But, as a grownup, I know that I must adjust to the idea of doing nothing. Let some twisted sicko get the last laugh. At least I am on this side of the grass.
But what is remarkable to me, in my morbidly curious observation of the Guest Book, is how little activity there is. Besides the two moronic, repetitive notes from Sheila, and the one from Moira, and the mysterious three little words, there is little else. Five other passages. With the exception of one, they are from neighborhood friends of the family. Not one note from a best friend, a co-worker, a neighbor from the neighborhood where he and Sandy had a home with their children, a kid J. coached, friends of the girls. Nothing.
The one exception was from a classmate and family friend, presumably from the grade school at the end of the block. And what he wrote surprised me. He mentioned what a lovely service it was and what a nice touch it was to have handed out Milky Way bars to the people who came to pay their respects. The writer noted J.'s life long love of Milky Ways and how Halloween always reminds him of holidays with the Cullens.
Say what?
J. loved Milky Ways? Who knew? Booze, yes. Cigarettes, certainly. Meatloaf, most definitely. But I don't think I ever observed him eat a Milky Way bar. Ever.
Was this clown making this crap up, assuming that the candy bar had some significance when really, Sheila had discovered that her diabetic mother had been hoarding them and she thought this was a good way to get rid of them? Or had I been completely asleep at the wheel and never noticed J.'s preference for the darn things? It's not like he ever bought them or rifled through Moira's Halloween loot bag or Easter basket to find them. I'll never know.
And I realize, I'll never care. What was, was. And it ceased to be. And so did its relevance.
Already, his passing has become old news. As I come across contact information of shared acquaintances, I only briefly think, "I wonder if they know?" and then dismiss the thought and any notion of being the one to tell them. If J. had run them out of his life too, then they would care even less than I do. And they would not get a call from his daughters.
So my life with J. has come full circle as only my iPod can explain. J. has passed from "Along Comes Mary" (The Association) to "The Boy Is Mine" (Brandy and Monica) to "Beautiful Liar" (Beyonce and Shakira) to "Bills, Bills, Bills" (Destiny's Child) to "All You Ever Do Is Bring Me Down" (The Mavericks) to "Common Disaster" (Cowboy Junkies) to "Cry" (Faith Hill) to "Misery" (Maroon 5) "What Have I Done to Deserve This?" (Petshop Boys) to "Wake Up Call" (Maroon 5) to "Strong Enough" (Cher) to "She's Going" (English Beat) to "She's Not There" (The Zombies) to "My Heart Belongs to Me" (The Barbara) to "Over You" (Daughtry) to "Someone That I Used to Love" (Natalie Cole) to "Somebody That I Used to Know" (Gotye) to "Life After You" (Daughtry) to "Bury My Lovely" (October Project). And finally, to "Just Another Day" (John Secada)
Quite a playlist. I may just delete them all. Start over. Just like I did two years ago.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
Be Our Guest
And as word spreads about J. and people reach out, I feel like a heel. They are all so kind. Acting like I must be sad. I feel like a villain when all I can truthfully say is that I am sad for the girls. I am not devastated or mournful. I feel no sense of loss. I feel nothing really, except a little wigged out that someone I dated is dead. That's a new experience. Doesn't happen a lot in your twenties. I guess now that I am crowding in on 50 I should consider the potential for a repeat.
Charlotte texts me that she saw the obituary (in the Irish Comics). Not a recent picture. No kidding. That would have just been gruesome. Another friend texts me the link to the online obit and asks if I am going.
I reply, "No. No need to go."
The day of the service itself passes without so much as a mental note to myself except to heave a sigh of relief toward the end of the day that surely that hideous tattoo would be six feet under by now.
Later, I go to text my friend about getting our daughters together, and notice the link again. Out of truly morbid curiosity, I take a look at the online obituary.
The picture is indeed old. Back from his gainfully employed days when he'd written an article on annuities or some such snoozefest topic. Easily 15 years and 40 pounds ago.
The obit is all the usual survived-by crap. Nothing remarkable. Saying much more would have cost money.
I click on the Guestbook.
Sheila has written two nearly unintelligible sappy notes as though she were speaking directly to him. One is exactly the same as the other except it has an additional thought...one that mentions a great neice or nephew on the way. I suppose Chuck and Em are procreating. More family weirdness to come. Glad I won't have the front row seats I had for the wedding planning. I am sure the potential for drama has not been curtailed in any way. Betcha they name the baby J. Or Spiderman.
Moira writes something sweet. Nothing from Abby.
And then there is an anonymous one. No name mentioned. No city identified.
It simply says, "I love you..."
And I am fuming. I don't know who wrote it and don't care. But the fact that it is anonymous probably has everyone assuming that it was submitted by me.
As if!
Did someone put that out there so people would think that I wrote it? Did someone write it assuming I would see it and be jealous? (I can't even begin to comment on how ridiculous that idea is!)
Did Abby write it and not want anyone to know?
Normal people don't sign the guest book and conceal their identities! Someone is up to something! My conspiracy theorist self is in overdrive.
I love you? That is the last thing I want anyone to think I wrote. It takes all my willpower not to write a guest book entry of my own.
I could take the high road (almost) and send my condolensces to Moira and Abby only, and thumb my nose at the family without actually doing so.
Or I could take a wholly unique approach and write something that indicates in no uncertain or nebulous terms that I do not love him. Sight the numerous indiscretions, faults, and other heinous attributes that I will not be missing when he takes his pathetic little self to the Hereafter.
I am filled with gall, because really, I can do nothing.
And doing nothing is not my style.
Charlotte texts me that she saw the obituary (in the Irish Comics). Not a recent picture. No kidding. That would have just been gruesome. Another friend texts me the link to the online obit and asks if I am going.
I reply, "No. No need to go."
The day of the service itself passes without so much as a mental note to myself except to heave a sigh of relief toward the end of the day that surely that hideous tattoo would be six feet under by now.
Later, I go to text my friend about getting our daughters together, and notice the link again. Out of truly morbid curiosity, I take a look at the online obituary.
The picture is indeed old. Back from his gainfully employed days when he'd written an article on annuities or some such snoozefest topic. Easily 15 years and 40 pounds ago.
The obit is all the usual survived-by crap. Nothing remarkable. Saying much more would have cost money.
I click on the Guestbook.
Sheila has written two nearly unintelligible sappy notes as though she were speaking directly to him. One is exactly the same as the other except it has an additional thought...one that mentions a great neice or nephew on the way. I suppose Chuck and Em are procreating. More family weirdness to come. Glad I won't have the front row seats I had for the wedding planning. I am sure the potential for drama has not been curtailed in any way. Betcha they name the baby J. Or Spiderman.
Moira writes something sweet. Nothing from Abby.
And then there is an anonymous one. No name mentioned. No city identified.
It simply says, "I love you..."
And I am fuming. I don't know who wrote it and don't care. But the fact that it is anonymous probably has everyone assuming that it was submitted by me.
As if!
Did someone put that out there so people would think that I wrote it? Did someone write it assuming I would see it and be jealous? (I can't even begin to comment on how ridiculous that idea is!)
Did Abby write it and not want anyone to know?
Normal people don't sign the guest book and conceal their identities! Someone is up to something! My conspiracy theorist self is in overdrive.
I love you? That is the last thing I want anyone to think I wrote. It takes all my willpower not to write a guest book entry of my own.
I could take the high road (almost) and send my condolensces to Moira and Abby only, and thumb my nose at the family without actually doing so.
Or I could take a wholly unique approach and write something that indicates in no uncertain or nebulous terms that I do not love him. Sight the numerous indiscretions, faults, and other heinous attributes that I will not be missing when he takes his pathetic little self to the Hereafter.
I am filled with gall, because really, I can do nothing.
And doing nothing is not my style.
Friday, July 27, 2012
File That
I hang up and text Charlotte. Give her a few bulleted tidbits of information. She writes back that they are all insane. I guess we’ve known that for a while.
I think about J.’s girls and my heart goes out to them. So young to lose a parent. So young to have had to come to the realizations that they’ve reached. Much as I did in my marriage to Lars, they’ve had to realize that much of the demise of the person they loved was by his own hand. And on some level, he chose his vices over them, just as Lars had chosen his over me and our children. Very painful realizations, and piled higher and deeper by his death.
I am hopeful for their sake that eventually they remember his good qualities and salvage fond memories. I am praying that they make peace with all that has happened. There is much to try to forget.
And all of this hoping and praying has me thinking of my own Dad. This and a Neil Diamond song.
My swim club has a funny little ritual, presumably courtesy of the college-aged lifeguards. They think it is a total riot to turn off the classic rock station that pipes throughout the grounds when it is time for Adult Swim. At that time, they play such Old Timer classics as Barry Manilow, Elvis, Anne Murray, and Neil Diamond. And an occasional Englebert Humperdink. Like my parents are in the pool.
So as I sit with my fanny in a beach chair on Sunday, reading a novel and letting the warmth of the sun soothe me, here comes Neil Diamond singing sincerely as ever about the story of his life.
And I am transported once again to my childhood. This song always made me sad. It is a lovely song. A little sappy for my tastes, but a nice sentiment.
And I always thought that it must be the way my Dad felt when my parents’ marriage ended. It was as though his life did too.
Sure he was a trooper…jumped in and grabbed the reigns and made life in our house as close to what it should have been as he could.
But his personal life? There wasn’t one. He very rarely dated. His occasional golf outings included my brother (no fun there) He had no hobbies. He sold his football season tickets. He worked, ate, slept, read the paper, mowed the lawn.
Had his life in his estimation ended when my mother left? The touch of sadness he seemed to always carry with him suggested to my melodramatic teenaged self that maybe it had. His loneliness was hard to watch. It probably had very little to do with Estelle herself, but at the age of 15, that was the way I called it.
Years later, when we laid him to rest, it was perhaps my mother who grieved the most. Over time they’d become friends. Looked out for one another. Spoke to one another regularly. For no reason. Her loss was so genuine. Mom drove across the famous colonies that divide us to attend his funeral, connect with his old friends, talk fondly about him.
And by contrast, I am voluntarily skipping J.’s funeral. Nothing compels me to attend. It barely registers that it has been planned. I have no heartwarming stories to tell anymore. I have no kind words to say. I’d prefer not to forfeit a PTO day for something that seems so meaningless now. I have no need to pay my respects. Outside of Abby and Moira and Sandy, I have no respects to pay. I have to agree with my old friend who once told me that the opposite of love is not hatred. It is indifference.
I am a little shocked at my indifference. What a long way I've come since J. first went careening around the bend. But to be truthful to myself, I must file this under Mama Don’t Give A Damn.
I think about J.’s girls and my heart goes out to them. So young to lose a parent. So young to have had to come to the realizations that they’ve reached. Much as I did in my marriage to Lars, they’ve had to realize that much of the demise of the person they loved was by his own hand. And on some level, he chose his vices over them, just as Lars had chosen his over me and our children. Very painful realizations, and piled higher and deeper by his death.
I am hopeful for their sake that eventually they remember his good qualities and salvage fond memories. I am praying that they make peace with all that has happened. There is much to try to forget.
And all of this hoping and praying has me thinking of my own Dad. This and a Neil Diamond song.
My swim club has a funny little ritual, presumably courtesy of the college-aged lifeguards. They think it is a total riot to turn off the classic rock station that pipes throughout the grounds when it is time for Adult Swim. At that time, they play such Old Timer classics as Barry Manilow, Elvis, Anne Murray, and Neil Diamond. And an occasional Englebert Humperdink. Like my parents are in the pool.
So as I sit with my fanny in a beach chair on Sunday, reading a novel and letting the warmth of the sun soothe me, here comes Neil Diamond singing sincerely as ever about the story of his life.
And I am transported once again to my childhood. This song always made me sad. It is a lovely song. A little sappy for my tastes, but a nice sentiment.
And I always thought that it must be the way my Dad felt when my parents’ marriage ended. It was as though his life did too.
Sure he was a trooper…jumped in and grabbed the reigns and made life in our house as close to what it should have been as he could.
But his personal life? There wasn’t one. He very rarely dated. His occasional golf outings included my brother (no fun there) He had no hobbies. He sold his football season tickets. He worked, ate, slept, read the paper, mowed the lawn.
Had his life in his estimation ended when my mother left? The touch of sadness he seemed to always carry with him suggested to my melodramatic teenaged self that maybe it had. His loneliness was hard to watch. It probably had very little to do with Estelle herself, but at the age of 15, that was the way I called it.
Years later, when we laid him to rest, it was perhaps my mother who grieved the most. Over time they’d become friends. Looked out for one another. Spoke to one another regularly. For no reason. Her loss was so genuine. Mom drove across the famous colonies that divide us to attend his funeral, connect with his old friends, talk fondly about him.
And by contrast, I am voluntarily skipping J.’s funeral. Nothing compels me to attend. It barely registers that it has been planned. I have no heartwarming stories to tell anymore. I have no kind words to say. I’d prefer not to forfeit a PTO day for something that seems so meaningless now. I have no need to pay my respects. Outside of Abby and Moira and Sandy, I have no respects to pay. I have to agree with my old friend who once told me that the opposite of love is not hatred. It is indifference.
