Where the Wild Things Are

The possibilities are endless.

Maybe J.'s simpy, miserable sister Sheila did the driving and Endorra wandered off while Sheila contemplated the racks of elastic waistband pants and considered giving in and finally considering some much needed Spanx. I could easily bump into that sniveling pile of wasted skin if I wandered off course into Big Girl Land. Or she went meandering off in the the direction of single digit sizes by mistake. She'd take an ill-advised verbal swipe at me, and I'd fire back something hateful and send her squealing off to find Endorra with her tail between her utility pole-shaped legs. That might actually be fun.

And considering that it is a weekend where I have custody of Hil and Pat, J. would have custody of his younger daughter. (The older daughter only visits under duress.) There is a good possibility that I could unexpectedly bump into her. And since it is a mandatory holiday, perhaps her older sister after all. Both would be screaming to get out of the undoubtedly crowded house, which is routinely filled with the old, and the prematurely old, yammering on and on endlessly about their aches and pains and all the people out there roaming the planet who are doing them wrong. A trip to Kohls would be an oasis.

And so what if that happened? I'd have to just politely greet and then ignore Sheila if she were with them. I wonder if they'd be uncomfortably caught in the middle? Their loyalties split and their little not-quite-yet-adult-enough-to-handle-such-complexities brains all scrambled wondering what would be the least horrible thing to do while jumping out of the way of this inevitably horrifying emotional train wreck?

Dear God, what if J. has been dragged along? Under normal circumstances he'd let all the hens go without him and bee-line it to wherever in the house it is that he's managed to successfully hide his bottle of hootch. Down half a bottle while the bitties are out cackling over table linens and control top underwear. Get on buzz maintenance for their inevitable return to the lair.

But what if, now that he weighs as much as a 7th grade girl, he needs a new clip on tie and matching shirt and a blazer from the Boys department to go to Easter Mass? And socks and underwear since there is no one to buy them for him anymore and Endorra has a coupon? I could just see him being forced to tag along and bumping into that festering pile of sewage right there as I round the bend by the fashion jewelry.

What then?

I could go on without missing a beat, ignore him if we inadvertently make eye contact before I can look away (so as not to turn to stone). But he is deranged and has destroyed his atrophied little brain with alcohol and poor attention to his health. He can't be trusted to behave under these or any other circumstances. I would bet my house that he'd shout out something hideous and embarassing while hiding behind the rack of Spiderman jammies like a coward. Or he'd come right out and cry like a 2 year old and make fools of us both. It wouldn't even matter if his kids were there to witness it. He'd consider his outburst either a demonstration of his unwavering adoration for me or proof that I destroyed him.

Too bad, so sad. Loser.

But as I hurry my pace to join the throngs of other buyers in line at the registers, I am pitting out just a little at the very thought of what could happen in the next 10 minutes. What could happen that I'd have absolutely no control over.