Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil

I got a message today on Facebook from a college friend and sorority sister. She’d reposted an ad for a foreign sunglasses company launching, (get this) a line of sunglasses named for Helen Keller.

Seriously?

My friend, who is very clever by the way, suggested that the most appropriate song to play as an accompaniment to the ad would have to be Alanis Morrisette’s “Isn’t It Ironic?”

At first, I wanted to comment that I am speechless, but that seemed a little cold, given Helen’s profound difficulties. And although my friends would have thought I was just being very clever, I couldn’t hit the “post” button.

But then my inner Estelle took over.

Both of my parents were/are funny people. My Dad was the life of the party when he wanted to be. Practical jokes, teasing. Funny little one liners that would tickle your rib cage. Amusing little ways of referencing things. He could be delightful.

My mother was funny, too. But by contrast, she was wickedly funny. Eye rolling at someone’s expense. Caustic little jabs at someone who was no match for her logic or her quickness. The first one to laugh if someone road their bike into a car door that had swung open unexpectedly. Brutal if you failed at something. I recall her being bent over and laughing to the point of tears when I could not get the car into first gear and get started up the hill when she was “teaching me” (shaming me) to drive a manual transmission car. She literally howled every time a frustrated driver beeped and passed me on the left, waving their arms and swearing. I wanted to abandon the car and her in it and let her get it going, if she’s so smart. I’d have gladly walked up the hill without her.

So naturally, my mother was a big fan of Helen Keller jokes. You know, before all this political correctness and the universal ban on reindeer games, and all the clutching the pearls anytime someone dared make a slightly off-color remark, however deserved.

Well, actually, I imagine she’s still a fan, it’s just that no one is telling them anymore. But rest assured, nothing would prevent Estelle from running through her repertoire if she thought she could get away with it at Bridge Club.

I go back to my iPhone and comment on my friend’s post. “And for the men’s line, the Pinball Wizard Collection.”

Because that deaf, dumb and blind kid sure plays a mean pinball. And therefore should have some sunglasses named after him. And maybe some Tommy Can Ya Hear Me ear muffs.

I am a little worried that my comment is insensitive and people will think I am a Terrible Person.

And then my other friend comments as well.

“Sunglasses at Night.”

I am off the hook.

No Woman, No Cry

I pay for my wafle iron. I walk out of the store. I keep my eyes and ears wide open and on high alert as I walk across the crowded parking lot. Hopefully I will hear the screeching of tires or the gunning engine or maybe even catch the license plate of Endorra’s little pathetic car before she rams it into the backs of my legs and speeds off like a bat out of hell.

But nothing happens. Thank goodness.

But what I find most disturbing about the whole incident is that I worried at all.

The relationship with J. is long dead and the relationships I once had with his family and friends just as buried and decomposing.
I have no obligation to any of the peple who were part and parcel of the whole fiasco.
It’s not like it is with Lars. Where the financial obligations to him, and the fact that we had children together and have a binding custody agreement all keep me tethered to a life I’d gladly leave behind until we are genuinely and naturally parted by death (which just won’t conveniently happen…)

J. and his merry band of sycophant supporters are just specks in my rearview mirror. Left in the dust. I can pretend they don’t exist quite convincingly. Cross them off the Christmas card list. Forget their birthdays. Hell, forget their names.

So what is my problem?

I think I know.

Lets compare my two most abysmal relationship stories, Lars and J.

The story ended badly with both. My happily ever after in shreds.
I learned over years of painful endurance and unthinkable amounts of forgiveness that I could not trust either one of them. That I’d been less important in the long run than their selfish vices.

The difference is this:

While Lars has numerous egregious faults and is not to be trusted to play any game fairly, at the very least he has a shred of pride.

He’ll take what isn’t his and play dirty if it suits him, but only so long as it’s only me who sees what a scumbag he is. Publicly, he want to remain smelling like the proverbial rose, even as he is growing out of a festering pile of steaming cow manure. There are limits to what he’ll do, how low he’ll stoop, if only imposed by the amount of exposure he’ll risk. To me he will be a cad. To the world, he wants to appear to be Prince Charming.

J. on the other hand is so bereft of pride that he will gladly act like a weasel and doesn’t care who observes. He will embarrass himself on his way to humiliating you, but as a loser with quite literally nothing left to lose, it doesn’t matter. There is nothing he won’t risk, because there is nothing to risk. He’s so low he can’t get any lower, so why not play in the sludge of your life and sling a little while you are at it?