I am a little shocked at my indifference. What a long way I've come since J. first went careening around the bend. But to be truthful to myself, I must file this under Mama Don’t Give A Damn.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Grow the Roses of Success
Sandy is howling at my Sheila stories, epecially when I mimic her. And my retelling of words I've exchanged with Endorra. It is as though I said them for us both.
I tell her about having nearly literally run into Endorra at the store while buying my waffle iron and her bizarre behavior. She asks if I'd seen anyone else. I tell her it crossed my mind that I might bump into J. buying Boys 8-12 pants, or Sheila buying Big Girl pants to accommodate her ever-expanding epic behind, but never ran into anyone other than Endorra, who acted like she was on an outing from the group home.
It is nice to be able to talk to someone about these experiences. Sandy is still amazed at the toxicity and the self-righteousness.
And then she cries out unexpectedly. "Ooohhh! I almost forgot to tell you!"
I am enthralled. Barely breathing.
"They actually had the nerve to call me about paying for J.'s funeral!"
An idiot says what?
"Shut the front door!" I say brightly. "You did tell them to go fly a kite, didn't you?"
"Well not right away," she admits. "They caught me so off guard. I told them I would think about it."
"I hope you haven't given it too much thought, " I say. "What basis could they possibly have for even thinking about approaching you?"
"Well, probably mostly becasue they know I have the means...but they said it is because I am Abby and Moira's mother. Technically, I'd be paying their share."
Their share? Who did the math on that?
"My next call is to them. I intend to tell them that I respectfully decline. I was their mother all along when they were laying down the rules. Maybe they should have given that a little thought before now."
Seriously. They should thought about a lot of things well before we reached the point of no return. All I can say is, "You go, girl. I'll let you know if I get a call." Desperate people do desperate things.
Before we get off the phone we talk about having the drink we talked about having a year ago. We discuss logistics. We commit to finding time. She laughs that she is dying to meet the woman who was smart enough not to marry J. Such a long distance we've come.
I tell her about having nearly literally run into Endorra at the store while buying my waffle iron and her bizarre behavior. She asks if I'd seen anyone else. I tell her it crossed my mind that I might bump into J. buying Boys 8-12 pants, or Sheila buying Big Girl pants to accommodate her ever-expanding epic behind, but never ran into anyone other than Endorra, who acted like she was on an outing from the group home.
It is nice to be able to talk to someone about these experiences. Sandy is still amazed at the toxicity and the self-righteousness.
And then she cries out unexpectedly. "Ooohhh! I almost forgot to tell you!"
I am enthralled. Barely breathing.
"They actually had the nerve to call me about paying for J.'s funeral!"
An idiot says what?
"Shut the front door!" I say brightly. "You did tell them to go fly a kite, didn't you?"
"Well not right away," she admits. "They caught me so off guard. I told them I would think about it."
"I hope you haven't given it too much thought, " I say. "What basis could they possibly have for even thinking about approaching you?"
"Well, probably mostly becasue they know I have the means...but they said it is because I am Abby and Moira's mother. Technically, I'd be paying their share."
Their share? Who did the math on that?
"My next call is to them. I intend to tell them that I respectfully decline. I was their mother all along when they were laying down the rules. Maybe they should have given that a little thought before now."
Seriously. They should thought about a lot of things well before we reached the point of no return. All I can say is, "You go, girl. I'll let you know if I get a call." Desperate people do desperate things.
Before we get off the phone we talk about having the drink we talked about having a year ago. We discuss logistics. We commit to finding time. She laughs that she is dying to meet the woman who was smart enough not to marry J. Such a long distance we've come.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
From the Ashes of Disaster
Sandy takes a deep breath. Dives into the horrors of the last few weeks, while J. was dying. Weeks of hospitalization. A hospital in the city nearly an hour away. Endorra and Sheila prohibiting her from going to the hospital with the girls, even to comfort them as their father lay dying. And now, she can not be with them when they view his body one last time.
Who makes rules like this? Were they so interested in showing Sandy who is boss that they would deprive the girls of their mother's comfort and support in their worry and then their loss?
I can't believe they could still hate her when I had gone and made a yeoman's effort at trumping any offense she may have committed.
"Oh they still hate me. But they may hate you more."
I tell her of the words I exchanged with Sheila when months after I'd sent J. packing, he came into my house. Hacked into my computer and phone records. Called unfamiliar numbers. (Like my assistant!) Denied the whole thing. All after showing up at Girls Weekend, which alone is punishable by castration, frankly.
She retorted, as only the woefully inexperienced arguers will, with some lame statement that his life was in ruins because I welshed on the deal and didn't marry him.
Oh right. That would have solved everything.
But to continue, I mentioned that I'd called her after summoning the police, who were on the way at that very moment. I let her know that despite what he'd told them, I was not a part of his pathetic little life anymore. He was their cross to bear. And make no mistake: If he trespasses on my property I will have him arrested and press charges. He's crazy and has no boundaries. And has a bizarre life-sized tattoo of my face on his leg to prove it.
"Oh. I'd forgotten about the tattoo."
Some of us find it easier to forget than others, evidently.
I check the bathroom door for eavesdroppers and tell her about my panic attack. That the very people who will bury him and have been told to hurl me out of the service on my ass will get a nice view of the ridiculous tattoo on his scrawny leg before he and it are forever laid to rest.
And suddenly we are laughing like old friends.
Who makes rules like this? Were they so interested in showing Sandy who is boss that they would deprive the girls of their mother's comfort and support in their worry and then their loss?
I can't believe they could still hate her when I had gone and made a yeoman's effort at trumping any offense she may have committed.
"Oh they still hate me. But they may hate you more."
I tell her of the words I exchanged with Sheila when months after I'd sent J. packing, he came into my house. Hacked into my computer and phone records. Called unfamiliar numbers. (Like my assistant!) Denied the whole thing. All after showing up at Girls Weekend, which alone is punishable by castration, frankly.
She retorted, as only the woefully inexperienced arguers will, with some lame statement that his life was in ruins because I welshed on the deal and didn't marry him.
Oh right. That would have solved everything.
But to continue, I mentioned that I'd called her after summoning the police, who were on the way at that very moment. I let her know that despite what he'd told them, I was not a part of his pathetic little life anymore. He was their cross to bear. And make no mistake: If he trespasses on my property I will have him arrested and press charges. He's crazy and has no boundaries. And has a bizarre life-sized tattoo of my face on his leg to prove it.
"Oh. I'd forgotten about the tattoo."
Some of us find it easier to forget than others, evidently.
I check the bathroom door for eavesdroppers and tell her about my panic attack. That the very people who will bury him and have been told to hurl me out of the service on my ass will get a nice view of the ridiculous tattoo on his scrawny leg before he and it are forever laid to rest.
And suddenly we are laughing like old friends.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
The Shot Heard Round the Globe
I fill Scott in on more details, inclusive of the horror about the tattoo. Thankfully, he finds that to be a riot. The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. And besides, if there is a buzz about it at the funeral luncheon, that will just send Endorra sailing over the edge. So be it.
The kids and I wake early on Saturday and get on the road to Scott's. First, we sign, seal and post a card to Sandy and the girls. I've told the kids. They are sorry for the girls, pity J., but are otherwise nonplussed. Well, maybe a little self righteous about being right about J. slowly killing himself with his many secret vices.
After a day on the beach and boardwalk, we come home. Pat and Scott try out Pat's new Airsoft rifle Scott got him for his birthday and then test out some of Scott's old BB guns. Tin cans are flying all over the yard when my phone rings. I see that it is Sandy and while I wonder if I should answer it, it goes to voicemail. I immediately retrieve the message in private.
She sounds all business. Like she's mad at something. She'd like me to call her back. I have no idea why. Beads of sweat are forming on my forehead as I tell Scott. He tells me to go into the bedroom and shut the door so I can give the call my full attention. Sounds like it needs it.
I call Sandy back and make a friendly excuse when she immediately answers with "Hello, Liza." I tell her I was just walking in the door and missed her call and ask what is happening.
She starts with "Oh my. Where to start. I can't begin to tell you the craziness..."
I interrupt. "Oh, Sandy. I know exactly what you are talking about. That family is like a circus without a tent under the best of circumstances. It must be full on chaos with Endorra and Sheila at the wheel."
"Oh so you know!" She is obviously gushing with relief to not have to explain J.'s family dysfunction to me. As if she wondered if I'd only realized he was insane and not the whole lot of them as well.
Her voice sounds almost joyful. I am wondering why that comes as such a relief to her right now. And then she tells me.
"Liza, my girls adore you, and you have been so wonderful to them. And if you were planning on paying your respects to them in any way, please, please don't make it Tuesday at the service."
It is fairly simple to read between the lines. "Sandy, I have no illusions about whether or not I am welcome at J."s funeral. I have never had any intention of attending. I don't need to be there to show your girls how I feel. I can do that any time you see fit. I am sure they understand that."
"They do," she says. "And they were worried that you'd extend yourself for them and walk right into Hell itself. I am so glad you had more sense than that."
I tell her that I am well aware of the toxic tumultuous nature of the family. I'd seen it from the vantage point of the eye of the storm.Endorra and Sheila will act like a pair of petulant, lunatic children. They will make a scene and carry on, and no one who is there to truly greive needs that. And the last thing your girls need is a lot of drama as they are trying to close this chapter in their lives and heal."
She sighs and laughs at the same time. "Oh thank God you get it! Liza, my girls have spent the last two days with those people and it has been nothing but hell for them. They have laid down rules and expectations and made this such an ordeal. There isn't a sane one in the bunch. Tuesday is going to be Hell on Earth."
"Endorra has made it very clear to the girls that you are not welcome and she will have you escorted from the service." Isn't that rich? She'd make a member of my family, in his official capacity, approach me and escort me from the church.
In my heart I know that she would say those words. In my heart I also wonder if she'd do it. A rational person would not make a scene unless provoked. But Endorra, since she would not have to do the deed herself, would relish in watching some dark suited family member of mine walk sheepishly over to me and very firmly tell me that I need to leave at once.
As if I'd give that fruit loop the satisfaction of getting to do that. Please. I can thumb my nose at her from the beach. Kiss my shapely derriere you bitter old hag!
"Sandy," I say. "I would prefer that she come to the realization that I am blissfully indifferent to J. and to her and her drama. I can't be bothered to take the day off. Wouldn't give her the chance to lash out. And yet I know in my heart that when I don't make an appearance, she will think I'm evil for not having paid my respects."
"Oh, Liza, you have no idea. There is so much more to tell you."
I go into Scott's bathroom and close the door. I hop up on the counter, fold my legs up Indian style and speak directly into the phone.
"Talk to me."
The kids and I wake early on Saturday and get on the road to Scott's. First, we sign, seal and post a card to Sandy and the girls. I've told the kids. They are sorry for the girls, pity J., but are otherwise nonplussed. Well, maybe a little self righteous about being right about J. slowly killing himself with his many secret vices.
After a day on the beach and boardwalk, we come home. Pat and Scott try out Pat's new Airsoft rifle Scott got him for his birthday and then test out some of Scott's old BB guns. Tin cans are flying all over the yard when my phone rings. I see that it is Sandy and while I wonder if I should answer it, it goes to voicemail. I immediately retrieve the message in private.
She sounds all business. Like she's mad at something. She'd like me to call her back. I have no idea why. Beads of sweat are forming on my forehead as I tell Scott. He tells me to go into the bedroom and shut the door so I can give the call my full attention. Sounds like it needs it.
I call Sandy back and make a friendly excuse when she immediately answers with "Hello, Liza." I tell her I was just walking in the door and missed her call and ask what is happening.
She starts with "Oh my. Where to start. I can't begin to tell you the craziness..."
I interrupt. "Oh, Sandy. I know exactly what you are talking about. That family is like a circus without a tent under the best of circumstances. It must be full on chaos with Endorra and Sheila at the wheel."
"Oh so you know!" She is obviously gushing with relief to not have to explain J.'s family dysfunction to me. As if she wondered if I'd only realized he was insane and not the whole lot of them as well.
Her voice sounds almost joyful. I am wondering why that comes as such a relief to her right now. And then she tells me.
"Liza, my girls adore you, and you have been so wonderful to them. And if you were planning on paying your respects to them in any way, please, please don't make it Tuesday at the service."
It is fairly simple to read between the lines. "Sandy, I have no illusions about whether or not I am welcome at J."s funeral. I have never had any intention of attending. I don't need to be there to show your girls how I feel. I can do that any time you see fit. I am sure they understand that."
"They do," she says. "And they were worried that you'd extend yourself for them and walk right into Hell itself. I am so glad you had more sense than that."
I tell her that I am well aware of the toxic tumultuous nature of the family. I'd seen it from the vantage point of the eye of the storm.Endorra and Sheila will act like a pair of petulant, lunatic children. They will make a scene and carry on, and no one who is there to truly greive needs that. And the last thing your girls need is a lot of drama as they are trying to close this chapter in their lives and heal."
