is his litmus test for how warm and fuzzy I'm feeling about the two of them?"
Maybe that works at the end of a first date, but really? With your parents' holiday visit?
Charlotte is amazed as well. "Yep. You heard it here first. That is his big tip off. That's how Sherlock Holmes knows things aren't quite right yet."
Let me see if I can interpret how he grades the test. A kiss on the cheek means the jury is still out and I'm still a little tentative. A kiss successfully planted on my mouth would have meant things were hunky dory? And I suppose if I were really on solid terms I'd have let him goose me? Is that accurate to say?
I am completely wigging. And grossed out. Is he really that stupid? Under the best of circumstances I would not let him kiss my lips. Even if I thought he was the world's greatest step father. It is just not something I am comfortable with. Gross.
"Oh and make no mistake," Charlotte continues. "He hasn't let you off the hook either. So don't think you are the only one not feeling all gooey inside."
Oh good. There's more.
I am sure she is loathe to tell me all the hateful things Bill has had to say about me, so I invite her to tell me. Open the door. "So Bill is still mad at me for telling you how badly they behaved at the cottage two summers ago, eh?"
"Well, yes, there is that..."
"Oh Geez. What else did I do? I thought I was doing a darn good job remaining pleasantly neutral. I didn't bristle at the rude political jokes or shame anyone for the racial comments. Did I make a face that gave me away? Yawn during the photo slide show? Did they figure out that I can't stand being stuck talking to them? What did I get busted for?"
What comes out of her mouth is completely unexpected. Getting busted for not holding back a face that screams "What an asshole remark!" is something I am used to. My apparent social sins from yesterday were entirely off my guilt radar.
"Bill suspects that you are no more on peaceful terms with them than they are with you. And do you know how he thinks he knows this?"
I am baffled. (Jeopardy tune playing loudly in my head now.) Did I stage whisper something catty and get caught?
Bill, evidently fancies himself a body language expert.
Charlotte says, to my ever lasting horror, "Bill says that when he went to kiss you hello, you turned your head so he had to kiss your cheek."
Oh.
My.
God.
I am completely grossed out and completely amazed at the stupidity of his assumption.
"What???? He did not really say that to you!"
"Yes. Yes he did."
Scott is looking at me in anticipation. "Oh I can't wait to hear this!"
"So what he means to say is, that the warmth and familiarity of the greeting kiss is his litmus test for how warm and fuzzy I'm feeling about the two of them?"
Maybe that works at the end of a first date, but really? With your parents' holiday visit?
Charlotte is amazed as well. "Yep. You heard it here first. That is his big tip off. That's how Sherlock Holmes knows things aren't quite right yet."
Let me see if I can interpret how he grades the test. A kiss on the cheek means the jury is still out and I'm still a little tentative. A kiss successfully planted on my mouth would have meant things were hunky dory? And I suppose if I were really on solid terms I'd have let him goose me? Is that accurate to say?
I am completely wigging. And grossed out. Is he really that stupid? Under the best of circumstances I would not let him kiss my lips. Even if I thought he was the world's greatest step father. It is just not something I am comfortable with. Gross.
"Oh and make no mistake," Charlotte continues. "He hasn't let you off the hook either. So don't think you are the only one not feeling all gooey inside."
Oh good. There's more.
Monday, January 9, 2012
There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays
A two hour car ride, a walk on the boardwalk, two deep fried turkeys, 3 Beef Wellingtons, 17 side dishes, 4 pies, 3 trays of cookies and several growlers of home made beer later, Scott and I finally enjoy a moment of quiet together. We have gifts and cards for each other and it is soothing to finally be able to focus on just us. His girls and their friends have gone visiting. The dogs have been corralled out of the room. It's just us, and I can finally stop feeling so crappy about being separated from my kids.
Scott's sister had touched a nerve, referencing Scott's girls' mother. She had wondered out loud to me how any mother can be spend Christmas without her children. She was not talking about me. She was talking about them. She and I had discussed my unique situation before and she'd been very empathetic about the choices I've had to make and the circumstances I have that I'd not choose for myself or my children or anyone else whose life intersects mine. She was not talking about me being seated at her table while my children were miles away at someone else's. She was talking about her nieces and their mother. But still, it had touched a nerve. No hard feelings toward her. Just a sensitivity that is all mine to own. Something I will never feel right about. I have Christmas china which will never be used to serve Christmas dinner to my children. It remains in boxes and stowed away, like many of the feelings I have on this day. No one can successfully navigate the land mine that is my Christmas.
I wonder if people who don't know me think I am selfish to be enjoying myself with Scott's family. Or Charlotte's. I wonder if they assume I've made a selfish choice. I know people assumed that about my mother. In the 70s it was inconceivable that a mother would choose to live apart from her children, no matter what the condition of her marriage. People assumed she was dead. I wonder what people assume about me.
The next morning Scott and I are up early making coffee and warming the Monkey Bread I'd made for my kids. I had brought it with me since Hil and Pat and I had polished off only about a fourth of it, despite our intentions to wolf down every last gooey morsel. It makes me feel guilty. Like I gave something away that belonged to the kids. I wash that thought away with strong coffee.
I have evidently missed a few desperation texts from Charlotte. She had sent up a few flares in the night. Texts commenting about Bill's habit of complaining about my mother the moment she leaves the room. That he rambles on endlessly telling the same stories over and over, usually covering a topic that is of minimal interest to begin with. Like the shelves. In a voice that sounds like his throat needs constant clearing. How did it get so gravelly?
I reply, however delayed. "He did that at the cottage. And the voice is courtesy of Jack Daniels." Jack's Jack Daniels. Most notably the entire bottle of Single Barrel he polished off unassisted two summers ago in a two-and-a-half day stay.
She replies at 8:49 am. "OMG they just left. Told the same stories in great detail (none of which were relevant) at least 3 times each day." Followed by "Bill has a major issue with you. I let him have it."