And there is the risk to me. With nothing to lose, there are no boundaries. And people with no boundaries are the scariest people of all to me. The sense of decorum and propriety that others have and hold sacred just don’t exist. While some might hesitate to cause a scene, for them there is no reason not to.

Maybe some day I will reach a point of such aloofness that I can approach such threats with a sense of confidence. But for now, I’ll keep my eyes on the road and my hands upon the wheel.

Where the Wild Things Are

The possibilities are endless.

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

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

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

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

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

What then?

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

Too bad, so sad. Loser.

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

'Scuuuuuuuuuuse Me

As I stride down the small appliance aisle, I get that sick fight or flight feeling. I have no idea what to expect and will probably overreact to whatever happens. I am secretly hoping that the brain synapses that control snappy responses are all firing full throttle. I am sure that as she's been spinning, she's been practicing her delivery of one or two of the myriad hateful things she's been wishing she'd said when the had the chance.

I would have relished that confrontation once, too. God only knows how many zingers I could deliver. Plenty to say. The vocabulary to make it stick.

But I don't care now. Happy J. is gone from my life. Happy in the place I've landed. I have cut my losses and have moved onto a beautiful new life and have left him in the flotsam and jetsam of the life he ruined for himself.

Endorra can tell herself any version of that story she'd like. Revisionist History doesn't change what I know. Whatever she manages to say as I pass can't touch my heart. I. Won't. Even. Respond. Won't. That's my decision. I won't give her anything to say about me.

All this churning as I walk 10 feet past the toasters, electric mixers, hot dog roasters and ice cream makers collecting dust for another season.

I notice that Endorra has spun and teetered her way a good distance from the intersection of the aisle, and is now rotating counterclockwise near the muffin pan display. She seems to want to get back to the battle zone but can't really get there. It's like she's swimming upstream.

Seizing the moment, without breaking stride and now whistling out loud (but something happy, not "The Bitch Is Back." I think it might have been a show tune. "Zippity Doo Dah," perhaps) I whip by with my waffle iron and my bad self, making sure I looked exquisitely casual and fabulous as I did so. Posture perfect, smiling, waving pleasantly to a small child belted into her mother's shopping cart. Clearly not a care in the world.

But as I walk down the main aisle toward the check out, my eyes are darting about the place. Endorra was clearly confused and disoriented. I doubt that she drove to Kohls by herself in that condition. I am in the clear with my run in with her, but are there other family members with her that I could be ambushed by on my way to the register?

The Bitch is Baaaack

About four or five waffle irons into the narrowing down process, I am down to two I can choose from. Price is right, features are good. The deciding factor turns out to be one of storage. In my teensy, tiny kitchen, I may need to unload something to wedge this thing into a cabinet. Based on HxWxD measurements, one waffle iron moves ahead of the pack. Unless some equally storable, fabulously versatile waffle iron materializes between me and the end of the aisle, I have my winner.

And Endorra is still pivoting aimlessly and unsteadily at the intersection between the George Foreman Grills, the Fry Babies, and the remaining runner up waffle irons.

Hello, 911? Silver alert in the local Kohls. Dangerously slow-witted elderly woman has come unharnessed from her caregivers and is terrorizing the small kitchen appliance section weilding a cane. Rescue personnel should consider her armed and dangerous. Bring riot gear.

I actually hesitate for a moment. Not that I am afraid to walk past her...hell, I'd sashay past her whistling "The Bitch is Back" if I didn't think it would offend the other little old lady in the section who appears to be trying to buy her granddaughter a Whoopee Pie Maker (It's a banner year for nearly useless appliances, evidently)

But Endorra is diabolical. Truly she is. And it isn't like I haven't poked Mama Bear a few times in the last few years. Hurled a few irretractible insults. Shamed her first born. (He did deserve it, have no doubt!) Verbally bitch slapped her only daughter (again, deserved) and blew off the only grandchild's wedding she will be of sound enough mind to remember. Her hatred toward me has been festering for some time now. Some people forgive and forget. Some people carry a grudge to the grave (the big square grave, as it will likely be).

I would not put it past her, even if I gave her a wide berth as I passed, to throw her large gelatinous body on the ground, wailing and moaning, and shrieking that I pushed her. Claiming I attacked her.

Not that the idea didn't once hold quite a lot of appeal. I just don't care anymore. Even hurling a little verbal jab has no appeal. She is insignificant. A bug on my windshield.

But I'm kind of trapped. My only other escape route from this poorly designed section of Kohls is currently blocked by a flatbed cart loaded with patio umbrellas, and a man on a motorized cart who is struggling with a 3-point turn, a la Austin Powers in the first movie.