She sighs and laughs at the same time. "Oh thank God you get it! Liza, my girls have spent the last two days with those people and it has been nothing but hell for them. They have laid down rules and expectations and made this such an ordeal. There isn't a sane one in the bunch. Tuesday is going to be Hell on Earth."
"Endorra has made it very clear to the girls that you are not welcome and she will have you escorted from the service." Isn't that rich? She'd make a member of my family, in his official capacity, approach me and escort me from the church.
In my heart I know that she would say those words. In my heart I also wonder if she'd do it. A rational person would not make a scene unless provoked. But Endorra, since she would not have to do the deed herself, would relish in watching some dark suited family member of mine walk sheepishly over to me and very firmly tell me that I need to leave at once.
As if I'd give that fruit loop the satisfaction of getting to do that. Please. I can thumb my nose at her from the beach. Kiss my shapely derriere you bitter old hag!
"Sandy," I say. "I would prefer that she come to the realization that I am blissfully indifferent to J. and to her and her drama. I can't be bothered to take the day off. Wouldn't give her the chance to lash out. And yet I know in my heart that when I don't make an appearance, she will think I'm evil for not having paid my respects."
"Oh, Liza, you have no idea. There is so much more to tell you."
I go into Scott's bathroom and close the door. I hop up on the counter, fold my legs up Indian style and speak directly into the phone.
"Talk to me."
Monday, July 23, 2012
Hello, Chaos, My Old Friend
In a flop sweat, I text Charlotte.
"OMG. My new everlasting horror. When our family funeral home people go to embalm him they will see that #@%&(*^ tattoo!"
"Oh my." she replies. "I'd forgotten all about that."
Yes, that. The freaking tattoo of my face, distorted as only a tattoo artist can do, on his scrawny pathetic, now rigor mortis inflicted leg.
I want to call my cousin and explain. I did no know he was getting the tattoo. I had dumped him prior to the tattoo. I specifically disavow the tattoo. If there had been legal recourse to have the tattoo forcibly removed, I would have spent every penny. Please do not think I was a party to it. It makes me as sick as it makes them. (But not nearly as amused I am sure.)
In the meantime, Kate has called. Ever the optimist. "Hey, I ran into Joy. She told me about J. Bummer. What are you doing this weekend?"
I call her back. I tell her that honestly I feel nothing even close to sorrow, just something that resembles pity. And empathy for his girls. But other than that, it was just one more event of the day.
And then I tell her about the tattoo. Each time I say the words in my head it gets funnier, because it is far stranger than fiction and no one would believe it if they had not lived through my initial horror.
Always on the bright side of the moon, Kate assures me that J.'s leg was probably all skinny and hangy and misshapen by now and no one would recognize my face anyway. They'd think it was his next girlfriend (had there been one) and that she must have had a wicked case of Bells Palsy.
I am relieved to hear that and laughing out loud about it now. This is what friends are for.
I think about sending J.'s older daughter a text when I arrive at home. I want to reach out to her. She is probably the one with the most mixed emotions, considering all the turmoil she'd had in her relationship with her father the last few years, as she asserted herself as the young woman she was becoming.
Later that night, she and I do exchange texts. And then I take to my e-mail account and send a message to Sandy.
"Hello, Sandy - I am sure this has been quite a time for you and the girls. I can't imagine your mixed emotions after all that has happened these last few years. And I am sure the girls are dealing with so many thoughts and feelings. Please know my thoughts and prayers are with you all. I have been in touch with both of the girls. They are so brave and so mature. Such gems. I am sure you will all be fine because of each other.
I would like to send a card to the girls from Hil and Pat and me. I don't believe I have your current address. If you are comfortable providing it, I will send it off this weekend.
Best of luck coping with the events of the next few days and weeks ahead. You will remain in my prayers.
Fondly, Liza
At 4 am, I receive a reply.
"Thank you, Liza. And I would like to have that drink we talked about. I will call and hopefully you will still be OK to chat.
The girls are good. What a ride it has been.
You are a lovely person and I would like to get to know you.
She includes her address. And I feel lucky to be excluded from what she is surely about to deal with. J.'s mother has long been the mayor of Crazy Town and his sister is her deputy. The insanity of a family funeral is hard to deal with under the best of circumstances. But this will be full on pandemonium. It is coming like the dawn, and the sun is setting on all the peace and tranquility Sandy and her girls had achieved.
"OMG. My new everlasting horror. When our family funeral home people go to embalm him they will see that #@%&(*^ tattoo!"
"Oh my." she replies. "I'd forgotten all about that."
Yes, that. The freaking tattoo of my face, distorted as only a tattoo artist can do, on his scrawny pathetic, now rigor mortis inflicted leg.
I want to call my cousin and explain. I did no know he was getting the tattoo. I had dumped him prior to the tattoo. I specifically disavow the tattoo. If there had been legal recourse to have the tattoo forcibly removed, I would have spent every penny. Please do not think I was a party to it. It makes me as sick as it makes them. (But not nearly as amused I am sure.)
In the meantime, Kate has called. Ever the optimist. "Hey, I ran into Joy. She told me about J. Bummer. What are you doing this weekend?"
I call her back. I tell her that honestly I feel nothing even close to sorrow, just something that resembles pity. And empathy for his girls. But other than that, it was just one more event of the day.
And then I tell her about the tattoo. Each time I say the words in my head it gets funnier, because it is far stranger than fiction and no one would believe it if they had not lived through my initial horror.
Always on the bright side of the moon, Kate assures me that J.'s leg was probably all skinny and hangy and misshapen by now and no one would recognize my face anyway. They'd think it was his next girlfriend (had there been one) and that she must have had a wicked case of Bells Palsy.
I am relieved to hear that and laughing out loud about it now. This is what friends are for.
I think about sending J.'s older daughter a text when I arrive at home. I want to reach out to her. She is probably the one with the most mixed emotions, considering all the turmoil she'd had in her relationship with her father the last few years, as she asserted herself as the young woman she was becoming.
Later that night, she and I do exchange texts. And then I take to my e-mail account and send a message to Sandy.
"Hello, Sandy - I am sure this has been quite a time for you and the girls. I can't imagine your mixed emotions after all that has happened these last few years. And I am sure the girls are dealing with so many thoughts and feelings. Please know my thoughts and prayers are with you all. I have been in touch with both of the girls. They are so brave and so mature. Such gems. I am sure you will all be fine because of each other.
I would like to send a card to the girls from Hil and Pat and me. I don't believe I have your current address. If you are comfortable providing it, I will send it off this weekend.
Best of luck coping with the events of the next few days and weeks ahead. You will remain in my prayers.
Fondly, Liza
At 4 am, I receive a reply.
"Thank you, Liza. And I would like to have that drink we talked about. I will call and hopefully you will still be OK to chat.
The girls are good. What a ride it has been.
You are a lovely person and I would like to get to know you.
She includes her address. And I feel lucky to be excluded from what she is surely about to deal with. J.'s mother has long been the mayor of Crazy Town and his sister is her deputy. The insanity of a family funeral is hard to deal with under the best of circumstances. But this will be full on pandemonium. It is coming like the dawn, and the sun is setting on all the peace and tranquility Sandy and her girls had achieved.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Tattoo You
My first call is to Charlotte. I am Holy-shit-J.-is-dead-ing for ten whole minutes and alternately answering her questions.
I tell her the whole story eventually. And then she asks, "So....what do we do?"
"And by that question, if you are asking do we go to the funeral, I can say with 100% certainty that I will not be going." For the following reasons:
I will not be welcome.
I will be publicly blamed and loudly and dramatically shamed for "doing this to J." and ruining his life by leaving him. As if staying wouldn't have ruined mine.
My cousin's funeral home is certain to handle the funeral. And when Endorra pitches her little hissy fit, it will be my own family asking me to leave out of respect for the grieving members of the deceased's family. I think I can spare us all the embarassment.
All of said hoopla will do nothing but further upset J.'s daughters who really don't need to be handed any more woes.
I will send a card to the girls and Sandy. The end.
I busy myself informing various and sundry friends who might be interested in the news. One of them, looking on the bright side, says, "Well there must be some part of you that is happy to know that full-sized, four-color tattoo of your face on his thigh will be going into the ground with him!"
True. There is some part of me that sees the silver lining in never having to worry about THAT resurfacing again unexpectedly. Like when I am on a date and J. gets a wild hair and ambushes us and drops trou to show me and my (soon-to-be-ex) boyfriend his devotion to me.
OMG. The tattoo.
I may spare my funeral home family the humiliation of having to eject me from the service, but I can not spare them the tattoo. Imagine. They unzip the body bag and begin to prep for burial, and there it is. "Hhhmmmm. What's this? She looks familiar. Why it almost looks like...yes, I believe it may be...yes, it is Liza!"
And there would be no Funeral Director Code of Ethics confidentiality applied here. No. This juicy little tidbit will spread like a brush fire in California.
They may as well just lay him out in his high school gym shorts.
I tell her the whole story eventually. And then she asks, "So....what do we do?"
"And by that question, if you are asking do we go to the funeral, I can say with 100% certainty that I will not be going." For the following reasons:
I will not be welcome.
I will be publicly blamed and loudly and dramatically shamed for "doing this to J." and ruining his life by leaving him. As if staying wouldn't have ruined mine.
My cousin's funeral home is certain to handle the funeral. And when Endorra pitches her little hissy fit, it will be my own family asking me to leave out of respect for the grieving members of the deceased's family. I think I can spare us all the embarassment.
All of said hoopla will do nothing but further upset J.'s daughters who really don't need to be handed any more woes.
I will send a card to the girls and Sandy. The end.
I busy myself informing various and sundry friends who might be interested in the news. One of them, looking on the bright side, says, "Well there must be some part of you that is happy to know that full-sized, four-color tattoo of your face on his thigh will be going into the ground with him!"
True. There is some part of me that sees the silver lining in never having to worry about THAT resurfacing again unexpectedly. Like when I am on a date and J. gets a wild hair and ambushes us and drops trou to show me and my (soon-to-be-ex) boyfriend his devotion to me.
OMG. The tattoo.
I may spare my funeral home family the humiliation of having to eject me from the service, but I can not spare them the tattoo. Imagine. They unzip the body bag and begin to prep for burial, and there it is. "Hhhmmmm. What's this? She looks familiar. Why it almost looks like...yes, I believe it may be...yes, it is Liza!"
And there would be no Funeral Director Code of Ethics confidentiality applied here. No. This juicy little tidbit will spread like a brush fire in California.
They may as well just lay him out in his high school gym shorts.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
John Doe
I can't say it was completely unexpected. Just a shock to hear about so abruptly. I actually thought this day would come sooner and had been waiting for nearly two years for it. Or the discovery that J. had blown his brains out on my porch so I'd have the joy of finding his carcass (with a little note pinned on what remains stating the he could not go on living a life without me. Goodbye cruel world.)
But I have to say, her words stunned me. She was very composed. So mature. Told me that she did not care what Endorra thought. I was important, and I needed to know.
But the Endorra comment hitched in my brain. J. evidently had only just bitten the dust and Endorra ws already making gag order proclamations so that I would not find out? Hello, obituaries....
We talked for a while. She told me all the horrid details. I told her she'd be in my prayers. I learned a little about her life since we'd last chatted. Evidently Sandy had filed for full custody and she'd been living just with Sandy for about a year. And was quite happy about it.
Considering the timing, I wondered if my e-mail to Sandy last Spring had hit its mark. I'd reached out quite assertively to inform her of some troubling observations that had been shared with me about J. I reached out, as one mother to another, on behalf of her child's safety. I said my only agenda was the child's interest. She could take the information and act on it or not, I just could not in good faith keep it to myself. I would hope if the shoe were on the other foot, someone would do similarly for me. (I wish the New Liza would get wise to this idea...) She could not say at that time what she'd do. I suppose I know now.
After a short time, we got off the phone promising to stay in touch. Keep each other in thoughts and prayers. I'd say hello to Hil and Pat for her. She'd say my hellos for me.
My heart breaks for her. Her loss. The mixed emotions. The pity. How worried she must have been. But other than that, I feel nothing.
There was a time, when J. and I had just broken up that I was so saddened and frantic that one day, he'd be sick, or need a friend, and because of all that had happened with me and his wicked mother and his moronic sister, that no one would call me. No one would tell me. And I'd not be there to help. It would break my heart.
And now, two years later, exactly that has happened.
And I feel nothing.
But I have to say, her words stunned me. She was very composed. So mature. Told me that she did not care what Endorra thought. I was important, and I needed to know.
But the Endorra comment hitched in my brain. J. evidently had only just bitten the dust and Endorra ws already making gag order proclamations so that I would not find out? Hello, obituaries....
We talked for a while. She told me all the horrid details. I told her she'd be in my prayers. I learned a little about her life since we'd last chatted. Evidently Sandy had filed for full custody and she'd been living just with Sandy for about a year. And was quite happy about it.