I write back. "Call me."
Bill and Estelle have been here for exactly 48 hours and have raced back to the nothingness that awaits them at home. The need to pull away evidently overpowering anything that would draw them near.
Scott's sister had touched a nerve, referencing Scott's girls' mother. She had wondered out loud to me how any mother can be spend Christmas without her children. She was not talking about me. She was talking about them. She and I had discussed my unique situation before and she'd been very empathetic about the choices I've had to make and the circumstances I have that I'd not choose for myself or my children or anyone else whose life intersects mine. She was not talking about me being seated at her table while my children were miles away at someone else's. She was talking about her nieces and their mother. But still, it had touched a nerve. No hard feelings toward her. Just a sensitivity that is all mine to own. Something I will never feel right about. I have Christmas china which will never be used to serve Christmas dinner to my children. It remains in boxes and stowed away, like many of the feelings I have on this day. No one can successfully navigate the land mine that is my Christmas.
I wonder if people who don't know me think I am selfish to be enjoying myself with Scott's family. Or Charlotte's. I wonder if they assume I've made a selfish choice. I know people assumed that about my mother. In the 70s it was inconceivable that a mother would choose to live apart from her children, no matter what the condition of her marriage. People assumed she was dead. I wonder what people assume about me.
The next morning Scott and I are up early making coffee and warming the Monkey Bread I'd made for my kids. I had brought it with me since Hil and Pat and I had polished off only about a fourth of it, despite our intentions to wolf down every last gooey morsel. It makes me feel guilty. Like I gave something away that belonged to the kids. I wash that thought away with strong coffee.
I have evidently missed a few desperation texts from Charlotte. She had sent up a few flares in the night. Texts commenting about Bill's habit of complaining about my mother the moment she leaves the room. That he rambles on endlessly telling the same stories over and over, usually covering a topic that is of minimal interest to begin with. Like the shelves. In a voice that sounds like his throat needs constant clearing. How did it get so gravelly?
I reply, however delayed. "He did that at the cottage. And the voice is courtesy of Jack Daniels." Jack's Jack Daniels. Most notably the entire bottle of Single Barrel he polished off unassisted two summers ago in a two-and-a-half day stay.
She replies at 8:49 am. "OMG they just left. Told the same stories in great detail (none of which were relevant) at least 3 times each day." Followed by "Bill has a major issue with you. I let him have it."
I write back. "Call me."
Bill and Estelle have been here for exactly 48 hours and have raced back to the nothingness that awaits them at home. The need to pull away evidently overpowering anything that would draw them near.
Friday, January 6, 2012
I'll Have A Blue Christmas
Christmas morning comes along as it always does. From where I lie in my bed, trying to avoid waking the kids by getting up and peeing, it seems twinkling, and sun-kissed and fresh and beautiful.
I risk it and get up to pee. I have been waiting since 6 am, there is no sleeping through the twinges my bladder is sending to my brain, and it is after 7 am, so what is there to be gained by staying in bed? If I am lucky, I can sneak downstairs, start the coffee, plug in the tree lights and feed the cat before I hear the first stirring upstairs.
No such luck. I am still seated on the toilet when Pat stage whispers through the key hole informing me that it is Christmas. He asks if he can wake Hil. Why not? Just don't wake the dead in doing so.
I bargain with them for a few minutes. Wash my face and brush my hair and teeth lest I end up looking monstrous in Pat's YouTube video or get sent to all of Hil's phone contacts looking like Sea Hag. I tie my robe, find where the cat has stashed my slippers and head downstairs to inspect things. All is in order (no Grinch has stolen Christmas while we slumbered) and I plug in the lights. Let the games begin.
My "film" rolling, the kids barrel down the steps and come to a stop at the tree shrieking in delight. There is frenzied gift unwrapping and more shrillness. Both kids are overjoyed. I've duped them into believing some gifts would not materialize under the tree. They are so surprised at what they've found there after all.
And then Pat realizes that there were a few gifts from Aunt Charlotte and from Scott that were not to be opened until Christmas morning. Where are they? Hil catches on and wonders the same thing.
"Oh," I explain. "I had a little trouble bringing everything back down from the third floor," I say. "Maybe you all can help with that. There are just a few more things. Come see."
I make my way around the winding staircases and landings to the attic door and pad up the soft carpeted steps to the loft just a few steps ahead of them. I let my camera roll again as the kids come in to look around. It takes a moment but as soon as they see the giant flat screen TV, the XBox console and Wii console they are shrieking again and jumping up and down. More gifts and envelopes are opened and gift cards for game stores and games themselves come spilling out. More shrieking.
All is right with the world.
Once the noise level has dropped and we've begun to take things from cartons and assemble what needs to be assembled, I pour more coffee and begin to make the Monkey Bread my kids so love and associate with Christmas. The smell of brown sugar and cinnamon and coffee mingles with fresh pine. Bliss.
It is my turn to open gifts. This year, instead of relying on hateful Lars and his cheapskate budget for a gift for the kids to give me, I made a deal with the kids. I would help them buy each other gifts, and would let them take the money from the change jar and use it for gifts for me. They could combine the money or go separate ways, but either way, they had money to spend and a more reasonable budget(as in more that $5 so we don't have to choose between the slipper socks and the coffee mug.) If there was more than they needed they had the option to use it to buy more for each other. It is a perfect arrangement. A little latitude to demonstrate their maturity. All I had to do was unleash them at the mall one day and stay in touch by phone and text.
They have really outdone themselves. A beautiful silver necklace with my last initial - and they were kind enough to remember my last initial is not the same as theirs. A funky, chunky bracelet and cool bangly earrings. A darling clutch. Some lovely shower gel. I am so touched. Not so much at what they've purchased (which is all wonderful) but in the pride they have taken in picking out special things, thinking about my taste, wrapping the gifts and hiding them. The joy on their faces at my reaction. Their Christmas Spirit is what has truly touched my heart. I can hardly speak I am so overwhelmed.
