Set aside in a little pile are a few telling items. Collectively they scream, "This woman has absolutely no control over her life and has no business pretending to be a competent home owner."
A Tupperware container with rock hard, nearly unidentifiable Christmas cookies. I don't even remember the last time I made this particular type of cookie. I am sure they precede my divorce. They are probably rancid. I take the container outside to the trash can without opening it. I could probably salvage the container; it is a nice one. But I fear some kind of Pandora's Box, opening of an ancient tomb, kind of universe-wide chain reaction. Better cut my losses.
There are several long lost serving utensils. Honestly, I'd thought Lars had taken them. Or perhaps a burglar. They'd disappeared that long ago. And that suddenly. They are sticky and scummy and will need to take a long ride in the dishwasher. If it is ever again plugged in.
An ant trap. No pretending now. What ants? There are ants? I have ants? I've never seen an ant. Where did THEY come from. You must have let them in yourself.
A mouse trap. Maybe the mouse carcass attracted the ants. I am horrified. The trap was laid before the arrival of my mouser cat. Who is confined to the attic. Yeah...that's why I have the trap. Yes, with the ancient peanut butter blob on it.
Several petrified breakfast bars of varying brands. And a package of Pop-Tarts.
I recall telling Wally when we met about the project that I have neither my sister's budget nor her housekeeping regimen. He laughed. He's probably laughing even harder now. The budget he could have guessed at. My kitchen would fit in her bathroom. I am sure he never imagined that an impeccably dressed and groomed slob lived in my house. I am secretly wondering if I can credibly blame this on Lars.
"Yeah - once I discovered what a slob he is, divorce was inevitable. The way he used to just throw things back behind the cabinets just attracted bugs and other vermin. If I hadn't thrown him out, I am sure we'd have all manner of rodents by now. Luckily the rat left and took the cheese with him. Yay me! No seller's remorse here!"
In the end, I decide to ignore the whole thing. As I lay my head down upon my pillow, I convince myself that mine is not the worst house Wally has ever renovated, and every house, even the most pristine, has its dirty little secrets. A dozen rock hard cookies surely didn't shock him. And tomorrow is another day.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Demolition Derby
Wally calls the night before the demolition starts to go over a few details. I tell him I am a nerveen about the cat. I am hopeless. He tells me that after the first day, he'll have the kitchen closed off and kitty can have the run of the house.
Somehow I am relieved. I don't know why I am so nervous for the damn cat. A year ago she was living outside in the elements and scrounging for food in a dumpster. Puh-lease. I have turned her into a pampered putty in my mind. She likes the rafters of the dusty 100 year old basement. Why am I worried that the the beautifully remodeled third floor will feel like jail?
Still, the next morning, I confine her to the third floor after luring her there with tuna and treats. She barely notices when I close the door behind me and leave. I have a pang of guilt not unlike when I used to leave the kids at day care, distracted by their French Toast Stix. I practically need a nerve pill.
Scott agrees. I need a nerve pill. He has much better perspective. He with 20 to 30 some odd pets in his life and fatalistic acceptance that sometimes pets will not be happy with you. Too bad. And sometimes they die and get buried in a hole in the yard. You miss them and get another pet. I have no such backbone. I want to cry.
I am, in spite of myself, thrilled to see what progress is made while I toil away at work.
I get home 8 hours later and am not so much thrilled as I am shocked.
My kitchen was not charming to begin with. It is much less so in a state of deconstruction.
The cabinets are gone. The floor is partially removed exposing two and three prior floors in some areas. The removal of the back splash has left ugly uneven divots in the walls. Several competing and clashing shades of green and turquoise are exposed where cabinets and other things used to be. A pipe sticks out of the floor where my sink used to be. Huge gashes in the plaster expose some kind of crumbly material.
Frankly, I am freaking out.
Wally calls.
"Liza, you have a couple of problems."
He may as well have said he accidentally burned the place down.
With a racing heart and sweaty palms I listen.
"I found your ant problem. There was a huge nest over to the left of the rear window."
I am cringing. I am sure he never found ants in Charlotte's house.
"Anyway, I sucked it all up in my vacuum so they're gone for good." Gotta love a man. Had it been me, I'd have left and run down the street never to return, doing the "Get It Off Me Dance" the entire time.
"And you had the windows replaced didn't you?"
"Umm, yeah. Why?" I hold my breath and realize I've closed my eyes, bracing myself.
"Oh, well, there was a little moisture damage right under that window. I can fix it before we put the counter back, and I'll caulk so it doesn't happen again. I just wanted you to be aware."
"OK. What else?"
"Oh, that's it for now. We'll get your floor out of there tomorrow and get working on your lights and outlets. Just giving you an update."
I audibly exhale in relief.
And then I find the collection of stuff Wally found behind my cabinets.
It is like he's found my diary and read it.
Somehow I am relieved. I don't know why I am so nervous for the damn cat. A year ago she was living outside in the elements and scrounging for food in a dumpster. Puh-lease. I have turned her into a pampered putty in my mind. She likes the rafters of the dusty 100 year old basement. Why am I worried that the the beautifully remodeled third floor will feel like jail?
Still, the next morning, I confine her to the third floor after luring her there with tuna and treats. She barely notices when I close the door behind me and leave. I have a pang of guilt not unlike when I used to leave the kids at day care, distracted by their French Toast Stix. I practically need a nerve pill.
Scott agrees. I need a nerve pill. He has much better perspective. He with 20 to 30 some odd pets in his life and fatalistic acceptance that sometimes pets will not be happy with you. Too bad. And sometimes they die and get buried in a hole in the yard. You miss them and get another pet. I have no such backbone. I want to cry.
I am, in spite of myself, thrilled to see what progress is made while I toil away at work.
I get home 8 hours later and am not so much thrilled as I am shocked.
My kitchen was not charming to begin with. It is much less so in a state of deconstruction.
The cabinets are gone. The floor is partially removed exposing two and three prior floors in some areas. The removal of the back splash has left ugly uneven divots in the walls. Several competing and clashing shades of green and turquoise are exposed where cabinets and other things used to be. A pipe sticks out of the floor where my sink used to be. Huge gashes in the plaster expose some kind of crumbly material.
Frankly, I am freaking out.
Wally calls.
"Liza, you have a couple of problems."
He may as well have said he accidentally burned the place down.
With a racing heart and sweaty palms I listen.
"I found your ant problem. There was a huge nest over to the left of the rear window."
I am cringing. I am sure he never found ants in Charlotte's house.
"Anyway, I sucked it all up in my vacuum so they're gone for good." Gotta love a man. Had it been me, I'd have left and run down the street never to return, doing the "Get It Off Me Dance" the entire time.
"And you had the windows replaced didn't you?"
"Umm, yeah. Why?" I hold my breath and realize I've closed my eyes, bracing myself.
"Oh, well, there was a little moisture damage right under that window. I can fix it before we put the counter back, and I'll caulk so it doesn't happen again. I just wanted you to be aware."
"OK. What else?"
"Oh, that's it for now. We'll get your floor out of there tomorrow and get working on your lights and outlets. Just giving you an update."
I audibly exhale in relief.
And then I find the collection of stuff Wally found behind my cabinets.
It is like he's found my diary and read it.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
The Cat's In The Cradle and The Silver Spoon
I am not sure why I am panicking so. I have done a renovation before.
But that was when I was married and had someone to share the responsibility with. Not that Lars was a great partner for such an undertaking, (we did get into quite a tiff about carpet color...) but at least I was not the sole responsible party.
And that was the attic renovation. It inconvenienced no one. The attic was raw, unfinished space that was being redefined as living space. It also took place in the weeks that preceded my father's death and I had beau coup other distractions. Seriously, if the renovation had been a complete disaster I would have barely noticed. I remember the carpet guy coming to the door the day after my father passed, and Lars meeting him in the foyer to tell him to direct all questions to him. That I was not to be bothered, annoyed, pressured, or disturbed in any way.
And as a side note, thank God that renovation took place when it did. Six months later I found myself in the middle of a divorce from the Anti-Christ and living up there in the penthouse suite alone. It could have been far worse.
And the kids are with Lars. They will not be inconvenienced at all. They will come home Friday to a brand spanking new kitchen designed by their mother. Woo hoo!
But I am a little worried about the cat.
If Wally and his men are going to be traipsing in and out with equipment and prop the door, Trinket is going to s-p-l-i-t. I am going to have to confine her in the penthouse like a divorcee.
I get a temporary kitty litter box (a travel toily) and place it on the landing of the attic steps.
I put my yard work weary arms to the test and install the window air conditioner in the large window in the attic (and while it is open, Trinket nearly jumps out, so strong is her desire to roam the wilds of suburbia). I set it to go on when the temp gets to 80. perfect purring cat temperature.
I move her food bowls, water dish and placemat onto the counter where she'll find them. I put the can opener, a fork and tin of tuna in the little refrigerator that use to be stocked with wine during the divorce. She will enjoy her usual breakfast. I take the two highball glasses of water that Trinket usually finds in the bathroom and move them to a convenient spot in the attic. I fill a pitcher with fresh water to replenish the glasses and bowls daily. I take her toys, all of them, and her scratching pad to the third floor as well. I tune the radio to our station. I open each storage area just enough for her to go in and explore in case she's bored.
I think I have lost my mind.
But that was when I was married and had someone to share the responsibility with. Not that Lars was a great partner for such an undertaking, (we did get into quite a tiff about carpet color...) but at least I was not the sole responsible party.
And that was the attic renovation. It inconvenienced no one. The attic was raw, unfinished space that was being redefined as living space. It also took place in the weeks that preceded my father's death and I had beau coup other distractions. Seriously, if the renovation had been a complete disaster I would have barely noticed. I remember the carpet guy coming to the door the day after my father passed, and Lars meeting him in the foyer to tell him to direct all questions to him. That I was not to be bothered, annoyed, pressured, or disturbed in any way.
And as a side note, thank God that renovation took place when it did. Six months later I found myself in the middle of a divorce from the Anti-Christ and living up there in the penthouse suite alone. It could have been far worse.
And the kids are with Lars. They will not be inconvenienced at all. They will come home Friday to a brand spanking new kitchen designed by their mother. Woo hoo!
But I am a little worried about the cat.
If Wally and his men are going to be traipsing in and out with equipment and prop the door, Trinket is going to s-p-l-i-t. I am going to have to confine her in the penthouse like a divorcee.
I get a temporary kitty litter box (a travel toily) and place it on the landing of the attic steps.
I put my yard work weary arms to the test and install the window air conditioner in the large window in the attic (and while it is open, Trinket nearly jumps out, so strong is her desire to roam the wilds of suburbia). I set it to go on when the temp gets to 80. perfect purring cat temperature.
I move her food bowls, water dish and placemat onto the counter where she'll find them. I put the can opener, a fork and tin of tuna in the little refrigerator that use to be stocked with wine during the divorce. She will enjoy her usual breakfast. I take the two highball glasses of water that Trinket usually finds in the bathroom and move them to a convenient spot in the attic. I fill a pitcher with fresh water to replenish the glasses and bowls daily. I take her toys, all of them, and her scratching pad to the third floor as well. I tune the radio to our station. I open each storage area just enough for her to go in and explore in case she's bored.
I think I have lost my mind.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
I Will Survive
After a relaxing, distracting weekend with Scott at the shore, complete with motorcycle rides, jet ski jaunts, and beach time, I head for home to finish cleaning every last remaining item from my kitchen.
I should have had a yard sale. I can't believe all this crap has been wedged in the nooks and crannies of my teeny tiny kitchen for all this time. I am not sure I can wedge it all back in. Not sure that I want to. Hello, Purple Heart?
As the dining room fills with all manner of kitchen stuff and every flat surface becomes a temporary home to coffee mugs, pans, small appliances, dishes, serving pieces and things I am not sure have a purpose, I am in a near panic. I am running out of space and Trinket's sense of curiosity is off the charts.
She hides herself in half emptied cabinets. She explores the interiors of drawers. She meanders delicately across surfaces crowded with glasses, expertly managing to avoid knocking them over (while I breathe into a paperbag nearby). She circles my legs and the garbage can as I dump the old toaster oven, tea kettle and stained placemats in their final resting place.
