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...