Considering the timing, I wondered if my e-mail to Sandy last Spring had hit its mark. I'd reached out quite assertively to inform her of some troubling observations that had been shared with me about J. I reached out, as one mother to another, on behalf of her child's safety. I said my only agenda was the child's interest. She could take the information and act on it or not, I just could not in good faith keep it to myself. I would hope if the shoe were on the other foot, someone would do similarly for me. (I wish the New Liza would get wise to this idea...) She could not say at that time what she'd do. I suppose I know now.
After a short time, we got off the phone promising to stay in touch. Keep each other in thoughts and prayers. I'd say hello to Hil and Pat for her. She'd say my hellos for me.
My heart breaks for her. Her loss. The mixed emotions. The pity. How worried she must have been. But other than that, I feel nothing.
There was a time, when J. and I had just broken up that I was so saddened and frantic that one day, he'd be sick, or need a friend, and because of all that had happened with me and his wicked mother and his moronic sister, that no one would call me. No one would tell me. And I'd not be there to help. It would break my heart.
And now, two years later, exactly that has happened.
And I feel nothing.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
A Voice from the Past
As I get into my car today to go home, I feel my purse vibrating ever so slightly. Given the time it is, I assume it is Scott and decide I will get situated in traffic before I call him. Fewer distractions.
And as I am doing the 27 point pre-flight safety check, I hear the familiar ding that tells me I have a voice mail message.
Not Scott. We do not message. Maybe Charlotte?
I peek at the phone.
No. It is J.'s youngest daughter.
WTF????
I think for a second as I orbit the parking garage levels.
Butt dial? Probably not. Unless she and her butt also left a message.
J. playing a trick, thinking I will pick up if it is his sweet young daughter calling? Possible.
Or maybe she is calling to tell me that fat old Endorra has bitten the proverbial dust and Daddy is so so sad and won't you please call him (he made me call you). Entirely plausible.
I wait until I am in no-brainer, car-could-drive-itself traffic and pick up the message.
She identifies herself by first and last name. Like I could ever forget the voice, or would ever take her out of my phone contacts. Of course I know it is her. I would know in an instant.
She simply and calmly asks that I please call her back. She needs to tell me something.
I run through a list of things I might need to know from J.'s 13 year old daughter.
She got her braces off?
She found my astonishingly expensive, kick ass Via Spiga shoes that I forfeited having left them in J.'s closet and never returning. I am sure he sold them on eBay for money to buy cigarettes.
Could it be that Endorra is really dead? As in ding-dong the witch is dead? And would I need to know? We haven't exactly been on speaking terms for nearly three years. Probably not news I can't live without.
Or something else that is of enormous pre-teen importance, like the time she called to say she liked the silver cheerleader earrings I'd given her for Christmas and she wanted to know where I'd gotten them so she could get a pair for a girl on her squad whose birthday party she was attending in a week. And oh by the way, I think you deserve better than my Dad, but don't tell anyone I said that.
I decide to just get it over with and call.
She answers in one ring. "Hi sweetie! I am sorry I missed your call. What's cooking?"
"Umm, hi, thanks for calling. I wanted to tell you, since you were, you know, important. And since everything that has happened, well, I wanted you to know, my Dad passed away yesterday."
Thank God my car knows the way home. Left up to me, I'd have driven right off the road at that moment.
And as I am doing the 27 point pre-flight safety check, I hear the familiar ding that tells me I have a voice mail message.
Not Scott. We do not message. Maybe Charlotte?
I peek at the phone.
No. It is J.'s youngest daughter.
WTF????
I think for a second as I orbit the parking garage levels.
Butt dial? Probably not. Unless she and her butt also left a message.
J. playing a trick, thinking I will pick up if it is his sweet young daughter calling? Possible.
Or maybe she is calling to tell me that fat old Endorra has bitten the proverbial dust and Daddy is so so sad and won't you please call him (he made me call you). Entirely plausible.
I wait until I am in no-brainer, car-could-drive-itself traffic and pick up the message.
She identifies herself by first and last name. Like I could ever forget the voice, or would ever take her out of my phone contacts. Of course I know it is her. I would know in an instant.
She simply and calmly asks that I please call her back. She needs to tell me something.
I run through a list of things I might need to know from J.'s 13 year old daughter.
She got her braces off?
She found my astonishingly expensive, kick ass Via Spiga shoes that I forfeited having left them in J.'s closet and never returning. I am sure he sold them on eBay for money to buy cigarettes.
Could it be that Endorra is really dead? As in ding-dong the witch is dead? And would I need to know? We haven't exactly been on speaking terms for nearly three years. Probably not news I can't live without.
Or something else that is of enormous pre-teen importance, like the time she called to say she liked the silver cheerleader earrings I'd given her for Christmas and she wanted to know where I'd gotten them so she could get a pair for a girl on her squad whose birthday party she was attending in a week. And oh by the way, I think you deserve better than my Dad, but don't tell anyone I said that.
I decide to just get it over with and call.
She answers in one ring. "Hi sweetie! I am sorry I missed your call. What's cooking?"
"Umm, hi, thanks for calling. I wanted to tell you, since you were, you know, important. And since everything that has happened, well, I wanted you to know, my Dad passed away yesterday."
Thank God my car knows the way home. Left up to me, I'd have driven right off the road at that moment.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
The Summer of Miley
Summer is well underway and my babysitter, Miley, is working out beautifully.
She's remarkable. For five hours every day there is no TV or video games. Yay for my electric bill. She plans activities. They talk. They play board games.
My kids sleep in. I have three hours of work under my belt before they roll out of bed.
Miley shows up at 11. Plans the day ahead. Makes sure no one eats ice cream or cake batter for lunch.
They've gone on picnics.
They've gone on hikes.
They've gone to museums and out on their bikes.
They've made a karaoke music video. Built a Lego Space Shuttle. Had a water balloon fight in the yard.
Here is what's not happened:
I have not gotten a telephone call that the toilet is overflowing.
I have not gotten a text from Hil complaining that Pat is eating a whole pizza himself.
I have not received a frantic IM with video that lets me know that Trinket is on the drapery rod and will not come down.
I have not come home to find the toilet clogged, the refrigerator standing open, or anyone covered in Band aids.
Have not had to pack a lunch, sign a permission slip, deal with a moronic camp counselor, wash a Camp T-Shirt at the last minute, stuff a backpack with a towel, lunch, goggles, flip flops, sunscreen, beach towel, bathingsuit, water bottle, and a snack.
I have also not had to worry.
Yet, I barely if ever see this dear girl. She is gone at 4 pm, having logged her hours. She sends me emails at night asking questions and seeking guidance about how to handle Pat's obstinacy when it comes to participating in things he's not fond of or not experienced with, or filling me in on a tearful discussion with Hil about her friend moving to another state. She is engaged in her role as babysitter. It is remarkable. I, at the same age, would have been a huge disappointment.
And for me, to know that this marvelous, sweet, caring girl is with my kids in the lair across town as well, is quite a comfort. A pair of eyes, not unlike my own, carefully evaluating the the kids' moods and demeanors as they navigate Lars Land.
I think I do not pay Miley enough. I must make plans to give her a bonus. And already, I am sad that the Summer of Miley is half over. The end of the season is near. Fall is looking at us impatiently. But it isn't about what's waiting on the other side. It's the climb. Sigh.
She's remarkable. For five hours every day there is no TV or video games. Yay for my electric bill. She plans activities. They talk. They play board games.
My kids sleep in. I have three hours of work under my belt before they roll out of bed.
Miley shows up at 11. Plans the day ahead. Makes sure no one eats ice cream or cake batter for lunch.
They've gone on picnics.
They've gone on hikes.
They've gone to museums and out on their bikes.
They've made a karaoke music video. Built a Lego Space Shuttle. Had a water balloon fight in the yard.
Here is what's not happened:
I have not gotten a telephone call that the toilet is overflowing.
I have not gotten a text from Hil complaining that Pat is eating a whole pizza himself.
I have not received a frantic IM with video that lets me know that Trinket is on the drapery rod and will not come down.
I have not come home to find the toilet clogged, the refrigerator standing open, or anyone covered in Band aids.
Have not had to pack a lunch, sign a permission slip, deal with a moronic camp counselor, wash a Camp T-Shirt at the last minute, stuff a backpack with a towel, lunch, goggles, flip flops, sunscreen, beach towel, bathingsuit, water bottle, and a snack.
I have also not had to worry.
Yet, I barely if ever see this dear girl. She is gone at 4 pm, having logged her hours. She sends me emails at night asking questions and seeking guidance about how to handle Pat's obstinacy when it comes to participating in things he's not fond of or not experienced with, or filling me in on a tearful discussion with Hil about her friend moving to another state. She is engaged in her role as babysitter. It is remarkable. I, at the same age, would have been a huge disappointment.
And for me, to know that this marvelous, sweet, caring girl is with my kids in the lair across town as well, is quite a comfort. A pair of eyes, not unlike my own, carefully evaluating the the kids' moods and demeanors as they navigate Lars Land.
I think I do not pay Miley enough. I must make plans to give her a bonus. And already, I am sad that the Summer of Miley is half over. The end of the season is near. Fall is looking at us impatiently. But it isn't about what's waiting on the other side. It's the climb. Sigh.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Beach Music
I can use a little levity on the weekend. Thank God there is Scott. When you need a little silliness, he's The Man.
I tell him when I see him that, true to form, Estelle has roared back to life and is clawing at all the people in her life hoping to draw blood once again. He is appropriately horrified at the Plain Jane comment. At the total inaccuracy as well as the over-the-top meanness of it.
But that is the end of that. No dwelling on idiotic comments made by others. We have a beach to get to.
It is a gorgeous day. The sky is clear. There is a nice breeze. The heat wave is cooking everything in sight but it is glorious to have my fanny in a beach chair, my toes deeply dug into the wet sand, and the surf lapping up just far enough to cool us.
Scott goes in the water and body surfs a bit. I have just lathered on half a bottle of ridiculously expensive sunscreen and decide not to wash it all off by swimming. Instead I check in on Facebook and brag about what a fabulous time I'm having (using extreme restraint and not gloating about my handsome half naked man and not posting a picture of him looking like a magazine ad for board shorts)
Scott rejoins me on the sand and we chat about what we might want to do later. What we want to do for dinner. What each of our kids is doing later. What we have at home in the fridge to drink.
And then it is time for a walk. And the silliness begins.
We walk south toward the beach where they teach surfing. Always a good laugh.
We count pairs of surgically enhanced boobs, the ones that don't lie down when the owner does.
We point out the whitest people on the beach and guess at the SPF they are wearing to prevent bursting into flame.
Scott mentions that his head is burning.
"Did you put sun screen on it?"
"Yes, but it still feels burny." Scott has a very short Sargent Carter flat top that has been pure white since his 30s.
"Do you want to wear my hat?" I ask, extending it to him. I wear my hat to prevent my color from fading to 50 Shades of Grey. "It is a girly hat but it's a hat," I say practically. It is a baseball hat. Lime green with a sailboat embroidered on the front. Not exactly a Tucson Rod and Gun Club hat.
Scott looks at the hat like I've just offered him a live opossum. "No. Thanks."
"You could put your hand on your head." And for a moment, he does.
"No, silly. Like this, so people think it's hair." I put my hand on his head with my fingers dangling like bangs on his forehead.
He laughs, and says what he really needs is just a yarmulke. I look around to see if there is an Orthodox Jew we might pilfer one from, but alas, it is the Sabbath and there isn't likely to be any today frollicking in the surf.
To mitigate the disappointment I mention that a yarmulke would never stay on Scott's head anyway. It would blow off in the sea breeze. And sadly, there isn't enough hair to even bobby pin it to. (Go-o-o-lly!)
He says,"Maybe they make one with a chin strap."
"Perfect! Better yet. You could just wear a birthday party hat with a little elastic strap"
"And I could hide things under it. Like my wallet."
The image of Scott, handsome and brown, sitting in his beach chair, reading Surf Magazine wearing a polka dot birthday hat makes me laugh out loud. Imagining him pulling it up a few inches to retrieve his wallet when he walks up to the ice cream man to get a Dixie Cup is even more hilarious. I imagine there would be a Chapstik under there too.
And just like that, Mom and her Plain Jane comment are like the spray of the surf. They rise up and startle you but in no time are gone and forgotten and leave little trace of themselves behind.
I tell him when I see him that, true to form, Estelle has roared back to life and is clawing at all the people in her life hoping to draw blood once again. He is appropriately horrified at the Plain Jane comment. At the total inaccuracy as well as the over-the-top meanness of it.
But that is the end of that. No dwelling on idiotic comments made by others. We have a beach to get to.
It is a gorgeous day. The sky is clear. There is a nice breeze. The heat wave is cooking everything in sight but it is glorious to have my fanny in a beach chair, my toes deeply dug into the wet sand, and the surf lapping up just far enough to cool us.
Scott goes in the water and body surfs a bit. I have just lathered on half a bottle of ridiculously expensive sunscreen and decide not to wash it all off by swimming. Instead I check in on Facebook and brag about what a fabulous time I'm having (using extreme restraint and not gloating about my handsome half naked man and not posting a picture of him looking like a magazine ad for board shorts)
Scott rejoins me on the sand and we chat about what we might want to do later. What we want to do for dinner. What each of our kids is doing later. What we have at home in the fridge to drink.