In an attempt to regain some sense of control, I wash, dry and fold several final loads of laundry, mow the lawn, trim some hedges, edge the yard, and prepare a final meal in this version of my kitchen. I am completely out of my comfort zone.
I have little pep talks with myself. "This will be over in no time. You will survive. So will the cat."
I take pictures of the empty kitchen (and a few of Trinket in her hiding places). I shoot one shot from each of the 4 corners of the room. The before shots. Then I survey the heap of kitchen items in my dining room and photograph that so I can show the kids. The renovation is anticipated to take 5 days. It will be finished (and presumably restocked, if I have my way!) by the time they return to me. the picture will be proof that it was ever completely dismantled. It will be over before they know it. It will seem like magic.
At least that was the plan THAT day.
I should have had a yard sale. I can't believe all this crap has been wedged in the nooks and crannies of my teeny tiny kitchen for all this time. I am not sure I can wedge it all back in. Not sure that I want to. Hello, Purple Heart?
As the dining room fills with all manner of kitchen stuff and every flat surface becomes a temporary home to coffee mugs, pans, small appliances, dishes, serving pieces and things I am not sure have a purpose, I am in a near panic. I am running out of space and Trinket's sense of curiosity is off the charts.
She hides herself in half emptied cabinets. She explores the interiors of drawers. She meanders delicately across surfaces crowded with glasses, expertly managing to avoid knocking them over (while I breathe into a paperbag nearby). She circles my legs and the garbage can as I dump the old toaster oven, tea kettle and stained placemats in their final resting place.
In an attempt to regain some sense of control, I wash, dry and fold several final loads of laundry, mow the lawn, trim some hedges, edge the yard, and prepare a final meal in this version of my kitchen. I am completely out of my comfort zone.
I have little pep talks with myself. "This will be over in no time. You will survive. So will the cat."
I take pictures of the empty kitchen (and a few of Trinket in her hiding places). I shoot one shot from each of the 4 corners of the room. The before shots. Then I survey the heap of kitchen items in my dining room and photograph that so I can show the kids. The renovation is anticipated to take 5 days. It will be finished (and presumably restocked, if I have my way!) by the time they return to me. the picture will be proof that it was ever completely dismantled. It will be over before they know it. It will seem like magic.
At least that was the plan THAT day.
Monday, June 25, 2012
The Number You Have Reached Has Been Disconnected
The text traffic continues for a short time more. I can't tell which texts are being forwarded by Charlotte or if there is a comment to me from Joe, but for good measure, I send him a message.
"A Message from AT&T: Your message has been blocked at the recipient's request. Msg6567*"
I am hoping that it is official enough to fool him. A similar message to Lars a few months back did the trick. And Joe is a whole lot more slow-witted than my ex-husband, recreational drugs notwithstanding.
If he weren't so completely pathetic and aggravating, it would be easy to feel sorry for him. He's managed to run off the only worthwhile people in his life and is left surrounded by dozens of complete morons. It took my mother decades to make the same mistake. Joe has done it in record time.
I am sure that he and Estelle are commiserating about this. He is whining on his cell phone from a remote location so his shrew wife will not know he's contacted his mother. Mom is screeching like a howler monkey into the mouthpiece of her Trac-Phone that my sister and I are wicked Hell-bound bitches with superior attitudes and not an ounce of kindness toward anyone but each other.
What-ev. If it gets you through the night, rock on. I have a life to live. And it doesn't need to be mired in your nonsense, my dear mother and brother. Don't bother me. Tell your little story to People Magazine.
In the meantime, I tell the story, the abridged Reader's Digest version, to Scott. He OH MY GODs his way through my meandering story, amused by the Hollywood outrageousness of it (I may as well be Lindsay Lohan's daughter) and empathetic about what a horror it is to live through each of these painfully realistic visions of Hell. I finish by telling him that my farewell to my mother was not dramatic and had no sense of finality. It was as though I could bump into her any day. No hint that we may never lay eyes on eachother again. I give my kids more meaningful goodbyes when I let them out of the car at school.
She did mention though, that she'd be getting an early start and driving straight through to her home. Read that "Not stopping to see Babs and Frank on the way back."
Scott says, "Your mom is running out of places to stay."
True. Mom has managed to run off a couple more of her faithful friends. And family, at that. It amazes me that she still blames them. Amazes me that she hasn't seen herself as the common denominator.
But my amazement is short lived. I have bigger fish to fry. My kitchen is about to be renovated.
"A Message from AT&T: Your message has been blocked at the recipient's request. Msg6567*"
I am hoping that it is official enough to fool him. A similar message to Lars a few months back did the trick. And Joe is a whole lot more slow-witted than my ex-husband, recreational drugs notwithstanding.
If he weren't so completely pathetic and aggravating, it would be easy to feel sorry for him. He's managed to run off the only worthwhile people in his life and is left surrounded by dozens of complete morons. It took my mother decades to make the same mistake. Joe has done it in record time.
I am sure that he and Estelle are commiserating about this. He is whining on his cell phone from a remote location so his shrew wife will not know he's contacted his mother. Mom is screeching like a howler monkey into the mouthpiece of her Trac-Phone that my sister and I are wicked Hell-bound bitches with superior attitudes and not an ounce of kindness toward anyone but each other.
What-ev. If it gets you through the night, rock on. I have a life to live. And it doesn't need to be mired in your nonsense, my dear mother and brother. Don't bother me. Tell your little story to People Magazine.
In the meantime, I tell the story, the abridged Reader's Digest version, to Scott. He OH MY GODs his way through my meandering story, amused by the Hollywood outrageousness of it (I may as well be Lindsay Lohan's daughter) and empathetic about what a horror it is to live through each of these painfully realistic visions of Hell. I finish by telling him that my farewell to my mother was not dramatic and had no sense of finality. It was as though I could bump into her any day. No hint that we may never lay eyes on eachother again. I give my kids more meaningful goodbyes when I let them out of the car at school.
She did mention though, that she'd be getting an early start and driving straight through to her home. Read that "Not stopping to see Babs and Frank on the way back."
Scott says, "Your mom is running out of places to stay."
True. Mom has managed to run off a couple more of her faithful friends. And family, at that. It amazes me that she still blames them. Amazes me that she hasn't seen herself as the common denominator.
But my amazement is short lived. I have bigger fish to fry. My kitchen is about to be renovated.
Friday, June 22, 2012
The Road Less Traveled
Though there is a part of me that wants to pick up the phone, dial my Idiot Brother's number, wait for him to joyfully answer, and then let fly with an endless stream of obscenities and crucifying insults the effects from which he will never recover. He is that infuriating.
But I choose to do the more infuriating thing. I ignore him. I can not trouble my soul, quicken my pulse, burden my heart with so much as a single shred of his nonsense. It is like a flesh-eating virus. Just a drop and suddenly your life and everything in it is shriveling up and turning to foul smelling goo.
Charlotte takes the other route. Goes on the offensive. Nibbles the bate to get his attention. Then gives him a run for his money.
She reminds him of the family gatherings and holidays and birthdays to which he and his family were invited. Then she reminds him, lest he forget, with that Dollar Store brain of his, that due to his conduct and lack of respect for her home and her boundaries, he's been excluded, for hello, two or three years now. Is he just catching on?
Her closing remarks are about not having the energy or the inclination to deal with his particular brand of bullshit.
He replies, once again trying his novice hand at being clever. Charlotte forwards the reply to me. He claims that he doesn't have time for people who hold grudges (Really, then why are we texting?) Then he thinks he's moving in for the kill by saying "Dad would be really disappointed in all of this."
Really. That is the best he could come up with. My 12 year old could make a more wounding remark.
Charlotte fires back with the ways Dad would be disappointed in him and soon they are off on a pissing contest.
It is all rather amusing from my position of detached voyeuristic distance, until my Idiot Brother, unaware that Charlotte is forwarding the texts to me, makes a disparaging comment, that he attributes to our mother, that opens a wound I'd long closed. Mom and Joe have evidently raked me over the coals again.
It is not an issue I feel guilty about. It pertains to when we were tasked with cleaning out Dad's house so it could be sold. I know exactly the contributions I made to that effort. And so does Charlotte. The fact that Joe and Mom remember it differently is not important.
But the fact that they still want to flog me for it amongst themselves makes me want to throttle them both.
I will never have a relationship with my mother and don't choose to. Too much trouble, and too much polluted water over the dam. But both of us are completely comfortable having walked away.
My brother needs to keep knocking on the door. Waving his hands in our faces. Poking the bear if only to get someone's attention. Mom was trying to get me to feel sorry for him at Commencement. Saying he misses his family. I can hardly believe she'd dare try to work me over given the tenuous relationship between us. Some people never know when to quit.
I decide to enter the ring and poke back at him, the poor unarmed, unsuspecting boob that he is.
I send him a text. "Charlotte has kept me apprised of your discussion. Don't contact me again. Ever, for any reason. You have no idea what you have done."
But I choose to do the more infuriating thing. I ignore him. I can not trouble my soul, quicken my pulse, burden my heart with so much as a single shred of his nonsense. It is like a flesh-eating virus. Just a drop and suddenly your life and everything in it is shriveling up and turning to foul smelling goo.
Charlotte takes the other route. Goes on the offensive. Nibbles the bate to get his attention. Then gives him a run for his money.
She reminds him of the family gatherings and holidays and birthdays to which he and his family were invited. Then she reminds him, lest he forget, with that Dollar Store brain of his, that due to his conduct and lack of respect for her home and her boundaries, he's been excluded, for hello, two or three years now. Is he just catching on?
Her closing remarks are about not having the energy or the inclination to deal with his particular brand of bullshit.
He replies, once again trying his novice hand at being clever. Charlotte forwards the reply to me. He claims that he doesn't have time for people who hold grudges (Really, then why are we texting?) Then he thinks he's moving in for the kill by saying "Dad would be really disappointed in all of this."
Really. That is the best he could come up with. My 12 year old could make a more wounding remark.
Charlotte fires back with the ways Dad would be disappointed in him and soon they are off on a pissing contest.
It is all rather amusing from my position of detached voyeuristic distance, until my Idiot Brother, unaware that Charlotte is forwarding the texts to me, makes a disparaging comment, that he attributes to our mother, that opens a wound I'd long closed. Mom and Joe have evidently raked me over the coals again.
It is not an issue I feel guilty about. It pertains to when we were tasked with cleaning out Dad's house so it could be sold. I know exactly the contributions I made to that effort. And so does Charlotte. The fact that Joe and Mom remember it differently is not important.
But the fact that they still want to flog me for it amongst themselves makes me want to throttle them both.
I will never have a relationship with my mother and don't choose to. Too much trouble, and too much polluted water over the dam. But both of us are completely comfortable having walked away.
My brother needs to keep knocking on the door. Waving his hands in our faces. Poking the bear if only to get someone's attention. Mom was trying to get me to feel sorry for him at Commencement. Saying he misses his family. I can hardly believe she'd dare try to work me over given the tenuous relationship between us. Some people never know when to quit.
I decide to enter the ring and poke back at him, the poor unarmed, unsuspecting boob that he is.
I send him a text. "Charlotte has kept me apprised of your discussion. Don't contact me again. Ever, for any reason. You have no idea what you have done."
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Let Your Fingers Do The Talking
Mom goes on for some time meeting and greeting, completely unconcerned that she looks like a craniofacial reconstructive osteopathy patient. I am practically breathing into a paper bag. At last we leave for lunch.
Upon arriving at the Pub of choice, I excuse myself and head to the loo. (Skip to the loo, my darlin'? No?) Squirreled away in the stall, I text my friend. The one with all the advice about wine and deep breathing. In a series of short texts, I tell her the story. Mostly because she was worried for me and I promised I'd send up a flare.
"Ok. Here is the deal." Send.
"Mom is being cordial." Send.
"Almost subdued. NOT her nature." Send.
"Probably because she stopped at her brother's on her way to my sister's." Send.
"Got plastered." Send.
"Fell walking up the front steps." Send.
"Broke her glasses." Send.