Soon all too soon, we must shower and dress. My deadline for getting them to Lars is noon. Hil uses her new straightener to touch up her hair. And then mine. She uses her new makeup to make us both fabulous. Pat hooks up both iHome clocks for their rooms and helps me water the tree and clean the cat box so we are not all so rushed.
Hil makes careful outfit choices to make sure nothing that she has just gotten will be confiscated by Lars and not make the trip back with her. Pat loves his new NHL hat but won't wear it because Lars might make him keep it there. It is a burden I hate that they bear.
Once we are all prepared, and the cat is ready to be alone for a few days while I am at Scott's, and the kids have helped me put all of Scott's gifts and his girls' gifts, and cookies and luggage and wine into my car, we are ready to pull away from the curb.
And I get the same bilious familiar twinge in the pit of my stomach. I am sending them into the lair innocent and defenseless on what should be a joyous day but most likely won't be. I am torn. I am so happy to be going to see Scott on our second Christmas together but heartbroken at being separated from my children. I am worried for them and they are worried for me (what if I get them there one minute past 12 noon? What will Dad do?) I try to remain positive, match their joy about more presents at Dad's and still try to soak in the tenderness of the moment. I have written them each a note and tucked it away in their things. Each one letting them know how much I love them and how special they have made my Christmas. I am enormously proud of them and hopelessly in love with them, and on this happiest day of the year, I am fighting back tears and barely able to breathe as I pull away from the curb.
I risk it and get up to pee. I have been waiting since 6 am, there is no sleeping through the twinges my bladder is sending to my brain, and it is after 7 am, so what is there to be gained by staying in bed? If I am lucky, I can sneak downstairs, start the coffee, plug in the tree lights and feed the cat before I hear the first stirring upstairs.
No such luck. I am still seated on the toilet when Pat stage whispers through the key hole informing me that it is Christmas. He asks if he can wake Hil. Why not? Just don't wake the dead in doing so.
I bargain with them for a few minutes. Wash my face and brush my hair and teeth lest I end up looking monstrous in Pat's YouTube video or get sent to all of Hil's phone contacts looking like Sea Hag. I tie my robe, find where the cat has stashed my slippers and head downstairs to inspect things. All is in order (no Grinch has stolen Christmas while we slumbered) and I plug in the lights. Let the games begin.
My "film" rolling, the kids barrel down the steps and come to a stop at the tree shrieking in delight. There is frenzied gift unwrapping and more shrillness. Both kids are overjoyed. I've duped them into believing some gifts would not materialize under the tree. They are so surprised at what they've found there after all.
And then Pat realizes that there were a few gifts from Aunt Charlotte and from Scott that were not to be opened until Christmas morning. Where are they? Hil catches on and wonders the same thing.
"Oh," I explain. "I had a little trouble bringing everything back down from the third floor," I say. "Maybe you all can help with that. There are just a few more things. Come see."
I make my way around the winding staircases and landings to the attic door and pad up the soft carpeted steps to the loft just a few steps ahead of them. I let my camera roll again as the kids come in to look around. It takes a moment but as soon as they see the giant flat screen TV, the XBox console and Wii console they are shrieking again and jumping up and down. More gifts and envelopes are opened and gift cards for game stores and games themselves come spilling out. More shrieking.
All is right with the world.
Once the noise level has dropped and we've begun to take things from cartons and assemble what needs to be assembled, I pour more coffee and begin to make the Monkey Bread my kids so love and associate with Christmas. The smell of brown sugar and cinnamon and coffee mingles with fresh pine. Bliss.
It is my turn to open gifts. This year, instead of relying on hateful Lars and his cheapskate budget for a gift for the kids to give me, I made a deal with the kids. I would help them buy each other gifts, and would let them take the money from the change jar and use it for gifts for me. They could combine the money or go separate ways, but either way, they had money to spend and a more reasonable budget(as in more that $5 so we don't have to choose between the slipper socks and the coffee mug.) If there was more than they needed they had the option to use it to buy more for each other. It is a perfect arrangement. A little latitude to demonstrate their maturity. All I had to do was unleash them at the mall one day and stay in touch by phone and text.
They have really outdone themselves. A beautiful silver necklace with my last initial - and they were kind enough to remember my last initial is not the same as theirs. A funky, chunky bracelet and cool bangly earrings. A darling clutch. Some lovely shower gel. I am so touched. Not so much at what they've purchased (which is all wonderful) but in the pride they have taken in picking out special things, thinking about my taste, wrapping the gifts and hiding them. The joy on their faces at my reaction. Their Christmas Spirit is what has truly touched my heart. I can hardly speak I am so overwhelmed.
Soon all too soon, we must shower and dress. My deadline for getting them to Lars is noon. Hil uses her new straightener to touch up her hair. And then mine. She uses her new makeup to make us both fabulous. Pat hooks up both iHome clocks for their rooms and helps me water the tree and clean the cat box so we are not all so rushed.
Hil makes careful outfit choices to make sure nothing that she has just gotten will be confiscated by Lars and not make the trip back with her. Pat loves his new NHL hat but won't wear it because Lars might make him keep it there. It is a burden I hate that they bear.
Once we are all prepared, and the cat is ready to be alone for a few days while I am at Scott's, and the kids have helped me put all of Scott's gifts and his girls' gifts, and cookies and luggage and wine into my car, we are ready to pull away from the curb.