And then it is time for a walk. And the silliness begins.
We walk south toward the beach where they teach surfing. Always a good laugh.
We count pairs of surgically enhanced boobs, the ones that don't lie down when the owner does.
We point out the whitest people on the beach and guess at the SPF they are wearing to prevent bursting into flame.
Scott mentions that his head is burning.
"Did you put sun screen on it?"
"Yes, but it still feels burny." Scott has a very short Sargent Carter flat top that has been pure white since his 30s.
"Do you want to wear my hat?" I ask, extending it to him. I wear my hat to prevent my color from fading to 50 Shades of Grey. "It is a girly hat but it's a hat," I say practically. It is a baseball hat. Lime green with a sailboat embroidered on the front. Not exactly a Tucson Rod and Gun Club hat.
Scott looks at the hat like I've just offered him a live opossum. "No. Thanks."
"You could put your hand on your head." And for a moment, he does.
"No, silly. Like this, so people think it's hair." I put my hand on his head with my fingers dangling like bangs on his forehead.
He laughs, and says what he really needs is just a yarmulke. I look around to see if there is an Orthodox Jew we might pilfer one from, but alas, it is the Sabbath and there isn't likely to be any today frollicking in the surf.
To mitigate the disappointment I mention that a yarmulke would never stay on Scott's head anyway. It would blow off in the sea breeze. And sadly, there isn't enough hair to even bobby pin it to. (Go-o-o-lly!)
He says,"Maybe they make one with a chin strap."
"Perfect! Better yet. You could just wear a birthday party hat with a little elastic strap"
"And I could hide things under it. Like my wallet."
The image of Scott, handsome and brown, sitting in his beach chair, reading Surf Magazine wearing a polka dot birthday hat makes me laugh out loud. Imagining him pulling it up a few inches to retrieve his wallet when he walks up to the ice cream man to get a Dixie Cup is even more hilarious. I imagine there would be a Chapstik under there too.
And just like that, Mom and her Plain Jane comment are like the spray of the surf. They rise up and startle you but in no time are gone and forgotten and leave little trace of themselves behind.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Wash That Woman Right Outta My Hair
And naturally, one of the horrors of the whole exchange between Mom and Charlotte was that Charlotte felt awful for telling me what Mom had said and making me feel awful.
There were other horrors, of course. Mom really has quite a knack for piling it on. Like it might be her last chance. Better get it all out.
This very well may have been her last chance.
A few things have become very clear.
First, make no mistake. I know I am not plain, or homely, or offensive. I have an arsenal of skin and hair products, enjoy makeup and do an artist's job of accentuating the positive and minimizing the negative and follow all the rules of good grooming. Powerful lip or powerful eye, not both. Hydrated, shiny hair suggests youth. A little concealer in the right shade will defy the years. Waxing is essential. Cover the gray. Blend. Nothing shimmery at my age. My persona is much more Ralph Lauren Polo than Jerseylicious Smokey Eye and my look aligns with that image. Every day. Even weekends and holidays. I may layer on more mascara on a dinner date, but that is about it.
My mother's comment was intended to be repeated to me. To hurt my feelings. To put Charlotte in a position to have to hurt me. To tempt me to shoot the messenger. Weaken the bonds that have formed a united front against her and Bill and our idiot brother. Divide and conquer. She is the master of the game.
But what everyone fails to learn is that Charlotte and I have a bond that is strong and firm. It is not the tenuous, fair weather relationship that my mother is so fond of forming and breaking. Of course Charlotte will pass along the intel. Only to strengthen my resolve and make me strong, in times when I weaken and entertain thoughts of allowing the wolf at the door to cross the threshold.
And that is where the pure evil of it all lies. Mom would sacrifice my bond with Charlotte, the very one she feared would never form when we were kids and fought like cats and dogs and appeared to be polar opposites, so that no one has anything more from the family than Joe does. He can't have a relationship with me or with Charlotte, so Mom will attempt to destroy what Charlotte and I have to level the playing field. Her decades old pattern of taking from one child so another doesn't feel left out. All this as we approach middle age. It is pathetic.
And maybe there is some part of her that wants me to be so rankled that I call her to tell her off so that she has an opportunity to scream her nonsense at me once again. (She mentioned that my last call to her...one that preceded the peaceful graduation visit by several months, consisted of nothing more than me lighting into her and not letting her talk over me. I remember being hoarse the day after.)
I will not give her the satisfaction. I will let her wonder whether Charlotte said anything. I will let her wring her hands wondering if I am mad enough to call. I will let her stew in her own venomous juices hoping her nasty comment hit its mark until enough time has passed that even she has to tell herself that her comment, even her opinion, have absolutely no bearing on me or my life.
I am letting Bill's birthday pass. No card. No gift. And certainly no kiss on the mouth. (Eeeww) Her birthday is next month. She usually starts campaigning for what she'd like..."All I want is for my family to be together at the holidays..."
Keep dreaming, Pollyanna. Christmas will be celebrated at my house this year. Don't dare come a-caroling.
There were other horrors, of course. Mom really has quite a knack for piling it on. Like it might be her last chance. Better get it all out.
This very well may have been her last chance.
A few things have become very clear.
First, make no mistake. I know I am not plain, or homely, or offensive. I have an arsenal of skin and hair products, enjoy makeup and do an artist's job of accentuating the positive and minimizing the negative and follow all the rules of good grooming. Powerful lip or powerful eye, not both. Hydrated, shiny hair suggests youth. A little concealer in the right shade will defy the years. Waxing is essential. Cover the gray. Blend. Nothing shimmery at my age. My persona is much more Ralph Lauren Polo than Jerseylicious Smokey Eye and my look aligns with that image. Every day. Even weekends and holidays. I may layer on more mascara on a dinner date, but that is about it.
My mother's comment was intended to be repeated to me. To hurt my feelings. To put Charlotte in a position to have to hurt me. To tempt me to shoot the messenger. Weaken the bonds that have formed a united front against her and Bill and our idiot brother. Divide and conquer. She is the master of the game.
But what everyone fails to learn is that Charlotte and I have a bond that is strong and firm. It is not the tenuous, fair weather relationship that my mother is so fond of forming and breaking. Of course Charlotte will pass along the intel. Only to strengthen my resolve and make me strong, in times when I weaken and entertain thoughts of allowing the wolf at the door to cross the threshold.
And that is where the pure evil of it all lies. Mom would sacrifice my bond with Charlotte, the very one she feared would never form when we were kids and fought like cats and dogs and appeared to be polar opposites, so that no one has anything more from the family than Joe does. He can't have a relationship with me or with Charlotte, so Mom will attempt to destroy what Charlotte and I have to level the playing field. Her decades old pattern of taking from one child so another doesn't feel left out. All this as we approach middle age. It is pathetic.
And maybe there is some part of her that wants me to be so rankled that I call her to tell her off so that she has an opportunity to scream her nonsense at me once again. (She mentioned that my last call to her...one that preceded the peaceful graduation visit by several months, consisted of nothing more than me lighting into her and not letting her talk over me. I remember being hoarse the day after.)
I will not give her the satisfaction. I will let her wonder whether Charlotte said anything. I will let her wring her hands wondering if I am mad enough to call. I will let her stew in her own venomous juices hoping her nasty comment hit its mark until enough time has passed that even she has to tell herself that her comment, even her opinion, have absolutely no bearing on me or my life.
I am letting Bill's birthday pass. No card. No gift. And certainly no kiss on the mouth. (Eeeww) Her birthday is next month. She usually starts campaigning for what she'd like..."All I want is for my family to be together at the holidays..."
Keep dreaming, Pollyanna. Christmas will be celebrated at my house this year. Don't dare come a-caroling.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Fun with Dick and Plain Jane
Plain Jane?
Don't get me wrong, I have been called lots of things in my lifetime, and some of them not very flattering, but "plain" was never on the list. Lars wouldn't even call me plain, even to hurt my feelings. Even he knows it wouldn't ring true. (an insult has to convince you that it's true for it to really strike a nerve.)
I would like to be able to say that the comment didn't hurt my feelings, but it did. Not because I have any insecurities about being plain, though it did cast a brief, razor thin shred of doubt for a moment. Like maybe I'd had it all wrong for all these years and people regularly mistake me for a nun until I start swearing like a sailor or show up with my kids.
Part of me wants to laugh it off and make a mental note that of course Estelle has to throw stones. It is how she maintains her misguided sense of superiority over her children. Who cares if she showed up to the same event looking like she had been freshly mugged?
Maybe it's Estelle's own insecurities talking. She can't see worth a damn, assumed I wasn't wearing any makeup because I didn't look like Tammy Faye Baker when I arrived, and was jealous because she couldn't leave the house without hours of spackling and painting to cover the self inflicted wounds she suffered when she hurled her drunken self onto the steps of Aunt Babs' house in an enraged stupor.
Or maybe she's spending too much time in the Pageant Hair South, or has been doing nothing more than watching reality TV and thinks everyone walks around the grocery store with hair extensions and false eye-lashes and spray on tans and hot pink high shine lip gloss.
And even though in my heart of hearts, I know I am not plain, the comment stung. I know I am not plain because I know it. I simply know it. And if I were not my best self, I have a sister and a bunch of really fabulous girlfriends who would, as we primped to step out, make suggestions...like this eye makeup or this hair-do or why-don't-you-try-my-fabulous-whatever. Your girlfriends don't let you walk around looking like, well, Plain Jane. Hell, I even bought Kate an eyebrow grooming kit when we were in Arizona. It's what girlfriends do. If I were doing it all wrong, I'd know it long before Estelle got a good look at me.
But just to be sure, I text my adorable gay friend James. Handsome, witty, always quick to give you a boost, and always brutally honest in a good way.
"I am so offended." Send
"My mother told my sister I've become a Plain Jane." Send.
My phone rings. James.
"Umm, hello. Plain Janes do not wear fabulous pink cowboy boots."
It was all I needed to hear.
Don't get me wrong, I have been called lots of things in my lifetime, and some of them not very flattering, but "plain" was never on the list. Lars wouldn't even call me plain, even to hurt my feelings. Even he knows it wouldn't ring true. (an insult has to convince you that it's true for it to really strike a nerve.)
I would like to be able to say that the comment didn't hurt my feelings, but it did. Not because I have any insecurities about being plain, though it did cast a brief, razor thin shred of doubt for a moment. Like maybe I'd had it all wrong for all these years and people regularly mistake me for a nun until I start swearing like a sailor or show up with my kids.
Part of me wants to laugh it off and make a mental note that of course Estelle has to throw stones. It is how she maintains her misguided sense of superiority over her children. Who cares if she showed up to the same event looking like she had been freshly mugged?
Maybe it's Estelle's own insecurities talking. She can't see worth a damn, assumed I wasn't wearing any makeup because I didn't look like Tammy Faye Baker when I arrived, and was jealous because she couldn't leave the house without hours of spackling and painting to cover the self inflicted wounds she suffered when she hurled her drunken self onto the steps of Aunt Babs' house in an enraged stupor.
Or maybe she's spending too much time in the Pageant Hair South, or has been doing nothing more than watching reality TV and thinks everyone walks around the grocery store with hair extensions and false eye-lashes and spray on tans and hot pink high shine lip gloss.
And even though in my heart of hearts, I know I am not plain, the comment stung. I know I am not plain because I know it. I simply know it. And if I were not my best self, I have a sister and a bunch of really fabulous girlfriends who would, as we primped to step out, make suggestions...like this eye makeup or this hair-do or why-don't-you-try-my-fabulous-whatever. Your girlfriends don't let you walk around looking like, well, Plain Jane. Hell, I even bought Kate an eyebrow grooming kit when we were in Arizona. It's what girlfriends do. If I were doing it all wrong, I'd know it long before Estelle got a good look at me.
But just to be sure, I text my adorable gay friend James. Handsome, witty, always quick to give you a boost, and always brutally honest in a good way.
"I am so offended." Send
"My mother told my sister I've become a Plain Jane." Send.
My phone rings. James.
"Umm, hello. Plain Janes do not wear fabulous pink cowboy boots."
It was all I needed to hear.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
The Three Faces of Evil
I brace myself. Mom has an astonishing capacity for meanness.
Thankfully it hasn't always been directed at me. But sometimes her ability to criticize others left me gasping.
Like the time she came to a my basketball game in 8th grade (and was pissed that I'd already played my two minutes as a lowly 3rd stringer by the time she'd arrived) and I pointed out the guy I liked (Jeff) and the cheerleader he liked (Karen). In a matter of moments she'd related that he was nothing special and actually winced when she figured out which cheerleader I was talking about. Winced. In disbelief.
"He likes her?" she'd said, as if I'd pointed out Jo-Jo The Dog Faced Boy.
And after I shushed her to a normal, hushed tone suitable for gossip, I stated that she was popular and pretty and lots of boys liked her and I couldn't even say that didn't think she was nice.