"Her dentures." Send.
"Has two black eyes." Send.
"And I am texting from the toily which the only place I can be alone enough to send a text." Send.
And she texts back.
"O" Send.
"M" Send.
"G" Send.
Exactly.
Lunch is as festive as one would expect and we all enjoy a few laughs. Soon, all too soon, we are heading for Charlotte's house and the awkward goodbye to Estelle. I manage to escape without injury and head for home to see the kids and finish resolving the stupid problem I'd created for myself at work.
Not long after my last task was wrapped for the night, I get a text. Thinking it is Charlotte with another "Oh My God If She Doesn't Shut Up Right This Minute I Will Commit Hari Kari" cry for help, or Scott with a few X's and O's, I pick up the phone to read it at once.
It is not Charlotte. It is not Scott. It is not my intrigued colleague wondering where else the story led after I'd exited the bathroom.
It is my idiot brother Joe.
"I am so glad family togetherness still exists since dad died!"
An idiot says what?
For a brief misguided moment, I actually try to figure out what his imbecilic ramblings are supposed to mean to me. I think maybe he's being sarcastic, but he's too stupid to realize that sarcasm doesn't really read well in a text, and since there is no familiarity, I wouldn't pick up on it anyway.
Is he thinking he's clever having figured out that I was at Gray's graduation and he wasn't? That anyone gave a rat's ass if he knew or was insulted to begin with? Or is he just offended to not have been invited?
And then I stop myself before wasting another crumb of gray matter more.
Who cares what he is trying to say, however lamely? And who cares if he's offended?
I copy the text message and send it to Charlotte.
"This is the text I just got from Our Idiot Brother."
And she writes back.
"Me, too."
There is a method to his madness. He knows Mom is here. He's trying to stir the pot while the keeper of the cauldron is lurking nearby ready to throw us both in.
Upon arriving at the Pub of choice, I excuse myself and head to the loo. (Skip to the loo, my darlin'? No?) Squirreled away in the stall, I text my friend. The one with all the advice about wine and deep breathing. In a series of short texts, I tell her the story. Mostly because she was worried for me and I promised I'd send up a flare.
"Ok. Here is the deal." Send.
"Mom is being cordial." Send.
"Almost subdued. NOT her nature." Send.
"Probably because she stopped at her brother's on her way to my sister's." Send.
"Got plastered." Send.
"Fell walking up the front steps." Send.
"Broke her glasses." Send.
"Her dentures." Send.
"Has two black eyes." Send.
"And I am texting from the toily which the only place I can be alone enough to send a text." Send.
And she texts back.
"O" Send.
"M" Send.
"G" Send.
Exactly.
Lunch is as festive as one would expect and we all enjoy a few laughs. Soon, all too soon, we are heading for Charlotte's house and the awkward goodbye to Estelle. I manage to escape without injury and head for home to see the kids and finish resolving the stupid problem I'd created for myself at work.
Not long after my last task was wrapped for the night, I get a text. Thinking it is Charlotte with another "Oh My God If She Doesn't Shut Up Right This Minute I Will Commit Hari Kari" cry for help, or Scott with a few X's and O's, I pick up the phone to read it at once.
It is not Charlotte. It is not Scott. It is not my intrigued colleague wondering where else the story led after I'd exited the bathroom.
It is my idiot brother Joe.
"I am so glad family togetherness still exists since dad died!"
An idiot says what?
For a brief misguided moment, I actually try to figure out what his imbecilic ramblings are supposed to mean to me. I think maybe he's being sarcastic, but he's too stupid to realize that sarcasm doesn't really read well in a text, and since there is no familiarity, I wouldn't pick up on it anyway.
Is he thinking he's clever having figured out that I was at Gray's graduation and he wasn't? That anyone gave a rat's ass if he knew or was insulted to begin with? Or is he just offended to not have been invited?
And then I stop myself before wasting another crumb of gray matter more.
Who cares what he is trying to say, however lamely? And who cares if he's offended?
I copy the text message and send it to Charlotte.
"This is the text I just got from Our Idiot Brother."
And she writes back.
"Me, too."
There is a method to his madness. He knows Mom is here. He's trying to stir the pot while the keeper of the cauldron is lurking nearby ready to throw us both in.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood
We arrive at school. We’ve managed to teach Mom how to turn off her phone so she does not have to leave it on the seat of the car. She mentions that she has a hard time making calls on this phone while driving, as if the turning off problem was the phone’s fault. I am secretly remarking in the thought bubble above my head that driving isn’t exactly her strong suit either, so maybe multitasking isn’t such a hot idea. So glad she isn’t a big fan of texting.)
Mom is feeling a little out of place and looks for something familiar. She asks if our old swim club manager, Mr. Stevens, is still the President of Gray and Griff’s school. I tell her that he is. He is still lovely, still handsome. A full head of pure white hair. She wants to connect with him. She starts feverishly scanning the crowd of thousands to find him. Like he’d be wandering about, not processing with the graduates.
Eventually she is distracted. By the procession of the handsome graduates in their full regalia. By Griffin’s impeccable posture and extreme cuteness bearing the US Flag during the National Anthem. By the articulate speeches and poise of each young man you spoke. By the talent and grace of each of the vocalists. By the ponytail of the lady in front of us which seems to be tied in a pair of men’s dress socks. By the lady a few rows back who wore her red satin suit and matching festooned pillbox hat and a bedazzled pair of shades.
The ceremony is lovely and afterwards we go with the crowd to the garden that surrounds the statue of St. Augustine so that the graduates can be dismissed according to tradition and toss their mortarboards in to the air. I manage to catch the prayer and dismissal and the caps flying into the air on video and am very pleased with myself. As I lower my phone to view what I’ve taped, I see that Mom has sashayed to the foot of the statue and is chatting up Mr. Stevens. Fat lip and all. Apparently oblivious that she looks like she’s been mugged.
I am nearly hyperventilating with panic. For Mr. Stevens. For Griff, who has to remain at this school for another year and really doesn’t need the social crisis. For Charlotte who I am sure would prefer to throw a net over Mom’s head and claim to need to return Mom to the Nervous Hospital before lunch when the pills are dispensed .
I walk against the flow of human traffic to make my way toward Mom. I pop up in front of them both and interrupt. It takes a moment for my identity to register with Mr. Stevens who I am sure is wondering why this dangerously unbalanced domestic violence victim is talking to him about the pool. I point out the familial ties, between the woman in front of him and me, and to Charlotte and Jack and Gray and Griffin. It registers. He recalls seeing me recently at the deli counter at the Acme. He’s looking at Mom incredulously.
He mentions that he wasn’t sure of the connection before (Read that, “I had no freakin’ clue who you were until now, lady.”) And she mentions that it is probably because she was always blond then.
No, Mom. It’s because that was 35 years and 40 pounds ago and you aren’t standing here in your coral Catalina bikini and your Penelope Pitstop pink lipstick and matching hoop earrings.
I manage to drag her off by pointing out where the boys are, and that we should be leaving for lunch.
I am heaving a sigh of relief that the carnage is minimal. I am sure Mr. Stevens is, too.
Mom is feeling a little out of place and looks for something familiar. She asks if our old swim club manager, Mr. Stevens, is still the President of Gray and Griff’s school. I tell her that he is. He is still lovely, still handsome. A full head of pure white hair. She wants to connect with him. She starts feverishly scanning the crowd of thousands to find him. Like he’d be wandering about, not processing with the graduates.
Eventually she is distracted. By the procession of the handsome graduates in their full regalia. By Griffin’s impeccable posture and extreme cuteness bearing the US Flag during the National Anthem. By the articulate speeches and poise of each young man you spoke. By the talent and grace of each of the vocalists. By the ponytail of the lady in front of us which seems to be tied in a pair of men’s dress socks. By the lady a few rows back who wore her red satin suit and matching festooned pillbox hat and a bedazzled pair of shades.
The ceremony is lovely and afterwards we go with the crowd to the garden that surrounds the statue of St. Augustine so that the graduates can be dismissed according to tradition and toss their mortarboards in to the air. I manage to catch the prayer and dismissal and the caps flying into the air on video and am very pleased with myself. As I lower my phone to view what I’ve taped, I see that Mom has sashayed to the foot of the statue and is chatting up Mr. Stevens. Fat lip and all. Apparently oblivious that she looks like she’s been mugged.
I am nearly hyperventilating with panic. For Mr. Stevens. For Griff, who has to remain at this school for another year and really doesn’t need the social crisis. For Charlotte who I am sure would prefer to throw a net over Mom’s head and claim to need to return Mom to the Nervous Hospital before lunch when the pills are dispensed .
I walk against the flow of human traffic to make my way toward Mom. I pop up in front of them both and interrupt. It takes a moment for my identity to register with Mr. Stevens who I am sure is wondering why this dangerously unbalanced domestic violence victim is talking to him about the pool. I point out the familial ties, between the woman in front of him and me, and to Charlotte and Jack and Gray and Griffin. It registers. He recalls seeing me recently at the deli counter at the Acme. He’s looking at Mom incredulously.
He mentions that he wasn’t sure of the connection before (Read that, “I had no freakin’ clue who you were until now, lady.”) And she mentions that it is probably because she was always blond then.
No, Mom. It’s because that was 35 years and 40 pounds ago and you aren’t standing here in your coral Catalina bikini and your Penelope Pitstop pink lipstick and matching hoop earrings.
I manage to drag her off by pointing out where the boys are, and that we should be leaving for lunch.
I am heaving a sigh of relief that the carnage is minimal. I am sure Mr. Stevens is, too.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
The Land of Disbelief
What luck!
Here I am feeling insecure and off my game and thinking that Mom will have the emotional upper hand, and voila! She does me one better. Nothing ruins your Alpha Dog superiority like getting your drunk on, falling down, breaking your face and having to show up anyway. Not that I'm glad it happened. I'm not a sociopath, but it is poetic justice. I don't shame her. I just listen with what would surely be perceived as empathy, when really it is calm, but morbid curiosity. I wonder if the tables were turned if she would move in for my jugular or give me the same pass.
She prattles on and on about her lost tooth and how lucky she is to have packed a spare bridge (But alas, she'd been wearing her favorite one when she'd face planted. I am not sure how a bridge gets to be the favorite...a favorite bra, a prized necklace, a pair of lucky pumps...those I understand. Favorite false teeth? Perhaps we ought to get out the ouja board and scrounge up the ghost of George Washington. I bet he could explain.)
But like a good Girl Scout she'd been prepared. Planned ahead. Packed an extra set of teeth for a 48 hour trip. I suppose she's learned to expect an occasional impromptu drunken wipeout. Maybe a mouth guard would be a good belt-with-suspenders option for the next ill-fated trip. Maybe she should think about the whole goalie mask.
So, with a fresh cup of coffee in hand (I couldn't find the wine in time) and having listened to the fable of the prankster clams that trip people, I excuse myself to see if "Charlotte needs any help."
Charlotte needs my help getting dressed for this event like she needs an extra butt cheek. But it is plausible to my mother, who frankly is probably happy to see me teeter off in my heels so she can look for the wine herself.
I bump into Griffin on the stair. He's tightening his tie and rushing out the door but stops for a hug and a kiss hello. I whisper into his ear without missing a beat. "I can't believe she fell and broke her face."
He whispers back, also without having missed a single breath, "No shit."
I barge into Charlotte's room as she is pulling her dress on over her head. As her face emerges from the neck hole I can see the raised eyebrow look of sarcasm. I mouth silently "You didn't tell me she wiped out last night!" Charlotte rolls her eyes and gives me a "And when was I supposed to make that phone call?" look.
I help her pick a pair of shoes to go with the dress. I pick the wedges. She goes with the snake skin heel option I did not suggest. They are darling. Mom agrees with her choice saying that wedges aren't dressy. Mom seems to have forgotten that she is wearing wedges. I think she may have suffered a concussion when she flew her little plane into the side of a mountain. Or maybe she broke her heels on the clam, and has no choice but the wear the second string shoe choice.
Where are they hiding the wine????
We get into the car. Jack asks Charlotte to remind him to turn off his phone when Commencement starts.