I can stand there a while longer and let it be obvious that I am avoiding the brush with Satan. Or I can buck up and take the risk.

I am not about to be caught sweating this out.

First, I check my appearance in one of the low-budget art-deco mirror things popular in dormitories and first apartments. I am indeed looking fabulous. Great outfit, hair and makeup are casual perfection.

I go for it. I'll bet on Kohls having surveillance cameras to refute any claims of violence (no matter how deserved they would be!). So I tuck my waffle iron under my arm, sling my high-end purse over my shoulder, smile with satisfaction, and stride confidently in the direction of the end of the aisle, currently monopolized by the ever-pivoting, disoriented Endorra.

I am whistling "The Bitch Is Back" ...but only in my head. I am indeed, above the fray.

Dance With the Devil

Face to face with Satan herself. Satan in hot pink lipstick.

I thank God nearly every day for the gifts I have been given. My most prized (OK after the obvious ones like my good health and two wonderful children, no crap!) is my mental agility in situations like these. Where some people might stammer and begin to sweat on the spot as if by Pavlovian response, I move well beyond the point of shock and horror to an offensive game.

She looks me in my eyes. I look her in her (beady little Satanic) eyes. And without a moment's hesitation, I manage to say, quite brightly, but not at all overly friendly, "Oh. Hello!" and as I continue make my way around the corner she is blocking with considerable girth, I say, "Happy Easter!" and continue to the display, not two feet away. I will not be intimidated off my mark. She'll have to shove me. I am the picture of cool. Aloof. No appreciable quickening of the pulse. No blip on my EEG. Barely registered. A non-event.

In the few seconds I engaged in full on eye contact, though, I did notice something odd. Her smile was plastered on her hangy little bowling bag face, as fake as if it were painted there (Botox gone wrong?) and her eyes never registered any recognition. A vacuous, blank, stare. Medicated. It was the deadpan stare of the medicated criminally insane. (Nurse Ratched, another dose, please!)

But I am not that easily fooled by the likes of the innocent old lady act. In that rotund little spherical weeble beats the heart of a warrior. She may look like a little old feeble-minded beanbag chair, but she has teeth and claws and is as sneaky as any other old embittered matriarch whose idiot daughter can't manage her own miserable little unproductive hellish life, and whose sociopath 50-something son drank away everything of worth in his life and is forced to squat in her house with his child, relying on child support as his only means of income. Girlfriend has an axe to grind, make no mistake.

So while I flit about the store, casually price-checking waffle irons, I keep an eye on her.

And she does the oddest thing.

She stands in the precise spot where I nearly bowled her over like a bowling pin, and spins in little unsteady circles, teetering on her orthopedic shoes and utility-pole legs, aided by a cane, with her not-so-dead-after all eyes darting about the place.

She says nothing, but I am expecting her to begin shrieking at any moment.

From Waffles to Wickedness

The rest of our trip is fabulous. Hil gets her vintage on and Pat finally, at our last stop of the shopping tour of Gettysburg, finds an authentic actual rifle that has been stripped of it's firing hardware. It weighs a ton. It is very cool. The guy at the shop spends loads of time with him showing him how it is carried and telling him how to be safe. Not to take it out of the house. Warning him that even though he knows it can't hurt anyone, other people will think that he is armed.

I am not so naive as to believe that Pat is all that anxious or willing to comply. But it would be hard not to. That is why I insisted on a full sized rifle if anything. A replica pistol would be out of the house in the backpack in a matter of minutes and I'd be retrieving him from the principal, the police station or worse by the end of the week. A rifle that comes up to his shoulder is not that easy to sneak out of the house. It would have to be a pretty big back pack! And it would be seen from a mile away. And people would be calling me as soon as they saw it. It will stay in his room. That's the deal.

On Saturday afternoon, we head for home. Scott is coming to our house after dinner when his daughter finishes her first day of work this season on the boardwalk at the beach. It is a gorgeous day. I go home, open windows, spruce up the place and open my mail.

I have a sale catalogue from Kohls and page through it absentmindedly. But when I peel off my special bonus discount sticker I am on my feet and ready to shop again. Thirty percent off and I already have $10 in Kohls Cash. And it expires today. Oh no it won't!

Pat was a big fan of our complimentary breakfast. Mostly because it had a neat little dispenser thingy that squirted out just the right amount of batter to pour onto a piping hot waffle iron and made a beautifully browned perfect waffle in a matter of minutes.