"Well he must be blind or she's a tramp because she has nothing on you. Look at that stupid smile with her little pinched face and buck teeth (they weren't). And she's going to wish she had your legs when she's my age and they look like utility poles."
I was wounded. It was kind of hard to listen to when Karen had gorgeous dark Farrah Fawcett hair and a great figure and was strutting her little cheerleading stuff while I had a Dorothy Hamill and was shaped like an ironing board and was sitting on the bench on the JV squad. It was sort of like she was criticizing the girl I kind of wanted to trade placed with. And not only did Jeff like her, Mom had just pointed out that she was MamboDogfaceInABananaPatch ugly, what exactly did that make me?
But anyway, that was then, and this was war. God only knows what evil she's managed to whip up since our peaceful little visit. Now that her face isn't broken and she is feeling all full of herself. Or herself and gin.
Here it comes. Charlotte imitates her indignation. I'll put this in red because there is no Crazy Deranged Hag font.
"What is going on with Liza not wearing any makeup?"
And Charlotte, speaking as herself, and sounding more sane by comparison, says, "I don't know what you're talking about Mom."
"She came to the graduation wearing no makeup at all! What is wrong with her. She used to take better care of herself."
"Mom, Liza always looks like that, and she looks lovely. She was wearing makeup, she has a very understated look. It suits her, I think. She has flawless skin, and has no need to get all glammed up. It's her look. It's polished and finished and I think she looked beautiful and she always does."
"Well you can tell me she was wearing makeup, but I sure couldn't tell. If you ask me she's becoming a real Plain Jane."
I could literally feel my heart turning to stone.
Thankfully it hasn't always been directed at me. But sometimes her ability to criticize others left me gasping.
Like the time she came to a my basketball game in 8th grade (and was pissed that I'd already played my two minutes as a lowly 3rd stringer by the time she'd arrived) and I pointed out the guy I liked (Jeff) and the cheerleader he liked (Karen). In a matter of moments she'd related that he was nothing special and actually winced when she figured out which cheerleader I was talking about. Winced. In disbelief.
"He likes her?" she'd said, as if I'd pointed out Jo-Jo The Dog Faced Boy.
And after I shushed her to a normal, hushed tone suitable for gossip, I stated that she was popular and pretty and lots of boys liked her and I couldn't even say that didn't think she was nice.
"Well he must be blind or she's a tramp because she has nothing on you. Look at that stupid smile with her little pinched face and buck teeth (they weren't). And she's going to wish she had your legs when she's my age and they look like utility poles."
I was wounded. It was kind of hard to listen to when Karen had gorgeous dark Farrah Fawcett hair and a great figure and was strutting her little cheerleading stuff while I had a Dorothy Hamill and was shaped like an ironing board and was sitting on the bench on the JV squad. It was sort of like she was criticizing the girl I kind of wanted to trade placed with. And not only did Jeff like her, Mom had just pointed out that she was MamboDogfaceInABananaPatch ugly, what exactly did that make me?
But anyway, that was then, and this was war. God only knows what evil she's managed to whip up since our peaceful little visit. Now that her face isn't broken and she is feeling all full of herself. Or herself and gin.
Here it comes. Charlotte imitates her indignation. I'll put this in red because there is no Crazy Deranged Hag font.
"What is going on with Liza not wearing any makeup?"
And Charlotte, speaking as herself, and sounding more sane by comparison, says, "I don't know what you're talking about Mom."
"She came to the graduation wearing no makeup at all! What is wrong with her. She used to take better care of herself."
"Mom, Liza always looks like that, and she looks lovely. She was wearing makeup, she has a very understated look. It suits her, I think. She has flawless skin, and has no need to get all glammed up. It's her look. It's polished and finished and I think she looked beautiful and she always does."
"Well you can tell me she was wearing makeup, but I sure couldn't tell. If you ask me she's becoming a real Plain Jane."
I could literally feel my heart turning to stone.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Sir Rantsalot
I refrain from calling Charlotte until I have had a chance to return to my office and shut my door. If there is going to be audible wailing and gnashing of teeth and expletives flying hither and yon, I owe the people around me at least that much decency.
I sit at my desk. I take out a pen and pad so I can take notes to follow along competently when we inevitably rehash finer details, and I dial Charlotte.
"Oh sweet bearded Jesus. Our mother is crazy!" is exactly the greeting I get from Charlotte.
I find the levity at this point to actually giggle and say, "What did our dangerously unbalanced mother do now?"
Charlotte, ever dutiful had called her. She hadn't called in a while (clearly we don't have the same sense of guilt) and she felt badly that she could not recall when Mom's cataract surgery was supposed to be (if not cancelled altogether once she showed up with trauma to the face and eye sockets...) and so she picked up the phone while doing something mindless like laundry.
And within minutes she was off to the races. Rehashing the Open Door/XBox/Cat Poop Debacle in Hi-Def detail within a matter of minutes. Criticized Charlotte for how she and Jack handled Joe's idiotic behavior and flagrant violation of their privacy and their home without so much as an acknowledgement from him that it was wrong.
And then it became obvious that Joe had shared the sordid details of the texting war we'd all had a few weeks back. Mom was how-dare-you-girls-ing and all that and segued right into her recollection (however flawed) of the cleaning out of Dad's house again. (Mom never paid this much attention to Dad's house when she lived in it. The sudden preoccupation decades later baffles me.)
And then while she was berating Charlotte for blocking Joe's texts forever on her cell, (When we all know if he weren't such a full on idiot, he could figure out a way around that. But there is that little matter of him being an actually super-sized moron with no ability to do anything not specifically instructed to do by our mother or his shrew wife) she went on to take offense to some benign comment Charlotte had made when Mom seemed to think she had to pilfer a bottled water from the graduation ceremony a few weeks back. I couldn't even recall the exchange it was such a non-event, but Mom has had a few weeks to let it marinate in her cauldron of swill and has turned it in to something she can take offense over, natch. (And if she didn't come up with being offended all on her own, I am sure Bill helped her get to the boiling point, divisive little snake that he is.)
"Oh my God! You are too kind to stay on the phone for even two bites of that crap sandwich, Char, " I manage to say when she puts a period at the end of the long rambling sentence.
"Oh it doesn't end there. She has more to say about you."
And suddenly I am not smiling. Not taking notes. No longer amused. Here is where the meanness takes flight.
I sit at my desk. I take out a pen and pad so I can take notes to follow along competently when we inevitably rehash finer details, and I dial Charlotte.
"Oh sweet bearded Jesus. Our mother is crazy!" is exactly the greeting I get from Charlotte.
I find the levity at this point to actually giggle and say, "What did our dangerously unbalanced mother do now?"
Charlotte, ever dutiful had called her. She hadn't called in a while (clearly we don't have the same sense of guilt) and she felt badly that she could not recall when Mom's cataract surgery was supposed to be (if not cancelled altogether once she showed up with trauma to the face and eye sockets...) and so she picked up the phone while doing something mindless like laundry.
And within minutes she was off to the races. Rehashing the Open Door/XBox/Cat Poop Debacle in Hi-Def detail within a matter of minutes. Criticized Charlotte for how she and Jack handled Joe's idiotic behavior and flagrant violation of their privacy and their home without so much as an acknowledgement from him that it was wrong.
And then it became obvious that Joe had shared the sordid details of the texting war we'd all had a few weeks back. Mom was how-dare-you-girls-ing and all that and segued right into her recollection (however flawed) of the cleaning out of Dad's house again. (Mom never paid this much attention to Dad's house when she lived in it. The sudden preoccupation decades later baffles me.)
And then while she was berating Charlotte for blocking Joe's texts forever on her cell, (When we all know if he weren't such a full on idiot, he could figure out a way around that. But there is that little matter of him being an actually super-sized moron with no ability to do anything not specifically instructed to do by our mother or his shrew wife) she went on to take offense to some benign comment Charlotte had made when Mom seemed to think she had to pilfer a bottled water from the graduation ceremony a few weeks back. I couldn't even recall the exchange it was such a non-event, but Mom has had a few weeks to let it marinate in her cauldron of swill and has turned it in to something she can take offense over, natch. (And if she didn't come up with being offended all on her own, I am sure Bill helped her get to the boiling point, divisive little snake that he is.)
"Oh my God! You are too kind to stay on the phone for even two bites of that crap sandwich, Char, " I manage to say when she puts a period at the end of the long rambling sentence.
"Oh it doesn't end there. She has more to say about you."
And suddenly I am not smiling. Not taking notes. No longer amused. Here is where the meanness takes flight.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Ma Bell or Ma Hell?
I wondered when the calm would end and the meanness would begin.
With my mother that is.
Since the kitchen renovation has me in an uncharacteristically unshakable tailspin, I find myself, for the third time in a week, having forgotten my lunch.
I am a brown bagger. A habit I formed when Lars and I began our horrific divorce proceedings and I had to watch every penny. (Mostly I watched them go into his pockets. The ones on his low budget, business casual, unironed, 36 Short pants.) I eat an astonishing amount of food for a woman. But mostly veggies, egumes and protein, so I am not the size of a mobile home (Yet. I am sure the late night bacon fests will come back and haunt me eventually.) But still, to buy enough lunch to keep me from making at least one if not two trips daily to the vending machine, which is mostly stocked with a wide assortment of chips, but also carries scrumptious temptations like Lorna Doones and Twix Bars, I would have shelled out a ridiculous amount of money each day, just to keep my blood sugar above sea level.
So I started to take my lunches to work. Artfully pack them and squirrel away my precious ingredients in the the same stupid refrigerator that is still in the attic. Wedge the stuff in among the wine bottles so Lars doesn't eat it himself, just for the sake of meanness.
And I am in the same routine now, only the salads and other things I pack are mainstreamed into the regular downstairs fridge. It is the sort of stuff that no kid in his right mind would crave, so it is safe from the children. No kid was ever caught sneaking off and hiding in the closet to scarf down a Caesar salad on the QT.
But this week I keep leaving the house having forgetten to bring what I've packed, and today, find myself schlepping to the hospital cafeteria to assemble a reasonably decent and not terribly overpriced salad from the salad bar. While there, I observe one of my more tolerable colleagues picking over the celery pieces, examining and either keeping or throwing back piece after piece. I razz her a little for that. She's a good sport. We chat about this and that as we proceed down the salad cart and she asks if I am staying in the cafeteria for lunch.
I generally don't. Someone in HR is bound to be endlessly harassed in a public place like this. And everyone who stops you in the cafeteria seems to think that whatever is on their mind would obviously be on yours too, and that you will have full knowledge of the situation, full command of the applicable policies at play, and have a game plan at your fingertips, natch. In short, it is usually more fun to have one's teeth forcibly extracted than to brave the untamed wilds of the employee cafeteria.
But I have not seen this particular colleague for a while and tell her that if she is going to stay, then I'll be a sport and stay for a while, too.
We chat about all manner of things. Partners, kids, vacation plans. Interests we have outside of the office. Her most recent art project. My kitchen renovation Hell.
And as we sit and talk and eat I feel the table vibrate ever so slightly. Like my work blackberry is signaling a disaster.
But it is not mine. Hers?
No.
It's my iPhone. Charlotte is calling. And as I consider whether I can or should answer, the call goes to voicemail. I'll have to pick it up on the way back to my office.
A fairly long time goes by and the phone dings indicating a voicemail message. I look at the indicator.
"Voicemail from Charlotte."
Uh-oh. A long one. That can't be good.
And moments later, I get a little ding telling me I have just gotten a text from Charlotte.
I scarf down my lunch and say a quick goodbye to my friend, who really, is hard to offend, so I don't mind exiting the lunch a little quickly. I get on the elevator and once I am alone, I check my phone for instant messages.
Just one, from Charlotte.
"Call me later, please. Mom is crazy!"
And the games have begun.
With my mother that is.
Since the kitchen renovation has me in an uncharacteristically unshakable tailspin, I find myself, for the third time in a week, having forgotten my lunch.
I am a brown bagger. A habit I formed when Lars and I began our horrific divorce proceedings and I had to watch every penny. (Mostly I watched them go into his pockets. The ones on his low budget, business casual, unironed, 36 Short pants.) I eat an astonishing amount of food for a woman. But mostly veggies, egumes and protein, so I am not the size of a mobile home (Yet. I am sure the late night bacon fests will come back and haunt me eventually.) But still, to buy enough lunch to keep me from making at least one if not two trips daily to the vending machine, which is mostly stocked with a wide assortment of chips, but also carries scrumptious temptations like Lorna Doones and Twix Bars, I would have shelled out a ridiculous amount of money each day, just to keep my blood sugar above sea level.
So I started to take my lunches to work. Artfully pack them and squirrel away my precious ingredients in the the same stupid refrigerator that is still in the attic. Wedge the stuff in among the wine bottles so Lars doesn't eat it himself, just for the sake of meanness.
And I am in the same routine now, only the salads and other things I pack are mainstreamed into the regular downstairs fridge. It is the sort of stuff that no kid in his right mind would crave, so it is safe from the children. No kid was ever caught sneaking off and hiding in the closet to scarf down a Caesar salad on the QT.