"We have to turn off our phones?" Mom seems a little alarmed at the idea and has taken her Tracphone from its case. She is intensely examining it like it is a piece of fallen space junk.
"I might have to just leave mine in the car..."
Glances all around. Here we go with the remedial technology class...
Here I am feeling insecure and off my game and thinking that Mom will have the emotional upper hand, and voila! She does me one better. Nothing ruins your Alpha Dog superiority like getting your drunk on, falling down, breaking your face and having to show up anyway. Not that I'm glad it happened. I'm not a sociopath, but it is poetic justice. I don't shame her. I just listen with what would surely be perceived as empathy, when really it is calm, but morbid curiosity. I wonder if the tables were turned if she would move in for my jugular or give me the same pass.
She prattles on and on about her lost tooth and how lucky she is to have packed a spare bridge (But alas, she'd been wearing her favorite one when she'd face planted. I am not sure how a bridge gets to be the favorite...a favorite bra, a prized necklace, a pair of lucky pumps...those I understand. Favorite false teeth? Perhaps we ought to get out the ouja board and scrounge up the ghost of George Washington. I bet he could explain.)
But like a good Girl Scout she'd been prepared. Planned ahead. Packed an extra set of teeth for a 48 hour trip. I suppose she's learned to expect an occasional impromptu drunken wipeout. Maybe a mouth guard would be a good belt-with-suspenders option for the next ill-fated trip. Maybe she should think about the whole goalie mask.
So, with a fresh cup of coffee in hand (I couldn't find the wine in time) and having listened to the fable of the prankster clams that trip people, I excuse myself to see if "Charlotte needs any help."
Charlotte needs my help getting dressed for this event like she needs an extra butt cheek. But it is plausible to my mother, who frankly is probably happy to see me teeter off in my heels so she can look for the wine herself.
I bump into Griffin on the stair. He's tightening his tie and rushing out the door but stops for a hug and a kiss hello. I whisper into his ear without missing a beat. "I can't believe she fell and broke her face."
He whispers back, also without having missed a single breath, "No shit."
I barge into Charlotte's room as she is pulling her dress on over her head. As her face emerges from the neck hole I can see the raised eyebrow look of sarcasm. I mouth silently "You didn't tell me she wiped out last night!" Charlotte rolls her eyes and gives me a "And when was I supposed to make that phone call?" look.
I help her pick a pair of shoes to go with the dress. I pick the wedges. She goes with the snake skin heel option I did not suggest. They are darling. Mom agrees with her choice saying that wedges aren't dressy. Mom seems to have forgotten that she is wearing wedges. I think she may have suffered a concussion when she flew her little plane into the side of a mountain. Or maybe she broke her heels on the clam, and has no choice but the wear the second string shoe choice.
Where are they hiding the wine????
We get into the car. Jack asks Charlotte to remind him to turn off his phone when Commencement starts.
"We have to turn off our phones?" Mom seems a little alarmed at the idea and has taken her Tracphone from its case. She is intensely examining it like it is a piece of fallen space junk.
"I might have to just leave mine in the car..."
Glances all around. Here we go with the remedial technology class...
Monday, June 18, 2012
Insults on the Rocks
Now she has my attention.
She set the stage. A table full of career drinkers who are happy to see each other after a long time apart. (Party.)
She makes it clear that she was not drunk. (Thank you, Queen Gertrude, for protesting too much.)
No. Of course she was not drunk. Never is. Not even when she threw up in my kitchen sink at the shore house I shared with friends in college after a night out at the bars. That was just a bad clam.
But anyway, she was not drunk, but admittedly has no recollection when Babs left.
A table of four people and you don’t notice when one of you leaves?
We might be able to “blame it on the a-a-a-a-alcohol” but it may have been that she was in a blind rage in her argument with Frank. She sheepishly admits to having said something heinous about Holly.
“Holly who? His wife?” I ask.
“No, his first wife.”
Oh. I’d forgotten all about her. Our spouse to relative ratio is unusually high in this family and identities don’t always sink too deeply into my gray matter.
“You said something about Holly? Isn’t she dead?”
“Oh. Yeah. She died years ago. Bitch that she was. Everyone thought so.”
Even so. It is generally considered bad policy to disparage the dead. People have a tendency to soften toward them. Even if their divorce was epically acrimonious. She was his sons’ mother. That tends to mean something in most social circles. Evidently Mom is a square peg, socially.
Then she remarks that Holly left her boys pounds of money when she died. Almost like she suspects she robbed a bank.
Frank must have mentioned this in Holly’s defense in the argument that ensued. Because evidently, Mom’s hideous comment went over like a fart in church. And you know that she doesn’t voluntarily back down from an argument. Must have been quite a scene.
And at some point, Babs must have jumped from the plane before it crashed into the side of a mountain. I will assume that Mom either argued to the death and then either stormed out herself or was asked to leave.
And here is where her story gets fuzzy.
She was walking back to Babs’ house in the dark. Enter the birds. They, being gulls, grab clams and drop them midflight to break them open to get the clam out. (Somehow Mother Nature is getting blamed for this) And you know, Babs doesn’t sweep very often, (there is HER culpability) and Mom says a clam got caught in her sandal and she fell (yet another bad clam story).
I am looking at her incredulously as she says that she fell hard, breaking her fall with her face on Babs’ front steps. Ouch.
She broke her dentures. Didn’t realize she did until the next day when she noticed her front tooth was missing. (I would think a sober person would have noticed that right away…) She has a fat lip, and a bruised hand and her shiners have developed into Technicolor.
It is hard to know how to respond. The adolescent in me wants to scream at her that she is full of S-H-I-T. That I am not buying that clam story for one minute. That she may have slipped on the garnish from her Road Coke that flew from the glass when she staggered across the property, but it was not the birds or Babs’ housekeeping inadequacies that caused the fall. It was her misguided, inebriated, jet fueled, post-argument exit and nothing more.
She seems satisfied that she’s made a convincing argument. And I don’t call her on it for the sake of peace. I know the truth and that is all that matters. And maybe that Mom has once more taken me for an idiot. Some things never change. And never will.
She set the stage. A table full of career drinkers who are happy to see each other after a long time apart. (Party.)
She makes it clear that she was not drunk. (Thank you, Queen Gertrude, for protesting too much.)
No. Of course she was not drunk. Never is. Not even when she threw up in my kitchen sink at the shore house I shared with friends in college after a night out at the bars. That was just a bad clam.
But anyway, she was not drunk, but admittedly has no recollection when Babs left.
A table of four people and you don’t notice when one of you leaves?
We might be able to “blame it on the a-a-a-a-alcohol” but it may have been that she was in a blind rage in her argument with Frank. She sheepishly admits to having said something heinous about Holly.
“Holly who? His wife?” I ask.
“No, his first wife.”
Oh. I’d forgotten all about her. Our spouse to relative ratio is unusually high in this family and identities don’t always sink too deeply into my gray matter.
“You said something about Holly? Isn’t she dead?”
“Oh. Yeah. She died years ago. Bitch that she was. Everyone thought so.”
Even so. It is generally considered bad policy to disparage the dead. People have a tendency to soften toward them. Even if their divorce was epically acrimonious. She was his sons’ mother. That tends to mean something in most social circles. Evidently Mom is a square peg, socially.
Then she remarks that Holly left her boys pounds of money when she died. Almost like she suspects she robbed a bank.
Frank must have mentioned this in Holly’s defense in the argument that ensued. Because evidently, Mom’s hideous comment went over like a fart in church. And you know that she doesn’t voluntarily back down from an argument. Must have been quite a scene.
And at some point, Babs must have jumped from the plane before it crashed into the side of a mountain. I will assume that Mom either argued to the death and then either stormed out herself or was asked to leave.
And here is where her story gets fuzzy.
She was walking back to Babs’ house in the dark. Enter the birds. They, being gulls, grab clams and drop them midflight to break them open to get the clam out. (Somehow Mother Nature is getting blamed for this) And you know, Babs doesn’t sweep very often, (there is HER culpability) and Mom says a clam got caught in her sandal and she fell (yet another bad clam story).
I am looking at her incredulously as she says that she fell hard, breaking her fall with her face on Babs’ front steps. Ouch.
She broke her dentures. Didn’t realize she did until the next day when she noticed her front tooth was missing. (I would think a sober person would have noticed that right away…) She has a fat lip, and a bruised hand and her shiners have developed into Technicolor.
It is hard to know how to respond. The adolescent in me wants to scream at her that she is full of S-H-I-T. That I am not buying that clam story for one minute. That she may have slipped on the garnish from her Road Coke that flew from the glass when she staggered across the property, but it was not the birds or Babs’ housekeeping inadequacies that caused the fall. It was her misguided, inebriated, jet fueled, post-argument exit and nothing more.
She seems satisfied that she’s made a convincing argument. And I don’t call her on it for the sake of peace. I know the truth and that is all that matters. And maybe that Mom has once more taken me for an idiot. Some things never change. And never will.
Friday, June 15, 2012
And We're Off
I knock on the door just to say I did, because I always do, even though I don't have to.
It is also a little warning shot across the bow. If Estelle wants to dive under the dining room table and hide, she has a little runway.
The dog barks up a storm. It is a nice distraction. It gives me something to say as I walk in the door besides, "God save my soul!"
As I greet the dog, I can hear Charlotte's hairdryer. I am on my own. And then, as the dog comes to wag and inspect me, and I bend to say hello to him, Mom appears in the doorway from the kitchen.
I look up. "Hi, Mom." And I tentatively walk over and kiss her cheek. I lightly and impersonally ask how her drive north was.
So far so good. She doesn't recoil in horror and doesn't call me any filthy names. She also refrains from saying anything like, "Don't you 'Hi, Mom' me! I don't know who you think you are, but..."
No. She is somewhat subdued. At first I mistake it for coolness toward me. But I quickly realize that she is genuinely subdued. She quietly replies, "It was fine...but look." I look up from the dog, who has brought me a toy and is looking for more attention. She is taking off her glasses and brushing her hair aside.
And in doing so she reveals two black eyes.
Yep, two shiners. Break out the steaks. She has two deep, purple bruises beneath her eyes, and each eye socket is surrounded by a deep bruise in the precise shape of her eyeglass frames. It is clear that the frames were forcibly jammed into her face.
"You fell?" Please say yes. If she says that Bill hit her in the face with a brick 'by accident"when she did something stupid, I might just not be able to control myself and become irretrievably homicidal. She continues.
"I did. I stopped on the way up at the beach to see my brother and his wife, and Babs," (the other brother's widow) "and I stayed the night at Bab's house. You know she lives in the front house, still."
I pretend to understand whatever the hell it is she is talking about. It is immaterial on a regular day. Now it is just delaying the rest of the story being told.
"Well, the seagulls, you know..." and she's gesturing like they are flying up in her face.
"Oh, they startled you?"
She's shaking her head. "No."
And she starts her story from the beginning.
"Well, I was at Frank's, at first. In the house in the back. And you know he and his wife are big drinkers. And so we are all laughing and having a few drinks..."
Oh. I get it. It's going to be one of those stories.
It is also a little warning shot across the bow. If Estelle wants to dive under the dining room table and hide, she has a little runway.
The dog barks up a storm. It is a nice distraction. It gives me something to say as I walk in the door besides, "God save my soul!"
As I greet the dog, I can hear Charlotte's hairdryer. I am on my own. And then, as the dog comes to wag and inspect me, and I bend to say hello to him, Mom appears in the doorway from the kitchen.
I look up. "Hi, Mom." And I tentatively walk over and kiss her cheek. I lightly and impersonally ask how her drive north was.
So far so good. She doesn't recoil in horror and doesn't call me any filthy names. She also refrains from saying anything like, "Don't you 'Hi, Mom' me! I don't know who you think you are, but..."
No. She is somewhat subdued. At first I mistake it for coolness toward me. But I quickly realize that she is genuinely subdued. She quietly replies, "It was fine...but look." I look up from the dog, who has brought me a toy and is looking for more attention. She is taking off her glasses and brushing her hair aside.
And in doing so she reveals two black eyes.