I used to love our waffle iron. I wonder what happened to it. No, I don't. Lars happened to it. He took it when he left, along with all the photo albums, all the CDs, all the toilet paper, all the laundry detergent and the entire contents of the liquor cabinet.

I don't know why I remain shocked by anything he does.

So I am immediately on a mission. To Kohls! To buy a waffle iron!

I am astonished, frankly, at the variety and price spread of these little gizmos. And, frankly, that Kohls has such an assortment of them! All shapes. All sizes. All brands. All features. I am overwhelmed. I need to thin the herd. I find a price scanner. No need to go overboard. I'll eliminate the grossly overpriced models first. I am not paying a fortune for an appliance that does exactly one thing.

I scan the first super deluxe model. One hundred dollars. For waffles? Next!

I carry the box back down the aisle to the end display from where it came. I turn the corner and inadvertently almost slam into someone standing there, too short to be seen above the boxes.

I move the box to my side to apologize, and as I do, I realize that the person I've nearly run down is none other than J.' s wicked mother.

Coffee, Ten Cents a Cup

The pool and hot tub do wonders for everyone's spirits. And a glass of red wine does even more for me. Not long after, we are in our jammies, showered and ready for bed, and excited about the days to come.

The next morning, I get the bright idea that we are going to take our complimentary continental breakfast in a to-go carton onto the battlefields and soak up the sun and the sense of history while soaking in a few bland muffins and dry bagels.

But first, I have to soak in a few gallons of coffee.

I make the one weak cup that accompanies the "in-room coffee maker" every hotel is so proud of. I have news for you. I'd pay double the cost of room service for a bigger, better, stronger cup of Joe with more cream. They should not be so quick to think otherwise.

I down the rotten coffee while I apply makeup and get dressed for the day in the confines of the bathroom. I don't want to disturb the kids. I have waited more than a decade for them to develop normal sleep patterns and am not about to go interrupting the routine now.

Finally, I turn off the bathroom light and the dreaded automatic fan and schlep out into the room to get my cowboy boots on. I pull the first onto my right foot. Something is not right. I take it off. There is something stuck in it.

I shake the boot. Out falls a dime.

I go to put on the left boot next. Same thing. A dime is in the shoe part of the boot.

I am completely flabbergasted.

Ever since Scott's Dad died, he has found dimes. Everywhere he looks. In random places. Seemingly appearing out of nowhere. His sister does too. She has even started saving them in a dime jar. I am not sure of the significance, but it is a strange coincidence. Not unlike certain songs that make me snap to attention and look for signs that Dad is near. That he wants me to see something. To know that he is there.

And now, out of the blue I find a dime in each of my boots. Which were folded over in the closet all night and had no way of being showered by random pocketfuls of change. A dime. In each shoe.

Thinking there is some significance, I text Scott. I tell him about the dimes. He sends me back a little smile emoticon.

I tell him that I think his Dad likes that we are here. As I've mentioned, Scott's parents and sister and brother-in-law all attended Gettysburg College like me. Scott used to visit with his family often. And now I am with mine. I am sure Mr. B. is paying attention.

Scott sends back another couple of smileys.

I finish dressing, go downstairs, get my coffee and peruse the continental breakfast. It is not just muffins and bagels and instant oatmeal. No, it is eggs and bacon and taters and waffles, too! I hurry back to the room to tell the kids. We are scrapping breakfast on Little Round Top and dining in. Get up and get dressed!

We eventually do make it to the battlefields, but not before returning to the hotel to get warmer clothing. It is crisp and clear but very cold in Gettysburg. We spend the day running around all corners of the town. We tour and we dine and we shop - and shop some more.

In one artillery shop (that Pat was not allowed to enter without a reasonable, sound minded adult person) we learn that the little pot by the antique register is to collect small change for wreaths. The shop owner is participating in a Memorial Day celebration whereby the local shop owners will lay wreaths on the war dead of the area.

Scott's Dad was a decorated Army officer.

I remove the dimes from my pocket, hand each one to Hil and to Pat and ask them to place them in the pot.

And as they do, I silently say, only to me, "Thank you, Mr. B., for your service to your country, for sparking my interest in this remarkable place and wonderful school, and for sending Scott to me." I throw a few dollars in the pot myself when we leave, breaking the "small change rule" but feeling like it was a small price to pay for so much in return.

Guns and Roses

Hil knows there are at least 10 other establishments that will all carry exactly the type of vintage clothing she'd like to try on, so she recovers nicely. It is her nature to do so anyway.