But this week I keep leaving the house having forgetten to bring what I've packed, and today, find myself schlepping to the hospital cafeteria to assemble a reasonably decent and not terribly overpriced salad from the salad bar. While there, I observe one of my more tolerable colleagues picking over the celery pieces, examining and either keeping or throwing back piece after piece. I razz her a little for that. She's a good sport. We chat about this and that as we proceed down the salad cart and she asks if I am staying in the cafeteria for lunch.
I generally don't. Someone in HR is bound to be endlessly harassed in a public place like this. And everyone who stops you in the cafeteria seems to think that whatever is on their mind would obviously be on yours too, and that you will have full knowledge of the situation, full command of the applicable policies at play, and have a game plan at your fingertips, natch. In short, it is usually more fun to have one's teeth forcibly extracted than to brave the untamed wilds of the employee cafeteria.
But I have not seen this particular colleague for a while and tell her that if she is going to stay, then I'll be a sport and stay for a while, too.
We chat about all manner of things. Partners, kids, vacation plans. Interests we have outside of the office. Her most recent art project. My kitchen renovation Hell.
And as we sit and talk and eat I feel the table vibrate ever so slightly. Like my work blackberry is signaling a disaster.
But it is not mine. Hers?
No.
It's my iPhone. Charlotte is calling. And as I consider whether I can or should answer, the call goes to voicemail. I'll have to pick it up on the way back to my office.
A fairly long time goes by and the phone dings indicating a voicemail message. I look at the indicator.
"Voicemail from Charlotte."
Uh-oh. A long one. That can't be good.
And moments later, I get a little ding telling me I have just gotten a text from Charlotte.
I scarf down my lunch and say a quick goodbye to my friend, who really, is hard to offend, so I don't mind exiting the lunch a little quickly. I get on the elevator and once I am alone, I check my phone for instant messages.
Just one, from Charlotte.
"Call me later, please. Mom is crazy!"
And the games have begun.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Just Keep Swimming
And so, while the kitchen slowly, nearly imperceptibly improves in appearance, I busy myself with life. We are having a heat wave that would remind you never to be sent to Hell. Thank God I have a pool membership.
I love the pool. It is not the pool that I went to as a child (and earned the nickname "pool rat" with Charlotte and a few others) and the kids can not walk there (which is what I am sure my mother loved most about the proximity of our club) and the life guards aren't nearly as fun (which I am sure will eventually irritate Hil) and there is no roped off Adult Pool (which when I think about it was a nice feature, however irresponsible) but it is a nice pool with lots of kids from my kids' school, and lots of fun things to do, and a reasonably priced menu at the Snack Bar.
But I have noticed that it draws its members from neighborhoods that I don't know very well, and the people are a little odd. The membership at my childhood club was largely families. Large families. And they all lived within a certain distance of the pool property.
This pool has its share of families, and the requisite oldsters, but it also has quite a few middle aged single types. (Though I may technically qualify for this group, I count myself in the Family set.) This is the group I find myself observing from behind my Foster Grants.
There is the shapely but beer bellied overly tanned woman who should have forfeited her bikinis a few years ago, who sits smoking a cigarette (prohibited but the 16 year old life guard would never dare say anything) with one hand clicking away on her blackberry with her long bedazzles acrylic nails. And when she's stubbed out the butt, she twirls her over-processed hair --- twisting long ringlets from where the hair protrudes from a scrunchy. She prances around talking on the phone and putting on a little exhibition, and her voice is that of one who regularly eats ground glass. She also manages to put on a show when exiting the pool. Think Phoebe Cates in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Shameless.
And then there are the middle aged men who carry on like teenagers on the water. Throwing balls, making a ruckus, being overly loud (even in comparison to the dozens of kids) presumably to get someone's attention (and probably getting the attention of the above woman when she is not clicking away a text message) They are like giant, hairy five year olds.
And there are the men who have just given up and wear elastic waistband trunks and thick blobs of NoseKote. Really?
And the women who would like to strut around like the beer bellied lady, but are a little more self conscious about their weight. They wear firmly constructed one piece bathing suits, accompanied by a pair of shorts. Like the shorts aren't going to immediately lead you to assume the worst about what lies beneath. Seriously. Like a soaking wet pair of drawstring gym shorts is going to improve matters.
I have no interest in being noticed by or befriending any of these people. I am there to swim with the kids, get a little frivolous summer reading in, and while I am at it, get a savage tan. I do wear a fabulous suit, though. I am no Bo Derek but I can still wear a two piece, and do so with pride.
I remember when I thought I could not.
When I was dating J. we took frequent trips to his mother's house and joined the entire extended family in fun filled days in the pool. (Until of course there was that dreaded wedding episode and my hideous little shout fest with the Insipid Sheila and then my show down with Endorra that ended with me calling her a fat old hen. I wasn't invited back to the pool much after that.)
But when I first went, J. had asked me to wear a conservative suit. (I don't own any string bikinis, just sayin') I was not sure what he meant. I never wear anything too revealing, but this is a bathing suit situation, so I was baffled. He explained that since every single living person in his family could easily be mistaken for the Hindenburg, and I had a decent, slim shape, there would be tension.
Tension? Excuse me?
Yes, they'd think I was showing off.
Well I'm sorry, fatties, but I am who I am, and I am no more going to cover up in a one piece (like that would conceal the fact that I was separated by at least 100 pounds from each member of the family) than I am going to wear a space suit into the pool. How dare you even sugggest it.
I defiantly wore a South Beach appropriate suit with a fabulous cut that made me look like a Sports Illustrated cover. And ate hot dogs and hamburgers in record numbers, just to send them sailing over the edge. Jealous, ladies? Do a few laps.
What a waste of energy. And three years time.
Now, two years later, I am more comfortable than ever in my own skin, and even more so in the pool, with my kids, and in a bikini, and who I am attracting or offending could not be further from my mind. And Scott would never ask me to do differently.
I love the pool. It is not the pool that I went to as a child (and earned the nickname "pool rat" with Charlotte and a few others) and the kids can not walk there (which is what I am sure my mother loved most about the proximity of our club) and the life guards aren't nearly as fun (which I am sure will eventually irritate Hil) and there is no roped off Adult Pool (which when I think about it was a nice feature, however irresponsible) but it is a nice pool with lots of kids from my kids' school, and lots of fun things to do, and a reasonably priced menu at the Snack Bar.
But I have noticed that it draws its members from neighborhoods that I don't know very well, and the people are a little odd. The membership at my childhood club was largely families. Large families. And they all lived within a certain distance of the pool property.
This pool has its share of families, and the requisite oldsters, but it also has quite a few middle aged single types. (Though I may technically qualify for this group, I count myself in the Family set.) This is the group I find myself observing from behind my Foster Grants.
There is the shapely but beer bellied overly tanned woman who should have forfeited her bikinis a few years ago, who sits smoking a cigarette (prohibited but the 16 year old life guard would never dare say anything) with one hand clicking away on her blackberry with her long bedazzles acrylic nails. And when she's stubbed out the butt, she twirls her over-processed hair --- twisting long ringlets from where the hair protrudes from a scrunchy. She prances around talking on the phone and putting on a little exhibition, and her voice is that of one who regularly eats ground glass. She also manages to put on a show when exiting the pool. Think Phoebe Cates in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Shameless.
And then there are the middle aged men who carry on like teenagers on the water. Throwing balls, making a ruckus, being overly loud (even in comparison to the dozens of kids) presumably to get someone's attention (and probably getting the attention of the above woman when she is not clicking away a text message) They are like giant, hairy five year olds.
And there are the men who have just given up and wear elastic waistband trunks and thick blobs of NoseKote. Really?
And the women who would like to strut around like the beer bellied lady, but are a little more self conscious about their weight. They wear firmly constructed one piece bathing suits, accompanied by a pair of shorts. Like the shorts aren't going to immediately lead you to assume the worst about what lies beneath. Seriously. Like a soaking wet pair of drawstring gym shorts is going to improve matters.
I have no interest in being noticed by or befriending any of these people. I am there to swim with the kids, get a little frivolous summer reading in, and while I am at it, get a savage tan. I do wear a fabulous suit, though. I am no Bo Derek but I can still wear a two piece, and do so with pride.
I remember when I thought I could not.
When I was dating J. we took frequent trips to his mother's house and joined the entire extended family in fun filled days in the pool. (Until of course there was that dreaded wedding episode and my hideous little shout fest with the Insipid Sheila and then my show down with Endorra that ended with me calling her a fat old hen. I wasn't invited back to the pool much after that.)
But when I first went, J. had asked me to wear a conservative suit. (I don't own any string bikinis, just sayin') I was not sure what he meant. I never wear anything too revealing, but this is a bathing suit situation, so I was baffled. He explained that since every single living person in his family could easily be mistaken for the Hindenburg, and I had a decent, slim shape, there would be tension.
Tension? Excuse me?
Yes, they'd think I was showing off.
Well I'm sorry, fatties, but I am who I am, and I am no more going to cover up in a one piece (like that would conceal the fact that I was separated by at least 100 pounds from each member of the family) than I am going to wear a space suit into the pool. How dare you even sugggest it.
I defiantly wore a South Beach appropriate suit with a fabulous cut that made me look like a Sports Illustrated cover. And ate hot dogs and hamburgers in record numbers, just to send them sailing over the edge. Jealous, ladies? Do a few laps.
What a waste of energy. And three years time.
Now, two years later, I am more comfortable than ever in my own skin, and even more so in the pool, with my kids, and in a bikini, and who I am attracting or offending could not be further from my mind. And Scott would never ask me to do differently.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
The Girl and The Girls
Monday comes and goes. The babysitter is a roaring success. The kids call me the moment she leaves to tell me how much they adore her. The TV remained off the entire time. Pat did not play video games. They played tennis, they played basketball. They played a board game. They told ghost stories. They talked about what their interests are and what they'd like to do together this summer. I get an email from her as the kids and I are sitting down to enjoy a family sized take out dinner. She gives a full report, asks questions, confirms some plans. I am shocked at how wonderful she is. I am waiting to learn that she is an axe murderer, really.
My kitchen is not exactly a success story of the same magnitude. I barely notice any changes. Maybe if I look really hard I can see fewer, yet newer, wires protruding from odd places. And maybe a little spackle smeared on a rough spot. Oh, and to give credit where credit is due, there is evidence of some millwork. And the plastic is down. I can walk through the kitchen without tripping over kitty who is obsessively chewing on the painters tape.
I decide to do a little much overdue laundry, lest my children begin to look like the cast of Oliver.
I walk to the basement and rest the basket across the corner of the drain tub so I can lift its contents and distribute it around the agitator in the washer.
And then I notice it.
There is a blob of something sticky and gluey looking in my drain tub.
No biggie. It is the only nearby working sink at the moment. There is bound to be a little goo left behind on occasion.
But the blob tells me two things.
1 - Wally and his guys may not be getting much accomplished that is visible to the human eye, but they are definitely working.
2- They have made themselves at home in my basement, including the laundry area.
It is this second notion that gives me the vapors.
As I turn to the immediate right, where just beyond the drier lies a triple hung, industrial strength clothesline, I see that I have left a grand assortment of bras drying on the line.
I think it is good policy, anytime you are letting strange men into your house to work, or if you are selling your home, to leave an intriguing if not confusing assortment of brassieres on display for all the potential visitors to see. The good, the bad, the ugly. The leopard push up that makes you look like Pamela Anderson. The sports bra you wear to work out in. The pit stained, discolored, pilly one that you wear only when you are mowing the lawn. The Spanx. The Girls Weekend collection. The working man's bras. All have their place in the lingerie drawer. But somehow a stranger will find them novel.
I've really outdone myself.
Ants. Mice. Petrified holiday sweets. A baffling assortment of bras inexplicably on display.
I am sure Wally is writing a blog of his own, maybe calling it "Crazy On The Inside: Perfectly Pulled Together People Whose Home Interiors Give Them Away."
My kitchen is not exactly a success story of the same magnitude. I barely notice any changes. Maybe if I look really hard I can see fewer, yet newer, wires protruding from odd places. And maybe a little spackle smeared on a rough spot. Oh, and to give credit where credit is due, there is evidence of some millwork. And the plastic is down. I can walk through the kitchen without tripping over kitty who is obsessively chewing on the painters tape.
I decide to do a little much overdue laundry, lest my children begin to look like the cast of Oliver.
I walk to the basement and rest the basket across the corner of the drain tub so I can lift its contents and distribute it around the agitator in the washer.
And then I notice it.
There is a blob of something sticky and gluey looking in my drain tub.
No biggie. It is the only nearby working sink at the moment. There is bound to be a little goo left behind on occasion.
But the blob tells me two things.
1 - Wally and his guys may not be getting much accomplished that is visible to the human eye, but they are definitely working.
2- They have made themselves at home in my basement, including the laundry area.
It is this second notion that gives me the vapors.
As I turn to the immediate right, where just beyond the drier lies a triple hung, industrial strength clothesline, I see that I have left a grand assortment of bras drying on the line.