Yep, two shiners. Break out the steaks. She has two deep, purple bruises beneath her eyes, and each eye socket is surrounded by a deep bruise in the precise shape of her eyeglass frames. It is clear that the frames were forcibly jammed into her face.
"You fell?" Please say yes. If she says that Bill hit her in the face with a brick 'by accident"when she did something stupid, I might just not be able to control myself and become irretrievably homicidal. She continues.
"I did. I stopped on the way up at the beach to see my brother and his wife, and Babs," (the other brother's widow) "and I stayed the night at Bab's house. You know she lives in the front house, still."
I pretend to understand whatever the hell it is she is talking about. It is immaterial on a regular day. Now it is just delaying the rest of the story being told.
"Well, the seagulls, you know..." and she's gesturing like they are flying up in her face.
"Oh, they startled you?"
She's shaking her head. "No."
And she starts her story from the beginning.
"Well, I was at Frank's, at first. In the house in the back. And you know he and his wife are big drinkers. And so we are all laughing and having a few drinks..."
Oh. I get it. It's going to be one of those stories.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Pomp and Circumstances Beyond My Control
The next morning I get the kids to school and come back to the house to get myself magnificent looking. I have a week old hair cut, which is perfect. My color is about two weeks old and looking perfect. My dress and shoes are perfection, and look fabulous with my fresh-from-Memorial-Day tan and the gorgeous necklace Scott gave me for Christmas.
I have an hour or so before I have to leave and I attend to a matter that is blowing up at work. I did something stupid. I walked right into the open, waiting, gaping trap of a colleague who bated me and giggled evilly as she informed my boss of our exchange. I will recover, because I have a very real and reasonable support for what I'd done but still he's pissed. Mostly because I am smarter than that. I should never have given her the upper hand.
Worse, being on the defensive makes me feel less confident about dealing with Mom. Like I need that.
I talk to Scott on the way to Charlotte's. He is so calm and so confident in me. I wish I could be. He is my strength. And I really need some. I tell him I'm nervous. He puts me back in control. I love him for this.
I put some fun music on my iPod and sing all the way to Charlotte's house. On the last half mile, I think I see Gray driving in the opposite direction with Griffin.
No! There goes my strength in numbers!
And then I think logically. Gray is the graduate. I am sure he's already at school. Griffin is a flag bearer. Chances are, he's on his way, too.
From the light, I text Charlotte that I am moments away. She texts back that she is drying her hair.
My numbers are dwindling.
I get to their driveway and am panting. My mouth is dry.
But I park and take a deep breath. I grab my fabulous Kenneth Cole bag, potentially as a weapon, and walk toward the front door. As I walk up the front walk I can see someone in the kitchen standing alone.
OMG. It's Mom.
And it's too late to turn around and just go to the school.
I have an hour or so before I have to leave and I attend to a matter that is blowing up at work. I did something stupid. I walked right into the open, waiting, gaping trap of a colleague who bated me and giggled evilly as she informed my boss of our exchange. I will recover, because I have a very real and reasonable support for what I'd done but still he's pissed. Mostly because I am smarter than that. I should never have given her the upper hand.
Worse, being on the defensive makes me feel less confident about dealing with Mom. Like I need that.
I talk to Scott on the way to Charlotte's. He is so calm and so confident in me. I wish I could be. He is my strength. And I really need some. I tell him I'm nervous. He puts me back in control. I love him for this.
I put some fun music on my iPod and sing all the way to Charlotte's house. On the last half mile, I think I see Gray driving in the opposite direction with Griffin.
No! There goes my strength in numbers!
And then I think logically. Gray is the graduate. I am sure he's already at school. Griffin is a flag bearer. Chances are, he's on his way, too.
From the light, I text Charlotte that I am moments away. She texts back that she is drying her hair.
My numbers are dwindling.
I get to their driveway and am panting. My mouth is dry.
But I park and take a deep breath. I grab my fabulous Kenneth Cole bag, potentially as a weapon, and walk toward the front door. As I walk up the front walk I can see someone in the kitchen standing alone.
OMG. It's Mom.
And it's too late to turn around and just go to the school.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
The Pre-Game Warm-Up
The evening before the graduation, Estelle rides into town on one of the Four Horses of the Apocalypse. I am surprised there wasn't a swarm of locusts or dead frogs falling from the sky like rain.
Not being in touch with her, I am spared all the pre-visit hullaballoo. I have no idea when she's expected or what preconceived notions she has about controlling the whole agenda. It would be liberating if it weren't nerve wracking.
I have assured Charlotte that she need not be worried about my conduct. I will not engage in any behavior that would have her wishing she'd not invited me. I have more respect for her and Jack and their boys than that. And myself for that matter. I won't be bated and I won't be chased down a rabbit hole. I will quietly walk away from any confrontation that Estelle try to ignite.
Estelle is the wild card. She'd never been predictable. She has always been aggressive and controlling. It still irks her that she's not able to control me and worse, that I'm not fooled by her crap. My unwillingness to engage might be just the suggestion of aloofness that sends her sailing over the edge of reason.
I am a little on edge at work. I tell my friend. She tells me to take deep breaths. Have a glass of wine when I go home. Meditate.
I feel like I am appearing in court the next morning.
On my way home, in epic traffic, I am sitting at a light, for the third rotation, when my iPod dings indicating I have a message.
It's Charlotte.
Dear God - Mom is on the phone with Bill talking so loudly hat the neighbors can hear. She is so controlling with him. She'll be gone for 48 hours and she is asking him about his dinner and coffee and whether or not he complied with her instruction to peel his corn on the patio so that the corn silk doesn't get all over the kitchen. Bill can't hear a thing. Sweet bearded Jesus!
I write back, before the old lady in front of me wakes up from her Rush Hour Nap behind the wheel. "Deep breaths and wine." I intend to do the same on the advice of the colleague.
Mom has an annoying habit of yelling like a howler monkey into your answering system when you don't answer. Like you avoided her call and yelling at you would get you to pick up, as if you could hear her. She doesn't realize that the system just records. No one hears her. She's done this once or twice in the short time she's been at Charlotte's. Yelling, "Billy! Billy! Bi-i-i-l-l-y-y. Pick up! Billy! It's Estelle!
Like he wouldn't know that.
Charlotte invites me to come to their house before graduation tomorrow.
I've thought about how the morning might go. I think there might be strength in numbers. "Sure if you don't think she will stroke out."
No answer. She might stroke out. But it's decided. I will be there and will see Mom before the graduation.
I need to practice pretending to be calm.
Not being in touch with her, I am spared all the pre-visit hullaballoo. I have no idea when she's expected or what preconceived notions she has about controlling the whole agenda. It would be liberating if it weren't nerve wracking.
I have assured Charlotte that she need not be worried about my conduct. I will not engage in any behavior that would have her wishing she'd not invited me. I have more respect for her and Jack and their boys than that. And myself for that matter. I won't be bated and I won't be chased down a rabbit hole. I will quietly walk away from any confrontation that Estelle try to ignite.
Estelle is the wild card. She'd never been predictable. She has always been aggressive and controlling. It still irks her that she's not able to control me and worse, that I'm not fooled by her crap. My unwillingness to engage might be just the suggestion of aloofness that sends her sailing over the edge of reason.
I am a little on edge at work. I tell my friend. She tells me to take deep breaths. Have a glass of wine when I go home. Meditate.
I feel like I am appearing in court the next morning.
On my way home, in epic traffic, I am sitting at a light, for the third rotation, when my iPod dings indicating I have a message.
It's Charlotte.
Dear God - Mom is on the phone with Bill talking so loudly hat the neighbors can hear. She is so controlling with him. She'll be gone for 48 hours and she is asking him about his dinner and coffee and whether or not he complied with her instruction to peel his corn on the patio so that the corn silk doesn't get all over the kitchen. Bill can't hear a thing. Sweet bearded Jesus!
I write back, before the old lady in front of me wakes up from her Rush Hour Nap behind the wheel. "Deep breaths and wine." I intend to do the same on the advice of the colleague.
Mom has an annoying habit of yelling like a howler monkey into your answering system when you don't answer. Like you avoided her call and yelling at you would get you to pick up, as if you could hear her. She doesn't realize that the system just records. No one hears her. She's done this once or twice in the short time she's been at Charlotte's. Yelling, "Billy! Billy! Bi-i-i-l-l-y-y. Pick up! Billy! It's Estelle!
Like he wouldn't know that.
Charlotte invites me to come to their house before graduation tomorrow.
I've thought about how the morning might go. I think there might be strength in numbers. "Sure if you don't think she will stroke out."
No answer. She might stroke out. But it's decided. I will be there and will see Mom before the graduation.
I need to practice pretending to be calm.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Party Like It's 2012
Charlotte and Jack know how to throw a party. And of course, the weather would not dare refuse to cooperate. A gorgeous, humidity-free sunny day, not hot enough to induce pit stains, not cool enough to make you have to throw a librarianish cardi over your fabulous dress. A storm threatened at one point, but would not dare actually rain.
Scott and I, three of our four kids in tow, embarked on our journey to Charlotte's. Wally had already briefed me (He is there all the time. My kitchen is small potatoes next to Charlotte's project list.) There would be a tent. Charlotte's cat had already claimed it. Moved in. Found a place to crap. I am sure Charlotte was having him mounted and stuffed by now.
We park and go in and greet everyone. Charlotte had just reduced her order of outrageously beautifully decorated mini cupcakes, top-heavy with icing swirls, and mousse, and fudgy things, and other sugary garnishes. Three hundred was way too much, especially with several pounds of cookies to compete with. I could feel my glycemic index on the rise just looking at it all.
Under the tent, sans cat, who I am sure was banished to Never Never Land, there were made to order fajitas and such, filled with fresh sauteed veggies and meats and complimented by scrumptious sides and accompanied by a cornucopia of home made tortilla chips and a variety of dipping options. I was getting love handles just walking within smelling distance.
And the bar. High end beers. Fun sodas. Delicious wine. And a variety of deliciously infused vodkas and tequilas artfully flavored by the host himself.
And then guests start to arrive - friends of the graduate, Gray. And friends of his younger brother, Griffin, who will be doing this next year. And their older brother Gregory. Who brought his darling girlfriend. Such an abundance of cuteness and promise all in one place.
We discuss all manner of things. I chat about my insane kitchen renovation and the cat's reaction to it with Gregory (climbing among the displaced glasses, nestling in among the basket of beer koozies, climbing into boxes that need to be packed, curling up in emptied cabinets, eating tape, throwing up tape). I tell Griffin about my brand new shiny boating license and encourage him to get one of his own. He's smart enough to pass on the first shot, too, even with all the bizarre light signals and buoy markers to memorize. And I talk with Gray, the Graduate, about his shore house. How to minimize the damage done by the Asshole Friend (there is one in every crowd) and to avoid police citations (it's a quiet, well-heeled neighborhood, the neighbors will complain) and the art of taking the after-hours party back to someone else's house, not yours. Scott and I have both been there.
Some of Charlotte's old familiar friends arrive and we all catch up. We haven't seen each other since Gregory's graduation party. I'd brought J. to that. Gross. Charlotte's one friend asks if I am still wearily tethered to that particularly leaden ball and chain. I fill her in on my getaway and the abridged version of the myriad reasons why I dumped him (the deception, the stealing, the alcoholism, the life-sized tattoo of my Facebook profile picture on his scrawny little leg, my inspired calls to the police, the late night pathetic visits to my house long after we'd broken up.) Damn. Like a bad penny, somehow his name comes up at every event, even if only in the context of, "So glad you dumped that loser you were dating. Scott is a dream boat." At least it affords me the opportunity to gush about how fabulous Scott is and how blissfully happy I am to be living my life.
Another of Charlotte's friend's mentions this blog. I am so flattered when I know people read it. We are clutching our crotches trying not to pee when she revisits the story about Mom and her gun. We are too breathless to even describe the many ways she is the last person who should own a weapon of any kind.
But suddenly with the mere mention of her name, I am in That Place.
The dark, evil place where my relationship with Estelle lives.
The Commencement ceremony is just days away. She is driving up to attend. And I will be there, too. I will be face to face, side by side, with the Queen of the Damned herself.