And I get the same bilious familiar twinge in the pit of my stomach. I am sending them into the lair innocent and defenseless on what should be a joyous day but most likely won't be. I am torn. I am so happy to be going to see Scott on our second Christmas together but heartbroken at being separated from my children. I am worried for them and they are worried for me (what if I get them there one minute past 12 noon? What will Dad do?) I try to remain positive, match their joy about more presents at Dad's and still try to soak in the tenderness of the moment. I have written them each a note and tucked it away in their things. Each one letting them know how much I love them and how special they have made my Christmas. I am enormously proud of them and hopelessly in love with them, and on this happiest day of the year, I am fighting back tears and barely able to breathe as I pull away from the curb.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
A Letter to an Idiot
The next morning in traffic, I compose the following letter in my head:
Dear Mary-ellen, you uncommonly stupid woman -
Though I need to be clear that your inane opinions are completely meaningless and unimportant to me, and frankly, to most of the planet's inhabitants, the fact that you so confidently spew forth your unsolicited commentary on the events of my life and your assumptions about them, compels me to fill in the enormous gaps in your intelligence on this topic. Pun intended.
First, you are an idiot to think that my mother could influence even the most minor decisions in my life. Unlike your needy, dependent self, I do not regularly consult my mother on matters of any import, as I am a fully evolved adult with a superior education, and goals and ambitions, and distinct opinions about the life I intend to live myself and attain for my children. I also have standards, and taste, and some sense of propriety, all of which you would know nothing about.
Secondly, how you can even dare to assert an opinion or a musing of any kind about my life is beyond my comprehension. We have never been on friendly terms, I have shared nothing personal with you, and do not trust you. What you may think you have learned about me you are likely to be mistaken about; your version of factual information is diluted and distorted by distance, and grossly misunderstood by my brother who is as uninformed as you. So do yourself a favor and stow your opinions. You do nothing but embarrass yourself. You may as well be pontificating about Kate Middleton. You don't even know what you don't know.
And lastly, to make even a futile attempt to enlighten you and hope that your sieve of a brain retains even the slightest point of fact, I would like you to know that the following things, none of which had anything to do with my mother, were the reasons for my choosing to divorce Lars, and informed the choices I have made in doing so:
Lars is an unstable man. His parents clearly did not love him. The things they did as parents and failed to do as parents should have landed them in jail. These facts came home to haunt him right after the children were born. His behavior changed over the next few years to the point where he became intolerable to live with. His mistreatment extends not only to me but to our children.
Lars, in his sadness, turned to drugs. He did not choose therapy, or choose to confide in his wife, or seek any sort of professional help to heal himself. He chose drugs. He began abusing prescription drugs and put his career, his freedom, his life and the lives of his family at risk in favor of drug abuse. That is a very sad truth for a wife to accept.
Lars' personality became dark and suspicious. He sat in the dark for hours watching movies and insisting the children and I remain quiet. No phone, no lights, no computer, no talking. If we wanted to enjoy those things we had to go somewhere else.
He fantasized that I was having affairs with all manner of people at work and called me incessantly all day long in my office. All of my coworkers remarked on it and thought him a fool. The truth is that he gave me every motivation to run around and keep company with men who would appreciate me, but I never did. Not even once. And he thanks me by telling everyone that I did.
He became so jealous and paranoid that he saw fit to mistreat me. At home, in public, socially, and in front of the kids. I would avoid fights by ignoring it, but we fought on the way home from every party, wedding, school event, and gathering of friends, once outside the company of others. On the night before I told him I wanted a divorce, he humiliated me at a black tie charity event where we were seated with some very important partners from my firm. They commented to me later that week. I was mortified that they'd noticed. I'd so hoped I'd been the only one. The disrespect was so hurtful.
I got to the point where I could not get happy. Not at home, not with the kids, not on vacation, not in my work. My life with Lars was so oppressive that I could do nothing but simply put one foot in front of the other and go through the motions of living one day after another. It was a sad, bleak, hopeless existence with few moments of joy, and more moments of despair. After retreating to Charlotte's house a few times to escape, she said to me, "Liza, this is the third time this month you've been crying in my kitchen. What are you going to do? Your kids deserve a happier mother."
And she was right. I was afraid and I was confused and I was hurt and I was lonely and I didn't know how to fix what was wrong. I'd asked Lars to go to counseling with me a year or two before, and he'd refused, saying only, "You are the one with all the problems. If you want counseling, go get yourself some counseling." But I was certain about one thing. I was not giving my kids the mother they deserved and the attention they needed by wallowing in my misery day in and day out. And the only way to give them what they needed would be in divorcing their father and gaining the distance to restore myself.
When my mother came to town a week later, I told her I thought I needed to get divorced, and what you may be surprised to learn is that she told me the children were too young and to try to get myself happy, and to stick it out for a few years and maybe by then things would have changed for the better.
What I said then I will say now. I did not need anyone's permission. I did not seek anyone's approval. I did not need anyone to clear me for take off. I needed to change my life. Telling you in advance was just a courtesy.
I do not need you to understand any of this. It is complicated and personal. You think you can sit in judgement of me, but you can not. To do so, you would have to comprehend and your opinion would have to matter. You don't and it does not.
So before you go spouting off on topics about which your are woefully uninformed, and before you dare let my name or your opinion of me cross your lips, understand that you have been horribly wrong and misguided, and all that matters is that I KNOW IT. I don't care what you think or what you think you know about me, or what you've said about me. You are indescribably insignificant.
I hope you find some way to focus on your own life and stop dwelling on mine. In my worst moment I have been a finer, more productive, happier, more grounded, better informed, more thoughtful person than you have been in your finest hour. Shame on you for assuming otherwise. You are pathetic.
Most sincerely,
Liza
Of course I will never send it. But it feels good to have written it. She is not worth the paper and stamp it would waste, and any attempt to enlighten her is a fool's errand to begin with. I am satisfied knowing the truth in my heart.
Dear Mary-ellen, you uncommonly stupid woman -
Though I need to be clear that your inane opinions are completely meaningless and unimportant to me, and frankly, to most of the planet's inhabitants, the fact that you so confidently spew forth your unsolicited commentary on the events of my life and your assumptions about them, compels me to fill in the enormous gaps in your intelligence on this topic. Pun intended.