I think it is good policy, anytime you are letting strange men into your house to work, or if you are selling your home, to leave an intriguing if not confusing assortment of brassieres on display for all the potential visitors to see. The good, the bad, the ugly. The leopard push up that makes you look like Pamela Anderson. The sports bra you wear to work out in. The pit stained, discolored, pilly one that you wear only when you are mowing the lawn. The Spanx. The Girls Weekend collection. The working man's bras. All have their place in the lingerie drawer. But somehow a stranger will find them novel.
I've really outdone myself.
Ants. Mice. Petrified holiday sweets. A baffling assortment of bras inexplicably on display.
I am sure Wally is writing a blog of his own, maybe calling it "Crazy On The Inside: Perfectly Pulled Together People Whose Home Interiors Give Them Away."
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Round Two
Three days, another permit, several more holes, an inspection and 20% additional expense later, my project can begin again.
Except that 4 of my cabinets have not arrived. Were expected to have arrived. Were listed on the delivery sheet. But evidently were backordered.
Would have been nice to know before I allowed Wally to rip out my sink and stove and dutifully moved one room full of crap into the next room in boxes.
So progress is slow. Even slower now that my walls look like Swiss cheese and don't look like they could bear to have a calendar hung on them let alone new cabinets and all of their contents.
So Wally has set about drywalling all of my 92 year old walls and compounding them and sanding them so that they don't fall apart, and tile will lie flat against them.
In the meantime, I want to scream.
My kids have returned from Lars' house and my babysitter is supposed to start on Monday. In fact, she is supposed to come over on Saturday and take care of some basic business items. (Bank card, pool tickets, contact information etc.)
Again I panic. And this time, I punt.
I cancel the babysitter and decide to complete a folder for her with all manner of minutia. I will leave an envelope of cash and the tickets and lots of telephone numbers and tell the kids all the rules so there is no nonsense like when you first get a substitute teacher .
I take Scott up on his offer to just spend the weekend in relative peace at his house. We pack the car and a few bags. We are on the road to Scotts at 7 am on Saturday practically leaving skid marks as we peel away from the curb. At least at Scott's I can cook and boil water and enjoy refrigeration that is bigger than a backpack. As I leave for the luxury of an overnight away from the destruction, I drop Wally an email telling him that the house is his for the weekend. He can work day and night without disturbing anyone but the cat. Hint, hint.
When I return on Sunday, because it is Fathers Day and Lars will have the kids for a few hours, I can see that minimal improvements have been made. It still looks like Warsaw.
OK, to be honest, Wally is a father, too. He may have had legitimate plans to be enjoying the company of his children instead of the company of my appliance cartons. He may not have had much time to spend at my house.
I have to act quickly. The kids will have to eat dispite there being no place to cook or anything to cook with. I see a much loathed trip to the grocery store in my future.
I plan on Chinese for dinner. Done.
I get in the car, list in my sweaty fist. I am truly in a panic. I need to make decisions.
I meander around the store. It is completely unfamiliar to me now that I shop on line. I am lost. Like a sheep with no competent, decisive Bo Peep.
But I start to fill my cart.
Apples and oranges. Pretzel rods. Mini yogurts that will fit in the door of my little fridge in the attic. A half gallon of milk. A half gallon of lemonade. A case of bottled water that can be placed little by little in a fridge that a midget could not be concealed in. Tuna and salads for me at work and treats for the cat. Paper plates. Plastic cutlery. Red Solo Cups to be filled up. Ohh. And a quick stop next door at the Wine and Spirits Shoppe for a mondo bottle of wine.
I return home to stash my third floor "pantry." I move boxes of cereal and napkins and breakfast bars and packages of cookies so they can be found without scrounging. I wedge every last thing I can into the teeny tiny fridge. I clean the kitty litter and freshen the pitcher of water I've been using to keep her from dying in the heat of the attic. I realize I am distraught.
I am leaving my kids alone the next day with a relative stranger, with a house full of grubby men, and no creature comforts. I am secretly hoping that no one picks tomorrow to start working on their "What I Did On My Summer Vacation" assignment.
Except that 4 of my cabinets have not arrived. Were expected to have arrived. Were listed on the delivery sheet. But evidently were backordered.
Would have been nice to know before I allowed Wally to rip out my sink and stove and dutifully moved one room full of crap into the next room in boxes.
So progress is slow. Even slower now that my walls look like Swiss cheese and don't look like they could bear to have a calendar hung on them let alone new cabinets and all of their contents.
So Wally has set about drywalling all of my 92 year old walls and compounding them and sanding them so that they don't fall apart, and tile will lie flat against them.
In the meantime, I want to scream.
My kids have returned from Lars' house and my babysitter is supposed to start on Monday. In fact, she is supposed to come over on Saturday and take care of some basic business items. (Bank card, pool tickets, contact information etc.)
Again I panic. And this time, I punt.
I cancel the babysitter and decide to complete a folder for her with all manner of minutia. I will leave an envelope of cash and the tickets and lots of telephone numbers and tell the kids all the rules so there is no nonsense like when you first get a substitute teacher .
I take Scott up on his offer to just spend the weekend in relative peace at his house. We pack the car and a few bags. We are on the road to Scotts at 7 am on Saturday practically leaving skid marks as we peel away from the curb. At least at Scott's I can cook and boil water and enjoy refrigeration that is bigger than a backpack. As I leave for the luxury of an overnight away from the destruction, I drop Wally an email telling him that the house is his for the weekend. He can work day and night without disturbing anyone but the cat. Hint, hint.
When I return on Sunday, because it is Fathers Day and Lars will have the kids for a few hours, I can see that minimal improvements have been made. It still looks like Warsaw.
OK, to be honest, Wally is a father, too. He may have had legitimate plans to be enjoying the company of his children instead of the company of my appliance cartons. He may not have had much time to spend at my house.
I have to act quickly. The kids will have to eat dispite there being no place to cook or anything to cook with. I see a much loathed trip to the grocery store in my future.
I plan on Chinese for dinner. Done.
I get in the car, list in my sweaty fist. I am truly in a panic. I need to make decisions.
I meander around the store. It is completely unfamiliar to me now that I shop on line. I am lost. Like a sheep with no competent, decisive Bo Peep.
But I start to fill my cart.
Apples and oranges. Pretzel rods. Mini yogurts that will fit in the door of my little fridge in the attic. A half gallon of milk. A half gallon of lemonade. A case of bottled water that can be placed little by little in a fridge that a midget could not be concealed in. Tuna and salads for me at work and treats for the cat. Paper plates. Plastic cutlery. Red Solo Cups to be filled up. Ohh. And a quick stop next door at the Wine and Spirits Shoppe for a mondo bottle of wine.
I return home to stash my third floor "pantry." I move boxes of cereal and napkins and breakfast bars and packages of cookies so they can be found without scrounging. I wedge every last thing I can into the teeny tiny fridge. I clean the kitty litter and freshen the pitcher of water I've been using to keep her from dying in the heat of the attic. I realize I am distraught.
I am leaving my kids alone the next day with a relative stranger, with a house full of grubby men, and no creature comforts. I am secretly hoping that no one picks tomorrow to start working on their "What I Did On My Summer Vacation" assignment.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Dead Men's Stories
The next day, I am met with an even more deconstructed kitchen and a call from Wally. As I examine the myriad new holes and protruding wires, like errant nose hairs, I listen, more or less, to the bad news.
My wiring is a mess. (Yes, I believe we’ve established that.)
No, it’s really a mess. (Okaaaayyy….)
Well not only are all of those thing, you know, the fridge and the stove and all that all on the one breaker, the line is not even up to code. (He mentions some numbers that mean nothing to me. He may as well have been reading from a Chinese menu.)
Some things are even daisy-chained to things on the second floor. (Whatever that means.)
Whoever did the wiring during the last renovation (In 1980…think Shaper hair sprayed, gravity defying hair dos) did a really bad job. It was completely irresponsible. Dangerous. You’re lucky you didn’t have more trouble.
Well I have plenty now, don’t I?
I think back to when Lars and I bought the house. Hil was born the very next year and weeks later, our sump pump failed during a hurricane (isn’t that always the way?) The guy we’d bought our first house from was an electrician/plumber who had converted our oil heat to gas a few months before. We called him to replace the pump.
He goofed around with the kids and drank coffee in our damp but drying basement while he pulled out the pump and put in a bigger, better model. He suggested a backup and that we purchase a generator. Then he took a look at the electric panels to put the pump on its own breaker.
There were two boxes. An old and a new. He opened the newer one and looked at the sticker inside. The one that indicates who did the electrical work.
“Oh, I know this guy!”
“Do you? Small world!” I say, bouncing Hil on my hip, throwing wash on the line that runs across the basement.
“Well, I did. He’s dead. Died of a drug overdose.”
Well now that would explain my current predicament quite nicely wouldn’t it?
My wiring is a mess. (Yes, I believe we’ve established that.)
No, it’s really a mess. (Okaaaayyy….)
Well not only are all of those thing, you know, the fridge and the stove and all that all on the one breaker, the line is not even up to code. (He mentions some numbers that mean nothing to me. He may as well have been reading from a Chinese menu.)
Some things are even daisy-chained to things on the second floor. (Whatever that means.)
Whoever did the wiring during the last renovation (In 1980…think Shaper hair sprayed, gravity defying hair dos) did a really bad job. It was completely irresponsible. Dangerous. You’re lucky you didn’t have more trouble.
Well I have plenty now, don’t I?
I think back to when Lars and I bought the house. Hil was born the very next year and weeks later, our sump pump failed during a hurricane (isn’t that always the way?) The guy we’d bought our first house from was an electrician/plumber who had converted our oil heat to gas a few months before. We called him to replace the pump.
He goofed around with the kids and drank coffee in our damp but drying basement while he pulled out the pump and put in a bigger, better model. He suggested a backup and that we purchase a generator. Then he took a look at the electric panels to put the pump on its own breaker.
There were two boxes. An old and a new. He opened the newer one and looked at the sticker inside. The one that indicates who did the electrical work.
“Oh, I know this guy!”
“Do you? Small world!” I say, bouncing Hil on my hip, throwing wash on the line that runs across the basement.
“Well, I did. He’s dead. Died of a drug overdose.”
Well now that would explain my current predicament quite nicely wouldn’t it?
Monday, July 2, 2012
Live Wires
Day 2 comes and goes. I am expecting dramatic improvement from the Hell’s Kitchen of Day 1.
No such luck.
Staples protrude from every square inch of the ancient original floor. Holes gape at me from every part of every wall. Wires dangle at bizarre angles like weeds overtaking a garden.
I convince myself that I am a renovation newbie and really have no realistic right to have expected anything more. As I pick my way through the heavy plastic taped to the door frame, I tell myself that Wally will wave his magic wand and tomorrow the transformation will be remarkable.
As I sit to peel the plastic off of my convenience store salad, Wally calls. I answer, telling myself hopefully that he is calling to discuss paint selection, drawer pull numbers, and faucet choices.
Nope.
“Liza, we have a problem.”
We’ve been here before. I am not alarmed.
“Your electrical wiring is a mess.”
“OK,” I say tentatively. Still not in a panic.
“I went to shut off electric to your refrigerator and the breaker turned off everything.”
“Everything?” Isn’t that a little extreme?
“Well, the fridge, the oven, the stove, the microwave, the dishwasher, all the lights in the kitchen, all the outlets, and everything in the basement.”
Ok, ok, ok. I get it. “So what do we do?” I ask brightly.
He tells me he’d like his electrician to come and see what is really going on. Better safe than sorry.
“OK – that’s fine.” And then I add, “How mush time will we lose?”
“Oh, I don’t think we’ll lose any time. It should be pretty simple.”
It’s only Day 2. We are batting a thousand. But Wally isn’t panicking, so neither am I.
No such luck.
Staples protrude from every square inch of the ancient original floor. Holes gape at me from every part of every wall. Wires dangle at bizarre angles like weeds overtaking a garden.
I convince myself that I am a renovation newbie and really have no realistic right to have expected anything more. As I pick my way through the heavy plastic taped to the door frame, I tell myself that Wally will wave his magic wand and tomorrow the transformation will be remarkable.
As I sit to peel the plastic off of my convenience store salad, Wally calls. I answer, telling myself hopefully that he is calling to discuss paint selection, drawer pull numbers, and faucet choices.
Nope.
“Liza, we have a problem.”
We’ve been here before. I am not alarmed.
“Your electrical wiring is a mess.”
“OK,” I say tentatively. Still not in a panic.
“I went to shut off electric to your refrigerator and the breaker turned off everything.”
“Everything?” Isn’t that a little extreme?
“Well, the fridge, the oven, the stove, the microwave, the dishwasher, all the lights in the kitchen, all the outlets, and everything in the basement.”
Ok, ok, ok. I get it. “So what do we do?” I ask brightly.
He tells me he’d like his electrician to come and see what is really going on. Better safe than sorry.
“OK – that’s fine.” And then I add, “How mush time will we lose?”
“Oh, I don’t think we’ll lose any time. It should be pretty simple.”
It’s only Day 2. We are batting a thousand. But Wally isn’t panicking, so neither am I.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)