As Charlotte would say, "Sweet bearded Jesus."
Scott and I, three of our four kids in tow, embarked on our journey to Charlotte's. Wally had already briefed me (He is there all the time. My kitchen is small potatoes next to Charlotte's project list.) There would be a tent. Charlotte's cat had already claimed it. Moved in. Found a place to crap. I am sure Charlotte was having him mounted and stuffed by now.
We park and go in and greet everyone. Charlotte had just reduced her order of outrageously beautifully decorated mini cupcakes, top-heavy with icing swirls, and mousse, and fudgy things, and other sugary garnishes. Three hundred was way too much, especially with several pounds of cookies to compete with. I could feel my glycemic index on the rise just looking at it all.
Under the tent, sans cat, who I am sure was banished to Never Never Land, there were made to order fajitas and such, filled with fresh sauteed veggies and meats and complimented by scrumptious sides and accompanied by a cornucopia of home made tortilla chips and a variety of dipping options. I was getting love handles just walking within smelling distance.
And the bar. High end beers. Fun sodas. Delicious wine. And a variety of deliciously infused vodkas and tequilas artfully flavored by the host himself.
And then guests start to arrive - friends of the graduate, Gray. And friends of his younger brother, Griffin, who will be doing this next year. And their older brother Gregory. Who brought his darling girlfriend. Such an abundance of cuteness and promise all in one place.
We discuss all manner of things. I chat about my insane kitchen renovation and the cat's reaction to it with Gregory (climbing among the displaced glasses, nestling in among the basket of beer koozies, climbing into boxes that need to be packed, curling up in emptied cabinets, eating tape, throwing up tape). I tell Griffin about my brand new shiny boating license and encourage him to get one of his own. He's smart enough to pass on the first shot, too, even with all the bizarre light signals and buoy markers to memorize. And I talk with Gray, the Graduate, about his shore house. How to minimize the damage done by the Asshole Friend (there is one in every crowd) and to avoid police citations (it's a quiet, well-heeled neighborhood, the neighbors will complain) and the art of taking the after-hours party back to someone else's house, not yours. Scott and I have both been there.
Some of Charlotte's old familiar friends arrive and we all catch up. We haven't seen each other since Gregory's graduation party. I'd brought J. to that. Gross. Charlotte's one friend asks if I am still wearily tethered to that particularly leaden ball and chain. I fill her in on my getaway and the abridged version of the myriad reasons why I dumped him (the deception, the stealing, the alcoholism, the life-sized tattoo of my Facebook profile picture on his scrawny little leg, my inspired calls to the police, the late night pathetic visits to my house long after we'd broken up.) Damn. Like a bad penny, somehow his name comes up at every event, even if only in the context of, "So glad you dumped that loser you were dating. Scott is a dream boat." At least it affords me the opportunity to gush about how fabulous Scott is and how blissfully happy I am to be living my life.
Another of Charlotte's friend's mentions this blog. I am so flattered when I know people read it. We are clutching our crotches trying not to pee when she revisits the story about Mom and her gun. We are too breathless to even describe the many ways she is the last person who should own a weapon of any kind.
But suddenly with the mere mention of her name, I am in That Place.
The dark, evil place where my relationship with Estelle lives.
The Commencement ceremony is just days away. She is driving up to attend. And I will be there, too. I will be face to face, side by side, with the Queen of the Damned herself.
As Charlotte would say, "Sweet bearded Jesus."
Monday, June 11, 2012
Summertime and the Living is Busy
It's a busy time of year, and not just because of my kitchen renovation.
True, it has been daunting to remove nearly 20 years of hoarded items from a kitchen the size of a change purse. I actually had to reach into the recesses of one poorly designed cabinet the other day to retrieve what turned out to be a nifty little highchair attachment.
A highchair attachment. My children are in Middle School. They've been slopping food all over the placemats at the Grown Up table for a decade.
And what is up with my vast collection of coffee mugs? Not only do I have the puny sized set that came with my casual china, I have at least 50 others. The Hanukkah one (?) Pat got me at the Secret Santa shop in elementary school with the broken handle that I use as often as possible because of the sweetness of the gift. The dribble-inducing cup from the little hamlet where Charlotte and Jack let us use their cottage for sweet Summer escape vacations. The ones that were hand painted with our names by a friend in Lars' camp commemorating some occasion in one of their children's lives. And dozens of others with no apparent story. I could easily serve coffee to 60 people. I should think about doing that. Maybe after I get my enormous oven and can bake a bunch of coffee cakes to go with all the coffee I'd be serving.
And how many wine openers does a household with one adult need? And for that matter, how many cutting boards, beer coozies, and gadgets that perform exactly one function can a person actually use?
But, kitchen renovation aside, I have a pretty full schedule for the next few weeks. All the field trips, year end ceremonies, concerts, school parties, scout traditions etc. My iPhone is buzzing to remind me of something nearly every hour.
But looming large are the graduations. There are quite a few I will recognize this year. I don't know where all the little kids went, but I am speechless watching them turn into young men and women and seemingly seconds later, turn away and sashay out the door into their new lives.
It is bittersweet for me. I have friends to support as their oldest children move their tassels to the side and embark on college experiences their parents are selling their souls to provide. I have friends who are watching their children graduate from college and wringing their hands as they take a bolder, longer stride on the road to a life of independence. I have Scott, whose oldest daughter and her boyfriend are graduating together and headed off to the same college with as many hopes and dreams for their future as a couple as they do for their careers.
And I have Charlotte and Jack, who are beaming with pride that their middle son, my Godson, is graduating from a prestigious prep school with honors, and spending the summer at the beach before packing his things to spend four years at an equally prestigious college.
But first, there is The Party.
True, it has been daunting to remove nearly 20 years of hoarded items from a kitchen the size of a change purse. I actually had to reach into the recesses of one poorly designed cabinet the other day to retrieve what turned out to be a nifty little highchair attachment.
A highchair attachment. My children are in Middle School. They've been slopping food all over the placemats at the Grown Up table for a decade.
And what is up with my vast collection of coffee mugs? Not only do I have the puny sized set that came with my casual china, I have at least 50 others. The Hanukkah one (?) Pat got me at the Secret Santa shop in elementary school with the broken handle that I use as often as possible because of the sweetness of the gift. The dribble-inducing cup from the little hamlet where Charlotte and Jack let us use their cottage for sweet Summer escape vacations. The ones that were hand painted with our names by a friend in Lars' camp commemorating some occasion in one of their children's lives. And dozens of others with no apparent story. I could easily serve coffee to 60 people. I should think about doing that. Maybe after I get my enormous oven and can bake a bunch of coffee cakes to go with all the coffee I'd be serving.
And how many wine openers does a household with one adult need? And for that matter, how many cutting boards, beer coozies, and gadgets that perform exactly one function can a person actually use?
But, kitchen renovation aside, I have a pretty full schedule for the next few weeks. All the field trips, year end ceremonies, concerts, school parties, scout traditions etc. My iPhone is buzzing to remind me of something nearly every hour.
But looming large are the graduations. There are quite a few I will recognize this year. I don't know where all the little kids went, but I am speechless watching them turn into young men and women and seemingly seconds later, turn away and sashay out the door into their new lives.
It is bittersweet for me. I have friends to support as their oldest children move their tassels to the side and embark on college experiences their parents are selling their souls to provide. I have friends who are watching their children graduate from college and wringing their hands as they take a bolder, longer stride on the road to a life of independence. I have Scott, whose oldest daughter and her boyfriend are graduating together and headed off to the same college with as many hopes and dreams for their future as a couple as they do for their careers.
And I have Charlotte and Jack, who are beaming with pride that their middle son, my Godson, is graduating from a prestigious prep school with honors, and spending the summer at the beach before packing his things to spend four years at an equally prestigious college.
But first, there is The Party.
Friday, June 8, 2012
The Really Big Show
Hil is in the chorus at school. It is the end of the school year and we will have an All-Middle School concert for all the parents' entertainment pleasure.
I am secretly thrilled that the school has caught on to the fact that the chorus groups and the band and orchestra groups should have separate concerts. Each will be under two hours instead of one long evening of entertainment that lasts nearly to midnight and involves costume changes.
I am not so sure the parents of kids who participate in both activities are as jazzed. They get to make multiple trips to the school and get multiple babysitters or shoosh younger sibs through multiple shows that appeal to a narrow crowd that generally does not include toddlers.
I am not sure why the PTO doesn't have a cash bar at these things. I don't know a single parent who wouldn't gladly down a pre-curtain blender drink and a double at intermission. We'd never have to sell another roll of wrapping paper to relatives again. It would be a cash cow.
The night of the show arrives and Hil is in a panic. Kids she knows and likes will be there. She has to churn out the hype. Fabulous gleaming, poker straight locks. Impeccable makeup with several coats of mascara so the eyes pop from the stage. The perfect jewelry. Shoes that make her legs look gorgeous (what?) and that she will not topple off of the risers with.
Once the nerves are calmed, the car is parked and Hil is convinced she is not late for the opening curtain, I enter the High School auditorium for The Big Show.
The High School. The one I attended. The one Scott attended. The one Pat will attend next year. It brings back quite a few memories. This is the auditorium where I transformed myself into Roseann Rosannadanna and realized how fun it is to make people laugh. Where I razzed Scott from the stage as he sat in the orchestra pit, chiding him as Roseann because he had "dropped me like a hot pah-taytuh." The seats from which I watched, enamored of Scott, as he played his silver trumpet in the Jazz Band in his vintage looking tuxedo. Somehow nothing has changed.
I find a seat in the center of the crowd where Hil says the acoustics are best. (?) I am seated right next to Cindy, my best friend from 6th grade. We'd graduated high school together but had flown off on different flight plans. I knew her sisters and brother. Her mother had been our school secretary. I knew the whole family, but we'd not stayed in touch. But then, when Pat needed surgery as a baby, I bumped into her at the hospital. Not only did she work there, but she'd had a daughter that year and she was getting tubes in her ears the same day. Her daughter would be Hil's age. Years later, we realized we lived close by one another. Our girls went to school together. Attended Brownie Scouts together. Cindy, still a nurse in that same hospital, recommended a surgeon for Hil's surgery a few years later. Scheduled herself as her PACU nurse. Would be the first face she saw when she awoke from anesthesia. Some friendships lapse, but never, ever go away.
She and I are immediately off to the races. Commenting on ill-advised outfit choices. Laughing about memories churned up by the environment. Remarking on the stained ceiling tiles that look remarkably like the same ones that were there when we were students. WOndering out loud about certain tweenism we are having a hard time adjusting to. Embarassing our children alternately by calling their names and waving like dorks.
Down in front of the stage, a woman that I don't recognize rises from the piano. At least it is supposed to be a woman. But really, all I can think is, "Who is the man in the dress and wig?"
As this thought passes through my head, Cindy leans in unexpectedly and says, "Let's play 'Is It A Man Or A Woman?"
I nearly choke on my forbidden bubble gum.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
The lights dim. Our daughters take the stage. And things are different. All the times I'd been here before it was all about me.
As I look at my beautiful daughter singing her heart out under the stage lights, smiling beautifully and focused on her director intently, I am overwhelmed with pride.
My memories and impressions of this stage and theater are immaterial. It is all about her. As it should be.
I am secretly thrilled that the school has caught on to the fact that the chorus groups and the band and orchestra groups should have separate concerts. Each will be under two hours instead of one long evening of entertainment that lasts nearly to midnight and involves costume changes.
I am not so sure the parents of kids who participate in both activities are as jazzed. They get to make multiple trips to the school and get multiple babysitters or shoosh younger sibs through multiple shows that appeal to a narrow crowd that generally does not include toddlers.
I am not sure why the PTO doesn't have a cash bar at these things. I don't know a single parent who wouldn't gladly down a pre-curtain blender drink and a double at intermission. We'd never have to sell another roll of wrapping paper to relatives again. It would be a cash cow.
The night of the show arrives and Hil is in a panic. Kids she knows and likes will be there. She has to churn out the hype. Fabulous gleaming, poker straight locks. Impeccable makeup with several coats of mascara so the eyes pop from the stage. The perfect jewelry. Shoes that make her legs look gorgeous (what?) and that she will not topple off of the risers with.