First, you are an idiot to think that my mother could influence even the most minor decisions in my life. Unlike your needy, dependent self, I do not regularly consult my mother on matters of any import, as I am a fully evolved adult with a superior education, and goals and ambitions, and distinct opinions about the life I intend to live myself and attain for my children. I also have standards, and taste, and some sense of propriety, all of which you would know nothing about.
Secondly, how you can even dare to assert an opinion or a musing of any kind about my life is beyond my comprehension. We have never been on friendly terms, I have shared nothing personal with you, and do not trust you. What you may think you have learned about me you are likely to be mistaken about; your version of factual information is diluted and distorted by distance, and grossly misunderstood by my brother who is as uninformed as you. So do yourself a favor and stow your opinions. You do nothing but embarrass yourself. You may as well be pontificating about Kate Middleton. You don't even know what you don't know.
And lastly, to make even a futile attempt to enlighten you and hope that your sieve of a brain retains even the slightest point of fact, I would like you to know that the following things, none of which had anything to do with my mother, were the reasons for my choosing to divorce Lars, and informed the choices I have made in doing so:
Lars is an unstable man. His parents clearly did not love him. The things they did as parents and failed to do as parents should have landed them in jail. These facts came home to haunt him right after the children were born. His behavior changed over the next few years to the point where he became intolerable to live with. His mistreatment extends not only to me but to our children.
Lars, in his sadness, turned to drugs. He did not choose therapy, or choose to confide in his wife, or seek any sort of professional help to heal himself. He chose drugs. He began abusing prescription drugs and put his career, his freedom, his life and the lives of his family at risk in favor of drug abuse. That is a very sad truth for a wife to accept.
Lars' personality became dark and suspicious. He sat in the dark for hours watching movies and insisting the children and I remain quiet. No phone, no lights, no computer, no talking. If we wanted to enjoy those things we had to go somewhere else.
He fantasized that I was having affairs with all manner of people at work and called me incessantly all day long in my office. All of my coworkers remarked on it and thought him a fool. The truth is that he gave me every motivation to run around and keep company with men who would appreciate me, but I never did. Not even once. And he thanks me by telling everyone that I did.
He became so jealous and paranoid that he saw fit to mistreat me. At home, in public, socially, and in front of the kids. I would avoid fights by ignoring it, but we fought on the way home from every party, wedding, school event, and gathering of friends, once outside the company of others. On the night before I told him I wanted a divorce, he humiliated me at a black tie charity event where we were seated with some very important partners from my firm. They commented to me later that week. I was mortified that they'd noticed. I'd so hoped I'd been the only one. The disrespect was so hurtful.
I got to the point where I could not get happy. Not at home, not with the kids, not on vacation, not in my work. My life with Lars was so oppressive that I could do nothing but simply put one foot in front of the other and go through the motions of living one day after another. It was a sad, bleak, hopeless existence with few moments of joy, and more moments of despair. After retreating to Charlotte's house a few times to escape, she said to me, "Liza, this is the third time this month you've been crying in my kitchen. What are you going to do? Your kids deserve a happier mother."
And she was right. I was afraid and I was confused and I was hurt and I was lonely and I didn't know how to fix what was wrong. I'd asked Lars to go to counseling with me a year or two before, and he'd refused, saying only, "You are the one with all the problems. If you want counseling, go get yourself some counseling." But I was certain about one thing. I was not giving my kids the mother they deserved and the attention they needed by wallowing in my misery day in and day out. And the only way to give them what they needed would be in divorcing their father and gaining the distance to restore myself.
When my mother came to town a week later, I told her I thought I needed to get divorced, and what you may be surprised to learn is that she told me the children were too young and to try to get myself happy, and to stick it out for a few years and maybe by then things would have changed for the better.
What I said then I will say now. I did not need anyone's permission. I did not seek anyone's approval. I did not need anyone to clear me for take off. I needed to change my life. Telling you in advance was just a courtesy.
I do not need you to understand any of this. It is complicated and personal. You think you can sit in judgement of me, but you can not. To do so, you would have to comprehend and your opinion would have to matter. You don't and it does not.
So before you go spouting off on topics about which your are woefully uninformed, and before you dare let my name or your opinion of me cross your lips, understand that you have been horribly wrong and misguided, and all that matters is that I KNOW IT. I don't care what you think or what you think you know about me, or what you've said about me. You are indescribably insignificant.
I hope you find some way to focus on your own life and stop dwelling on mine. In my worst moment I have been a finer, more productive, happier, more grounded, better informed, more thoughtful person than you have been in your finest hour. Shame on you for assuming otherwise. You are pathetic.
Most sincerely,
Liza
Of course I will never send it. But it feels good to have written it. She is not worth the paper and stamp it would waste, and any attempt to enlighten her is a fool's errand to begin with. I am satisfied knowing the truth in my heart.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
A Short Shelf Life
At about 7:30, Scott and his daughter pile themselves and their loot into his zippy little sports car to head across state lines so that they can wake up on Christmas morning together at home.
I pile my loot and my kids' loot and my kids themselves into my car, and prepare to follow Charlotte's convoy of vehicles to Mass.
Mom whips and backcombs a little more, applies a fresh coat of shellac and gets herself looking spiffy enough to head out to Joe's to attend Mass with him, his shrew wife, her pathetic mother, and the three wicked children.
Wouldn't it have been nice for Bill to have stayed reasonably sober (and conscious!) so that he could join his wife and provide some much needed moral support as she heads into enemy territory? Just a pipe dream, I know. Bill will never do anything that doesn't specifically benefit him in some obvious way.
As we are all preparing to walk out the door, Mom yells. "Oh, Liza! I never gave you your shelves!"
Shells? Elves? What the hell is she talking about?
