Slamma Lamma Ding Dong

It starts out normally. Well, at least the first three words. Normal greeting. Normal tone of voice. The same intonation I've heard thousands of times before.

"Liza, it's Mom."

And that is precisely the point at which it went spinning off in the general direction of Hell, like so many other conversations I've had with equally crazy people.

First, the normal tone of voice devolves into the fake crying I've come to recognize from past manipulative phone calls and messages. It is infuriating. My blood boils from the very first syllable.

"You know, I was looking through some of my memory boxes today... sniff sniff...."

Gag me. Memory boxes? Mom, you have thrown away more things in more moves than a homeless man with his world in a shopping cart, and you expect me to believe you kept the ashtray I made from a seashell in Brownie Camp when you've pitched entire rooms full of furniture? Please.

She continues through the fake tears of sentimentality as she launches into the real reason for her call...a carefully planned, if not scripted segue. She sounds as though she might be reading the whole speech. I am pacing the office now, mashing down the carpet pile.

"You used to write such lovely things to me. And I am so hurt about - what I felt - Bill and I both - a very cold reception from you at Christmas..."

And with that I boil over like an abandoned pot of pasta.

I click the "end" button on the touch screen on my iPhone. Very unsatisfying. Slamming would have felt more appropriate.

I walk across the room trying not to sound like I am Fee-Fi-Fo-Fumming as I do. I take great care not to slam my door (difficult when I haven't had the satisfaction of slamming the phone into the cradle.)

As is my habit when I am about to chew someone's face off, I walk to my window to face the sun through the glass as I hit "Call Back."

Mom answers on one ring, the tears having dissipated, and sounding as happy and chipper as a blue bird in spring.

That lasts until I speak my first words.