Once the nerves are calmed, the car is parked and Hil is convinced she is not late for the opening curtain, I enter the High School auditorium for The Big Show.
The High School. The one I attended. The one Scott attended. The one Pat will attend next year. It brings back quite a few memories. This is the auditorium where I transformed myself into Roseann Rosannadanna and realized how fun it is to make people laugh. Where I razzed Scott from the stage as he sat in the orchestra pit, chiding him as Roseann because he had "dropped me like a hot pah-taytuh." The seats from which I watched, enamored of Scott, as he played his silver trumpet in the Jazz Band in his vintage looking tuxedo. Somehow nothing has changed.
I find a seat in the center of the crowd where Hil says the acoustics are best. (?) I am seated right next to Cindy, my best friend from 6th grade. We'd graduated high school together but had flown off on different flight plans. I knew her sisters and brother. Her mother had been our school secretary. I knew the whole family, but we'd not stayed in touch. But then, when Pat needed surgery as a baby, I bumped into her at the hospital. Not only did she work there, but she'd had a daughter that year and she was getting tubes in her ears the same day. Her daughter would be Hil's age. Years later, we realized we lived close by one another. Our girls went to school together. Attended Brownie Scouts together. Cindy, still a nurse in that same hospital, recommended a surgeon for Hil's surgery a few years later. Scheduled herself as her PACU nurse. Would be the first face she saw when she awoke from anesthesia. Some friendships lapse, but never, ever go away.
She and I are immediately off to the races. Commenting on ill-advised outfit choices. Laughing about memories churned up by the environment. Remarking on the stained ceiling tiles that look remarkably like the same ones that were there when we were students. WOndering out loud about certain tweenism we are having a hard time adjusting to. Embarassing our children alternately by calling their names and waving like dorks.
Down in front of the stage, a woman that I don't recognize rises from the piano. At least it is supposed to be a woman. But really, all I can think is, "Who is the man in the dress and wig?"
As this thought passes through my head, Cindy leans in unexpectedly and says, "Let's play 'Is It A Man Or A Woman?"
I nearly choke on my forbidden bubble gum.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
The lights dim. Our daughters take the stage. And things are different. All the times I'd been here before it was all about me.
As I look at my beautiful daughter singing her heart out under the stage lights, smiling beautifully and focused on her director intently, I am overwhelmed with pride.
My memories and impressions of this stage and theater are immaterial. It is all about her. As it should be.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Goodbye to You
As the holiday weekend approaches I am usually filled with memories. The radio stations seem to want to send you (provided you are in their target demographic) back to the days of your youth, particularly, those happy, free-wheeling, untroubled days of youth. They fill the airwaves with top ten songs from the summer I turned 10. And the summer I graduated high school. And the summer of my first love. And the summer I graduated college and had to think about things like P&L statements, and business attire, and reliable transportation from that point forward. I hear, in no particular order, The Night Chicago Died, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, Goodbye Stranger, and West End Girls. Each one makes me want to call someone who would recognize the special meaning of the song. The opening bars of The Night Chicago Died usually has me speed dialing Charlotte so she can hear it with me.
The work day ends early and I head to Kate's for a BBQ and the company of old friends. Kate is a gracious hostess. Loads of food, tons of beer and wine in coolers strategically placed all over the property, artfully decorated tables and socially convenient seating.
But as each of the gals arrives, she has a hushed story to tell.
Priscilla is getting divorced. Sshhhh.
Priscilla, her sister. Our frequent travel mate. A Girls Weekend steady-ender.
Priscilla and Mick have been together for at least 20 years. They were married before I was and it would have been 20 years for me and Lars...umm...the day before yesterday. (See how that went by unnoticed?)I can't pretend to know what happens in anyone's marriage (I barely knew what was happening in my own) but I assume it is the classic stuff. Grown apart. Never talk any more. Don't have anything in common. Spend most of their time apart and doing separate things. Would find bursting into flame more pleasant than actual sex with one another.
Kate does provide one glimpse into Priscilla's nightmare, though. Mick at some point found Jesus. Like some people find stray dogs. Invited Jesus to come live with him and gave him the spare bedroom. Swears that all their problems would be resolved if they all just prayed a little harder.
Now, I love the Lord as much as the next guy, but as a practical matter, you should have a Plan B, no matter how much you believe in the power of prayer. Especially if you have financial or marital or employment woes. And who doesn't?
So presumably as a result of these things, and a few more we'll never know anything about, they are calling it a marriage.
So I pledge to Pay It Forward. In my two year ordeal of Divorcing the AntiChrist, I did quite a lot of boo-hooing to my friends. Whining about the minutia of my marital disentanglement at all hours of the day and night, at all manner of settings, during all types of social engagements - parties, baby showers, Chrstenings, graduations, birthday bashes, sporting events. You name it, I took Lars' name in vain at it, railing against his particularly humiliating brand of ass-holery whenever a bitter little memory was triggered by something.
I owe Priscilla that. As optimistic as she is, and as cordial as the parting may seem to be at this point, at another point, in the not-to-distant future, she will want to scream. And I want to tell her, as Dr. Frazier Crane would say, "I'm listening."
The work day ends early and I head to Kate's for a BBQ and the company of old friends. Kate is a gracious hostess. Loads of food, tons of beer and wine in coolers strategically placed all over the property, artfully decorated tables and socially convenient seating.
But as each of the gals arrives, she has a hushed story to tell.
Priscilla is getting divorced. Sshhhh.
Priscilla, her sister. Our frequent travel mate. A Girls Weekend steady-ender.
Priscilla and Mick have been together for at least 20 years. They were married before I was and it would have been 20 years for me and Lars...umm...the day before yesterday. (See how that went by unnoticed?)I can't pretend to know what happens in anyone's marriage (I barely knew what was happening in my own) but I assume it is the classic stuff. Grown apart. Never talk any more. Don't have anything in common. Spend most of their time apart and doing separate things. Would find bursting into flame more pleasant than actual sex with one another.
Kate does provide one glimpse into Priscilla's nightmare, though. Mick at some point found Jesus. Like some people find stray dogs. Invited Jesus to come live with him and gave him the spare bedroom. Swears that all their problems would be resolved if they all just prayed a little harder.
Now, I love the Lord as much as the next guy, but as a practical matter, you should have a Plan B, no matter how much you believe in the power of prayer. Especially if you have financial or marital or employment woes. And who doesn't?
So presumably as a result of these things, and a few more we'll never know anything about, they are calling it a marriage.
So I pledge to Pay It Forward. In my two year ordeal of Divorcing the AntiChrist, I did quite a lot of boo-hooing to my friends. Whining about the minutia of my marital disentanglement at all hours of the day and night, at all manner of settings, during all types of social engagements - parties, baby showers, Chrstenings, graduations, birthday bashes, sporting events. You name it, I took Lars' name in vain at it, railing against his particularly humiliating brand of ass-holery whenever a bitter little memory was triggered by something.
I owe Priscilla that. As optimistic as she is, and as cordial as the parting may seem to be at this point, at another point, in the not-to-distant future, she will want to scream. And I want to tell her, as Dr. Frazier Crane would say, "I'm listening."
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Thing Hog
In the meantime, I have jumped into the kitchen renovation with both feet.
It is a complete nightmare.
I get my sister's contractor, Wally, and after explaining to him that I do not have my sister's budget or her fastidiousness about cleaning (as in NOT the White Tornado) he assures me that he's done smaller renovations than mine (but probably not smaller kitchens) and has been in much worse a pig sty. Yay.
I have a vision. Wally will work with me, however twisted the vision. He has the good sense not to laugh out loud at my ideas. He listens well, and as he makes suggestions, and I explain what I want instead, he is figuring me out. Now he is not only a magician, he's a mind reader, too. He seems enthusiastic about my idea of painting the ceiling plum. He is not daunted by the fact that the space was designed over 80 years ago before refrigeration and microwaves became standard issue.
But still, I am in a panic. He's measured and examined and opened doors and looked under the hoods of things and has sketched some plans. He can wedge this in here, that in there. Create more visual space by doing this, create more actual space if we think about doing this versus that. What am I missing? I am sure I've forgotten to mention something. Watch, he'll be done and the dishwasher will be sitting in the middle of the room without a home.
I have picked out tile. Grout. Chosen dimensions of the much coveted subway tile with which I am so anxious to cover the backsplash. We've discussed millwork, lazy Susan's fixtures, garbage disposal, dead space, paint colors, appliances, venting, and finally....dates to start the work.
This is where I begin to breath heavily into a paper bag.
All that money. In all those big chunks! So much for the fat cat feeling of a big tax return.
And the notion of taking every last item, dish, glass, utensil, gadget, crumb, twisty tie, piece of mail, art project, cleaning product, and frivolous serving piece out of my kitchen to live somewhere else while the work gets done. While I am buying a new range I should also have a fainting couch delivered.
But I write the first check so the cabinets can be ordered and the permit issued. And suddenly I am calm and in control.
I have a signed contract and I have a good idea about what the end result will be. I've even settled on countertop material and the perfect oven. In 3 short weeks, demolition will take place. On the last week of school while the kids are in Lars' torture chamber. It's time to systematically relieve the kitchen of its contents.
Oh.
My.
Gawd!
I am nothing short of astonished at what I have stashed for decades in a space you could not park a Mini Cooper in.
And I am convinced I could star in a Sweeps Week episode of Hoarders.
It is a complete nightmare.
I get my sister's contractor, Wally, and after explaining to him that I do not have my sister's budget or her fastidiousness about cleaning (as in NOT the White Tornado) he assures me that he's done smaller renovations than mine (but probably not smaller kitchens) and has been in much worse a pig sty. Yay.
I have a vision. Wally will work with me, however twisted the vision. He has the good sense not to laugh out loud at my ideas. He listens well, and as he makes suggestions, and I explain what I want instead, he is figuring me out. Now he is not only a magician, he's a mind reader, too. He seems enthusiastic about my idea of painting the ceiling plum. He is not daunted by the fact that the space was designed over 80 years ago before refrigeration and microwaves became standard issue.
But still, I am in a panic. He's measured and examined and opened doors and looked under the hoods of things and has sketched some plans. He can wedge this in here, that in there. Create more visual space by doing this, create more actual space if we think about doing this versus that. What am I missing? I am sure I've forgotten to mention something. Watch, he'll be done and the dishwasher will be sitting in the middle of the room without a home.
I have picked out tile. Grout. Chosen dimensions of the much coveted subway tile with which I am so anxious to cover the backsplash. We've discussed millwork, lazy Susan's fixtures, garbage disposal, dead space, paint colors, appliances, venting, and finally....dates to start the work.
This is where I begin to breath heavily into a paper bag.
All that money. In all those big chunks! So much for the fat cat feeling of a big tax return.
And the notion of taking every last item, dish, glass, utensil, gadget, crumb, twisty tie, piece of mail, art project, cleaning product, and frivolous serving piece out of my kitchen to live somewhere else while the work gets done. While I am buying a new range I should also have a fainting couch delivered.
But I write the first check so the cabinets can be ordered and the permit issued. And suddenly I am calm and in control.
I have a signed contract and I have a good idea about what the end result will be. I've even settled on countertop material and the perfect oven. In 3 short weeks, demolition will take place. On the last week of school while the kids are in Lars' torture chamber. It's time to systematically relieve the kitchen of its contents.
Oh.
My.
Gawd!
I am nothing short of astonished at what I have stashed for decades in a space you could not park a Mini Cooper in.
And I am convinced I could star in a Sweeps Week episode of Hoarders.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Letter? What Letter?
My mother thinks she will win at this. There would be no other reason for her to waste a stamp.
She knows that it will not escape my attention that she has contacted my children covertly. And her lame attempt at reaching them on a personal level by telling that charming, nostalgic little story about riding the Wild Mouse with my father (Eeeewwww. That sounded even worse than it was.) misfired. They'd heard the story a hundred times. Once for every time we've ridden the damn ride ourselves. It is why we get the astonishly expensive picture printed in the first place. Because I've told them how she went on the ride with my Dad when they were dating despite being scared to death. (And how he ran down the dark, unlit boardwalk without her after getting out of the midnight showing of Psycho.) My Dad, the prankster. It amazes me she didn't scratch out at least one eye while they were still dating.