She scampers into the darkened dining room and emerges with a box lid (just a lid!) containing two shelves. Shelves that look suspiciously like the ones Bill showed me in his neverending slideshow of boring photos. And then proceeded to tell me how he so cleverly assembled and finished them and that he couldn't sell a single one at the flea market.
And now I am the proud owner of two of the prized shelves. Lucky me. Oooh. Can I get a pet rock, too?
Mom goes on gushing about how beautiful they are and how Bill spent so much time on them and look at this little clever gizmo on the back to make them easy to hang, and she can just picture them hanging in my center hall on that stretch of wall going up the stair way.
Not. Scott is mouthing "Burn them in the fireplace tonight" as I am giving an award-worthy performance portraying a truly appreciative, grateful gift recipient. I gush appropriately myself and ask her to please thank Bill for me (when he awakens from his stupor, natch.)
We go to Mass. It calms my nerves somewhat. I run into an old friend. I enjoy the choir. Charlotte's oldest boy makes me laugh out loud at a truly inappropriate time.
And after warm goodbyes and Merry Christmas wishes, Hil and Pat and I head for home to unload all the goodies and get on with our Christmas Eve traditions. I am happy to be alone in my house with my two joyful children. They are enthusiastic participants in even our most childish traditions, like cookies and milk for Santa and looking outside for signs of reindeer. Not even one eyeroll or whine.
But I am a little worried for Mom. Joe's psycho shrew wife is as unpredictable as anyone I've met in my life and a full-fledged, card-carrying kook at that. There is no telling what she'll do. Her thoughts are so demented and off base.
Do you know she actually blames my mother for my break up with Lars?
An idiot says what?
Yep. My idiot sister-in-law Mary-ellen, who I have done an admirable job avoiding the entire time she's been married to Joe, says that Mom interfered with my marriage to the extent that I ended it. She says this in defense of her attempts to to limit the amount of intruding my mother does into their lives. (I kind of get that, honestly.) I am sure Estelle's intrusions are unwelcome. My mother must be constantly finding fault with Mary-ellen. I am sure the intrusion would be much more welcome if Estelle were singing Mary-ellen's praises and agreeing with her that Joe is a moron.
But no, she tells Joe that Estelle is the root cause of my divorce from Lars. (and Joe, of course, has the good sense to mention it in front of my children...)
In my heart of hearts I don't give one flying fart in space about what Mary-ellen or anyone else out there thinks they know about the demise of my marriage. Lars tells all kinds of people all kinds of things he's fabricated about me just so that they aren't left to assume I dumped him because he was too atrocious to remain married to, and my choice was between divorce and hari kari. I have crossed all of them off of my list of people to bother caring about.
But there is a part of me that wants to send Joe's wife a scathing "If-you-weren't-so-witless-you'd-know" letter enlightening her about the more salient features of my marriage which paved the way to divorce court.
A girl can dream...
I pile my loot and my kids' loot and my kids themselves into my car, and prepare to follow Charlotte's convoy of vehicles to Mass.
Mom whips and backcombs a little more, applies a fresh coat of shellac and gets herself looking spiffy enough to head out to Joe's to attend Mass with him, his shrew wife, her pathetic mother, and the three wicked children.
Wouldn't it have been nice for Bill to have stayed reasonably sober (and conscious!) so that he could join his wife and provide some much needed moral support as she heads into enemy territory? Just a pipe dream, I know. Bill will never do anything that doesn't specifically benefit him in some obvious way.
As we are all preparing to walk out the door, Mom yells. "Oh, Liza! I never gave you your shelves!"
Shells? Elves? What the hell is she talking about?
She scampers into the darkened dining room and emerges with a box lid (just a lid!) containing two shelves. Shelves that look suspiciously like the ones Bill showed me in his neverending slideshow of boring photos. And then proceeded to tell me how he so cleverly assembled and finished them and that he couldn't sell a single one at the flea market.
And now I am the proud owner of two of the prized shelves. Lucky me. Oooh. Can I get a pet rock, too?
Mom goes on gushing about how beautiful they are and how Bill spent so much time on them and look at this little clever gizmo on the back to make them easy to hang, and she can just picture them hanging in my center hall on that stretch of wall going up the stair way.
Not. Scott is mouthing "Burn them in the fireplace tonight" as I am giving an award-worthy performance portraying a truly appreciative, grateful gift recipient. I gush appropriately myself and ask her to please thank Bill for me (when he awakens from his stupor, natch.)
We go to Mass. It calms my nerves somewhat. I run into an old friend. I enjoy the choir. Charlotte's oldest boy makes me laugh out loud at a truly inappropriate time.
And after warm goodbyes and Merry Christmas wishes, Hil and Pat and I head for home to unload all the goodies and get on with our Christmas Eve traditions. I am happy to be alone in my house with my two joyful children. They are enthusiastic participants in even our most childish traditions, like cookies and milk for Santa and looking outside for signs of reindeer. Not even one eyeroll or whine.
But I am a little worried for Mom. Joe's psycho shrew wife is as unpredictable as anyone I've met in my life and a full-fledged, card-carrying kook at that. There is no telling what she'll do. Her thoughts are so demented and off base.
Do you know she actually blames my mother for my break up with Lars?
An idiot says what?
Yep. My idiot sister-in-law Mary-ellen, who I have done an admirable job avoiding the entire time she's been married to Joe, says that Mom interfered with my marriage to the extent that I ended it. She says this in defense of her attempts to to limit the amount of intruding my mother does into their lives. (I kind of get that, honestly.) I am sure Estelle's intrusions are unwelcome. My mother must be constantly finding fault with Mary-ellen. I am sure the intrusion would be much more welcome if Estelle were singing Mary-ellen's praises and agreeing with her that Joe is a moron.
But no, she tells Joe that Estelle is the root cause of my divorce from Lars. (and Joe, of course, has the good sense to mention it in front of my children...)