But Mom thinks she's got me beat. She'll show me! Two can play this game. She will have a forced relationship with my children without me, darn it! And their cat, too!
She's obviously made more of this than anyone else in the supposed pissing contest. Pat ended up using the letter as a coaster and Hil wrapped her gum in the return address part of the envelope. And it isn't like anyone asked for a piece of stationary so they could write a lovely return note and strike up a pen pal relationship with Estelle or Bill. It was really a non-event. One more tiny, imperceptible gesture from someone who has never bothered to be present in their lives before and who can't make up for lost time now. Especially with all the space and time in between.
And why would they bother to be open hearted? She blows in for a few days a year, doesn't make them a priority, acts like a two-year old when there is a conflict and yells at them for things she thinks it will help me to yell at them for. She has no idea who they are, their friends names, their interests, their very personalities. She's like a loud, intrusive, obnoxious exchange student who makes their mother swear under her breath and drink wine from Big Gulp cups.
But let Estelle think she's gotten to me this time. I could not be bothered to even raise an eyebrow over this. She has two more opportunities to put on a show between now and her birthday which I will creatively underacknowledge. First is Pat's birthday, and then Hil's. The expectations for Hil's 13th are high...It will be interesting to see how much hype Estelle feels she has to churn out to buy my children's hearts. Frankly, it's sad that she thinks it can be done.
She knows that it will not escape my attention that she has contacted my children covertly. And her lame attempt at reaching them on a personal level by telling that charming, nostalgic little story about riding the Wild Mouse with my father (Eeeewwww. That sounded even worse than it was.) misfired. They'd heard the story a hundred times. Once for every time we've ridden the damn ride ourselves. It is why we get the astonishly expensive picture printed in the first place. Because I've told them how she went on the ride with my Dad when they were dating despite being scared to death. (And how he ran down the dark, unlit boardwalk without her after getting out of the midnight showing of Psycho.) My Dad, the prankster. It amazes me she didn't scratch out at least one eye while they were still dating.
But Mom thinks she's got me beat. She'll show me! Two can play this game. She will have a forced relationship with my children without me, darn it! And their cat, too!
She's obviously made more of this than anyone else in the supposed pissing contest. Pat ended up using the letter as a coaster and Hil wrapped her gum in the return address part of the envelope. And it isn't like anyone asked for a piece of stationary so they could write a lovely return note and strike up a pen pal relationship with Estelle or Bill. It was really a non-event. One more tiny, imperceptible gesture from someone who has never bothered to be present in their lives before and who can't make up for lost time now. Especially with all the space and time in between.
And why would they bother to be open hearted? She blows in for a few days a year, doesn't make them a priority, acts like a two-year old when there is a conflict and yells at them for things she thinks it will help me to yell at them for. She has no idea who they are, their friends names, their interests, their very personalities. She's like a loud, intrusive, obnoxious exchange student who makes their mother swear under her breath and drink wine from Big Gulp cups.
But let Estelle think she's gotten to me this time. I could not be bothered to even raise an eyebrow over this. She has two more opportunities to put on a show between now and her birthday which I will creatively underacknowledge. First is Pat's birthday, and then Hil's. The expectations for Hil's 13th are high...It will be interesting to see how much hype Estelle feels she has to churn out to buy my children's hearts. Frankly, it's sad that she thinks it can be done.
Monday, June 4, 2012
It Says Here, In Fine Print
I gather the Letter Bomb and place it with the other junk mail on the dining room table. It is not imminently important. I greet the kids and whilst smothering each with millions of kisses, I mention the mail from Grandmomstella...and the fact that backpacks need to be put away, shoes need to find homes, I need sandwich containers and thermoses from lunch, and dinner is in 20 minutes, so wrap up the XBox contest and shower now if you want to be done before dinner.
The envelope sits untouched by human hands for several hours. Moved out of the way so Hil can set the table. Moved again so Trinket can sit in her usual Orange Cat Watching Spot. Moved again so Hil could dust and earn allowance sufficient to buy the makeup she's been coveting on some new super-reduced-pricing website.
Finally, when I have done all the chores I had before me, and have paid some bills, and watched Glee with Hil, and listened to her tell the tale of some cute boy that looked at her in some telling way that day, and lamely repeated Spanish phrases about food and common courtesies so Pat might pass his quiz, I ascend the stairs to take a shower and shave my legs so I could even think about wearing a skirt the next day without being mistaken for Sasquatch.
Before I do I place the envelope next to Hil on the end table, anchoring it with a couple of of left over Easter candies she'd decided upon for a treat, and remind her that she's got mail. I am pretty sure I hear her opening it as I turn on the landing.
I return to the living room some time later, shaven and squeaky clean and lotioned to the hilt, and see that the envelope is open. It had contained a letter, not a card, and I can see neat even lines of Estelle's just-this-side-of-crazy handwriting all across the page, nary a space in sight.
I casually ask Hil about the letter. She is nonplussed. "Oh, she says thanks for the card and likes the picture and something about 1959. I don't know. I don't really read cursive. Not Grandmomstella's cursive."
What a riot. Most kids would be thrilled to get mail of any kind (I was thrilled at Hil's age to get my official Smokey the Bear Fan Club letter, for Chrissake) but this letter doesn't rate.
I ask if I can read it. Hil waves me off as if to say, " Read it. Burn it. Line a birdcage. What-ev."
Her synopsis was dead on. Only Estelle is trying very hard in this letter to appeal to my children. Come across as the sweet grandmotherly type. Mentions their beloved grandfather (from whom she was divorced, mind you) in a kindly way.
Call me a conspiracy theorist, but Estelle is up to something.
The envelope sits untouched by human hands for several hours. Moved out of the way so Hil can set the table. Moved again so Trinket can sit in her usual Orange Cat Watching Spot. Moved again so Hil could dust and earn allowance sufficient to buy the makeup she's been coveting on some new super-reduced-pricing website.
Finally, when I have done all the chores I had before me, and have paid some bills, and watched Glee with Hil, and listened to her tell the tale of some cute boy that looked at her in some telling way that day, and lamely repeated Spanish phrases about food and common courtesies so Pat might pass his quiz, I ascend the stairs to take a shower and shave my legs so I could even think about wearing a skirt the next day without being mistaken for Sasquatch.
Before I do I place the envelope next to Hil on the end table, anchoring it with a couple of of left over Easter candies she'd decided upon for a treat, and remind her that she's got mail. I am pretty sure I hear her opening it as I turn on the landing.
I return to the living room some time later, shaven and squeaky clean and lotioned to the hilt, and see that the envelope is open. It had contained a letter, not a card, and I can see neat even lines of Estelle's just-this-side-of-crazy handwriting all across the page, nary a space in sight.
I casually ask Hil about the letter. She is nonplussed. "Oh, she says thanks for the card and likes the picture and something about 1959. I don't know. I don't really read cursive. Not Grandmomstella's cursive."
What a riot. Most kids would be thrilled to get mail of any kind (I was thrilled at Hil's age to get my official Smokey the Bear Fan Club letter, for Chrissake) but this letter doesn't rate.
I ask if I can read it. Hil waves me off as if to say, " Read it. Burn it. Line a birdcage. What-ev."
Her synopsis was dead on. Only Estelle is trying very hard in this letter to appeal to my children. Come across as the sweet grandmotherly type. Mentions their beloved grandfather (from whom she was divorced, mind you) in a kindly way.
Call me a conspiracy theorist, but Estelle is up to something.
Friday, June 1, 2012
No She Di-in't
The night before my birthday, I hook up with a few of The Gals at an event sponsored by Skinnygirl Cocktails. I 've invented a few of them myself, but the brand makes it a breeze. We meet after work and it is clearly a ladies night out.
We meet some perfect strangers who have a birthday girl among their crowd and are instant friends. Taking pictures, swapping numbers, sharing funny stories. This one has a new car she is convinced she has no real control over and it drives itself. That one's son got a two day suspension for school for farting in class. She was so mad she went to see the principal and nearly gave herself a hernia trying to let one rip during the meeting.
And then, bored with the ladies night and jonesing for food that didn't scream "Skinny girl trying to remain skinny" by containing nothing with more than a handful of calories, we jump in a cab (that Kate scams from someone who had clearly been waiting for it...) and head to the latest, greatest beer hall.
Oh. What. Fun.
Long tables like at Oktoberfest. A thousand decent beers on tap and none of them end in the word "lite." Fire pits. Exposed brick. Trees. Awesome drunken food like potato pancakes and french fries and soft pretzels. And the socialness of having to sit at long tables with friends you haven't met yet. We traipse home in the wee hours. I dread the next day.
But the day arrives. I am astonishingly old and feel it.
It is a work day which is a bummer, but I am getting my kiddos back after work, so that is a bonus.
Scott and the kids and I will be together at Scott's on Saturday, and Charlotte and Jack will be coming over for a drink and a visit after seeing their sons off to prom. I have a lot to look forward to.
Facebook greetings abound. Lots of love from lots of familiar places. Sweet calls and messages from Scott. Texts from my kids. Cards from tons of people.
But not Mom. No card. No call. Nothing.
No. She is going to win this pissing contest and not remember the day I came squeezing out of her womb into the world. What-ev.
Hil asks if I'd heard from her. Brightly, I say, "No, sweetie. No biggie, so don't worry." She rolls her eyes. What-ev.
A friend at work asks if Estelle extended an olive branch. I tell her no. But truly, it is okay. If this is what she wants, I can't say I don't welcome it. A life without her is one that ceases to be fraught with the potential for violent confrontational conflict over tons of nothingness. Who needs it?
And then on Monday, there is a card-sized envelope in the mail with her handwriting crazily scrawled across it. Uh-oh. No she di-in't.
I flip it over. It is addressed to Hil and Pat.
WTF?
We meet some perfect strangers who have a birthday girl among their crowd and are instant friends. Taking pictures, swapping numbers, sharing funny stories. This one has a new car she is convinced she has no real control over and it drives itself. That one's son got a two day suspension for school for farting in class. She was so mad she went to see the principal and nearly gave herself a hernia trying to let one rip during the meeting.
And then, bored with the ladies night and jonesing for food that didn't scream "Skinny girl trying to remain skinny" by containing nothing with more than a handful of calories, we jump in a cab (that Kate scams from someone who had clearly been waiting for it...) and head to the latest, greatest beer hall.
Oh. What. Fun.
Long tables like at Oktoberfest. A thousand decent beers on tap and none of them end in the word "lite." Fire pits. Exposed brick. Trees. Awesome drunken food like potato pancakes and french fries and soft pretzels. And the socialness of having to sit at long tables with friends you haven't met yet. We traipse home in the wee hours. I dread the next day.
But the day arrives. I am astonishingly old and feel it.
It is a work day which is a bummer, but I am getting my kiddos back after work, so that is a bonus.
Scott and the kids and I will be together at Scott's on Saturday, and Charlotte and Jack will be coming over for a drink and a visit after seeing their sons off to prom. I have a lot to look forward to.
Facebook greetings abound. Lots of love from lots of familiar places. Sweet calls and messages from Scott. Texts from my kids. Cards from tons of people.
But not Mom. No card. No call. Nothing.
No. She is going to win this pissing contest and not remember the day I came squeezing out of her womb into the world. What-ev.
Hil asks if I'd heard from her. Brightly, I say, "No, sweetie. No biggie, so don't worry." She rolls her eyes. What-ev.
A friend at work asks if Estelle extended an olive branch. I tell her no. But truly, it is okay. If this is what she wants, I can't say I don't welcome it. A life without her is one that ceases to be fraught with the potential for violent confrontational conflict over tons of nothingness. Who needs it?
And then on Monday, there is a card-sized envelope in the mail with her handwriting crazily scrawled across it. Uh-oh. No she di-in't.
I flip it over. It is addressed to Hil and Pat.
WTF?
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