In my heart of hearts I don't give one flying fart in space about what Mary-ellen or anyone else out there thinks they know about the demise of my marriage. Lars tells all kinds of people all kinds of things he's fabricated about me just so that they aren't left to assume I dumped him because he was too atrocious to remain married to, and my choice was between divorce and hari kari. I have crossed all of them off of my list of people to bother caring about.
But there is a part of me that wants to send Joe's wife a scathing "If-you-weren't-so-witless-you'd-know" letter enlightening her about the more salient features of my marriage which paved the way to divorce court.
A girl can dream...
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Goodnight and Good Luck
I visit the bathroom once again, and upon exiting, find myself confronted by a staggering Bill who seems a little confused about where he’s going. Scott has just gone into the loo upon my exiting it, and Bill seems to be hell bent on going in there himself. (Hello, ocupado, senor!)
And he is teetering at the top of the stairs. But there are only six steps separating him from the family room, so a broken neck is unlikely. (We'd never get that lucky.) A broken hip and a bloody face, much more probable. Whatever the damage, Scott and I would be trapped by his lethargic carcass blocking the egress. It is a disaster in the making.
Luckily, Estelle comes clicking along in her heels to guide him like a hospital orderly up the stairs in the general direction of their bedroom. I am sure she will have to assist with disrobing and pushing his big lard ass into the bed. Lucky lady. At least she can wash her hands of him for the night. Good riddance. Thank God that’s over!
She returns to the living room to announce as she has so many drunken Christmases before, “Poor Bill, he’s so tired. He didn’t get any sleep at all last night. And then of course today there was all the driving. He’s just exhausted.”
Be that as it may, Mom, he’s also shitfaced. And you drove for two hours today. Hardly the Indy 500. Stop making excuses and let’s call it what it is.
Bill comes to Christmas every year, puts away more booze than a sorority on Spring Break, gets loud and insulting, tells the same old stories over and over again, repeats the same off-color jokes, gets too familiar, gets even louder still, makes inappropriate comments in front of strangers and impressionable children, passes out abruptly in the middle of the party (often so abruptly that he is mid-chew, nearly choking to death in the process) and then you push, drag, or carry his leaden ass up the stairs to bed making the same old lame excuse about fatigue, as if anyone is buying it. Anyone too fatigued to make it through dinner should have skipped the party to begin with. Or should have made a graceful exit at the first sign that he’d be nodding off while the hors d’oevres are still being passed. (Of course, passing out sort of sneaks up on you.)
But to admit even half of that would be too big an admission. She is guilty of such things herself.
Before she fell out of favor with her BFF, she’d hot foot it out of Charlotte’s party early every year after rushing everyone through gift opening and then doing a bunch of dishes so no one could say she ate and ran. She’d use the excuse that her dear friends were preparing a beautiful meal and they “really couldn’t just not show up.”
Sure you can. You tell them way in advance that you are spending Christmas Eve with your family and will not be home for dinner. Don’t go to the trouble for us. Or even better, join us all at Charlotte’s!
But then that wouldn’t involve dirty jokes and blender drinks that have more than once rendered my mother incapable of making it all the way down the hall to bed on her own steam.
And throwing up. What septuagenarian do you know that drinks to the point of puking? Have yourself a mudslide, Ma. It is the breakfast of champions.
So, so far, this is par for the Christmas course in my family. We have a family calamity (Joe), an outrageous drunk (Bill), the usual denial (courtesy of Estelle), and loads to rehash over cocktails at the post-game wrap up, which can start the day after Christmas as soon as Bill and Estelle have rushed back to nothing five states away.
And he is teetering at the top of the stairs. But there are only six steps separating him from the family room, so a broken neck is unlikely. (We'd never get that lucky.) A broken hip and a bloody face, much more probable. Whatever the damage, Scott and I would be trapped by his lethargic carcass blocking the egress. It is a disaster in the making.
Luckily, Estelle comes clicking along in her heels to guide him like a hospital orderly up the stairs in the general direction of their bedroom. I am sure she will have to assist with disrobing and pushing his big lard ass into the bed. Lucky lady. At least she can wash her hands of him for the night. Good riddance. Thank God that’s over!
She returns to the living room to announce as she has so many drunken Christmases before, “Poor Bill, he’s so tired. He didn’t get any sleep at all last night. And then of course today there was all the driving. He’s just exhausted.”
Be that as it may, Mom, he’s also shitfaced. And you drove for two hours today. Hardly the Indy 500. Stop making excuses and let’s call it what it is.
Bill comes to Christmas every year, puts away more booze than a sorority on Spring Break, gets loud and insulting, tells the same old stories over and over again, repeats the same off-color jokes, gets too familiar, gets even louder still, makes inappropriate comments in front of strangers and impressionable children, passes out abruptly in the middle of the party (often so abruptly that he is mid-chew, nearly choking to death in the process) and then you push, drag, or carry his leaden ass up the stairs to bed making the same old lame excuse about fatigue, as if anyone is buying it. Anyone too fatigued to make it through dinner should have skipped the party to begin with. Or should have made a graceful exit at the first sign that he’d be nodding off while the hors d’oevres are still being passed. (Of course, passing out sort of sneaks up on you.)
But to admit even half of that would be too big an admission. She is guilty of such things herself.
Before she fell out of favor with her BFF, she’d hot foot it out of Charlotte’s party early every year after rushing everyone through gift opening and then doing a bunch of dishes so no one could say she ate and ran. She’d use the excuse that her dear friends were preparing a beautiful meal and they “really couldn’t just not show up.”
Sure you can. You tell them way in advance that you are spending Christmas Eve with your family and will not be home for dinner. Don’t go to the trouble for us. Or even better, join us all at Charlotte’s!
But then that wouldn’t involve dirty jokes and blender drinks that have more than once rendered my mother incapable of making it all the way down the hall to bed on her own steam.
And throwing up. What septuagenarian do you know that drinks to the point of puking? Have yourself a mudslide, Ma. It is the breakfast of champions.
So, so far, this is par for the Christmas course in my family. We have a family calamity (Joe), an outrageous drunk (Bill), the usual denial (courtesy of Estelle), and loads to rehash over cocktails at the post-game wrap up, which can start the day after Christmas as soon as Bill and Estelle have rushed back to nothing five states away.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Shaken, Not Stirred
There are a few minutes of conversation that I can’t account for, I am so distracted by the nastiness. A man I see once a year, who I only pay the slightest attention to because he’s married to my mother, who I barely tolerate for the average 2 day visit each year, who if not for the distraction of other family members and empathetic friends, I would have to avoid altogether in an attempt to preserve my eroding sanity, gets my undivided attention for 5 minutes and has to insult me?
He’s lucky, really. Lucky that I don’t care enough about him to fight back. Lucky I am more concerned with Scott than with myself to let the insult register more than skin deep. Lucky I will not make a scene and ruin everyone’s holiday over something stupid said by someone so inconsequential. Lucky he lives too far away for me to conveniently burn his house down. Lucky he’s a pathetic old drunk who would be an unworthy opponent in an argument. Because really, he’s stepped into the Master’s territory. You want to spar with insults? You better make sure you are beyond reproach, friend. I’ll clean your clock so fast it will make your head swim. Not that it isn’t already pickling in cocktails already.
Eventually I regain awareness and he and Scott have moved onto a relatively benign topic. Boats. That is a good thing. Nothing political. Nothing to have a strong opinion about. Something Scott knows more about than Bill, no argument. I take the opportunity to excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I have had to pee since the first Bicycle Thief.
And I am not sure where or why I meandered from there but Scott caught up with me shortly. Out of breath.
“Oh my God, what a windbag! I kept trying to send you telepathic messages to come rescue me. 911. Mayday Mayday. Help! SOS!”
I hand him a drink. A beer this time. The Bicycle Thief has left tire tracks on his brain, he thinks. Or maybe that was brain damage from conversation with Bill. Anything is possible. I try to convince him that it is not the cocktail making him sleepy. It is the boredom brought on by being left alone with my stepfather, and I am eternally sorry.
Mom sits down. She’s in a story-telling mood, and she wants to regale us with how she recently got fired. No, not from employment. She was dismissed as a patient from (yet another) physician practice. And not unlike the car dealership where she is persona non grata, and Bill’s cardiologist who will not allow her on the premises, she was asked not to return due to her surly behavior and argumentative conduct.
Wouldn’t submit to a breast exam.
Wouldn’t disrobe from the waist up.
Wouldn’t go for blood work.
Argued endlessly with the doctor about his procedures.
In short, made such a nuisance of herself that the practice would rather forgo her co-pays and Medicare reimbursement in favor of relative tranquility in the office.
We’ve heard this all before. Mom is not about to comply with what everyone else is doing just because they’ve figured out the best way to do it. Nope. Got a mind of her own.
And while she goes on and on getting ever the more loud and ever the more indignant as she retells the story and quotes her finest zingers, I look over and discover, to my relief and to my amusement, that Bill has passed out in the armchair in the corner, mouth open and snoring ever so slightly.
A reprieve. I am finding myself breathing a little more deeply at the thought that he is out of circulation for the evening.
He’s lucky, really. Lucky that I don’t care enough about him to fight back. Lucky I am more concerned with Scott than with myself to let the insult register more than skin deep. Lucky I will not make a scene and ruin everyone’s holiday over something stupid said by someone so inconsequential. Lucky he lives too far away for me to conveniently burn his house down. Lucky he’s a pathetic old drunk who would be an unworthy opponent in an argument. Because really, he’s stepped into the Master’s territory. You want to spar with insults? You better make sure you are beyond reproach, friend. I’ll clean your clock so fast it will make your head swim. Not that it isn’t already pickling in cocktails already.
Eventually I regain awareness and he and Scott have moved onto a relatively benign topic. Boats. That is a good thing. Nothing political. Nothing to have a strong opinion about. Something Scott knows more about than Bill, no argument. I take the opportunity to excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I have had to pee since the first Bicycle Thief.
And I am not sure where or why I meandered from there but Scott caught up with me shortly. Out of breath.
“Oh my God, what a windbag! I kept trying to send you telepathic messages to come rescue me. 911. Mayday Mayday. Help! SOS!”
I hand him a drink. A beer this time. The Bicycle Thief has left tire tracks on his brain, he thinks. Or maybe that was brain damage from conversation with Bill. Anything is possible. I try to convince him that it is not the cocktail making him sleepy. It is the boredom brought on by being left alone with my stepfather, and I am eternally sorry.
Mom sits down. She’s in a story-telling mood, and she wants to regale us with how she recently got fired. No, not from employment. She was dismissed as a patient from (yet another) physician practice. And not unlike the car dealership where she is persona non grata, and Bill’s cardiologist who will not allow her on the premises, she was asked not to return due to her surly behavior and argumentative conduct.
Wouldn’t submit to a breast exam.
Wouldn’t disrobe from the waist up.
Wouldn’t go for blood work.
Argued endlessly with the doctor about his procedures.
In short, made such a nuisance of herself that the practice would rather forgo her co-pays and Medicare reimbursement in favor of relative tranquility in the office.
We’ve heard this all before. Mom is not about to comply with what everyone else is doing just because they’ve figured out the best way to do it. Nope. Got a mind of her own.
And while she goes on and on getting ever the more loud and ever the more indignant as she retells the story and quotes her finest zingers, I look over and discover, to my relief and to my amusement, that Bill has passed out in the armchair in the corner, mouth open and snoring ever so slightly.
A reprieve. I am finding myself breathing a little more deeply at the thought that he is out of circulation for the evening.
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