Pat is another story. He is devastated by disappointment. His trip is nearly in ruins and it has barely started. This is the Lars' legacy. Anxiety that refuses to loosen its grip on one's thoughts, and preoccupies a person to the point of inaction.

Ten minutes have passed and we are still staring at the Historical Research Center in disbelief.

I make a move. I dig out the tour guide pamphlet to see what other stores might carry the types of things Pat is looking for. We know there is the shop we passed near the Blue Parrot but that will have to wait until our return to the center of town tomorrow.

As I look through the pamphlet, Pat snatches it from my hand. He has convinced himself that the General Store simply must have moved and we can find its new address in the pages of the tour guide!

His frustration and disappointment are palpable. Clearly, The General Store went belly up. There is no mention of it in any of the pages of the pamphlet.

I brightly suggest that it may go by another more appealing name now. For instance there is a Blue and Gray Shoppe up the road that describes itself very similarly. Let's try there!

Let's try anywhere but here on this corner! We walk back to the car, hop optimistically in our seats, do an illegal U-bie and take off.

The shopping is delightful for Hil. Not so much for Pat. Hil and I load up on souvenirs for Scott and his girls and ourselves and visit ghostly-focused shops while Pat traipses through the little historic village of shops in search of authentic war replicas of guns. He finds what he wants at a price he can't pay. He tries to convince me that for that price I should just let him get a real one.

Where is that Big Ass Beer when I need it?

I promise to keep looking and ask him to not let the search for the gun ruin an otherwise lovely time. After all, there is always the horrible little store with the sour-looking young man and all the surplus war gear. Certainly Pat will be able to find something realistically dangerous looking enough to satisfy his craving for a Civil War rifle and to land me in court for child endangerment!

It's been hours. As all the shops begin to lock their doors for the evening I pry a reluctant Pat from the war memorabilia shop and we all get back into the car to head for the hotel. There is a pool and a hot tub, both calling to us. Perhaps they will steam the disappointment out of Pat.

A gal can hope.

And, We're Off!

Check in? Check. Unpack? Check. Bathroom break? Check. Back in the car? Check.

While we drive into town and park, the children bicker about which of two places in which we will eat lunch. Please note that neither child has visited either place before and has nothing on which to base their choices, just a burning desire to disagree with one another.

We decide (I decide) on Hil's choice, the Blue Parrot, and head in that direction. I choose it because for all of Gettysburg's familiarity, I have never been there. Why not add to the adventure?

Unfortunately, though the door is open, the place is closed. Closed for those boring, sober hours between the traditional lunch hour and dinner. (What? No Happy Hour?) A disinterested woman behind the bar is more than happy to shoo us out. Not at all disappointed that she doesn't have to serve us a couple of grilled cheeses and maybe some sodas. Perhaps a pint of beer for Mom's jangled nerves.

We head to the other choice, The Pub, with no intention of returning to the Blue Parrot for dinner. Tonight or the next. They don't get a second chance. On the way, we pass a military surplus store. Guns. Ammo. Camo. Gear. It is calling to Pat like The Sirens. He could easily monopolize every moment of our trip browsing the aisles of this dusty little jam-packed store owned and operated by a completely miserable overly serious young man. The kind that would lecture you if he thought you were buying the gas mask as part of your Halloween costume, God forbid. I am secretly praying that it burns down while we are at lunch. Pat is frothing at the mouth. Hil is chomping at the bit. Mom is having a low blood sugar moment.

We make our way to lunch. The service at The Pub is accommodating as usual. Jovial, helpful, patient with indecisive tweens, discreet with Mom's growing thirst for a Big Ass Beer.

We order and wait for our food, and while we do, we look over the tour guide pamphlet we got at the hotel and plan our trip. Shops to visit. Sights to see. Restaurants to try. Trips to the hotel pool and hot tub. Things to avoid. We won't be boring Hil with a battlefield tour, though Pat would love one. We also won't be scaring the bejeezus out of ourselves with a Ghost Tour. Hil would love it but Pat's nerves would be in shreds. Most of all, Hil wants to try on vintage clothes. Pat most wants to find a replica Civil War rifle. We can accomplish both by visiting the General Store. We were there last time and never made it back during the trip to purchase the things we'd found. Both kids are so excited to be going back.

The food comes. We eat and talk and laugh. Then we walk up the street, feed the meter, and head up town in the direction of the General Store. I am not entirely sure of the address but I'll know it whe we see it.

Uh-oh.

The house that once held all the vintage clothes and Civil War memorabilia and 1800's-style crafts and costume period jewelry has been repurposed as an historical research center!

The kids stand on the sidewalk staring in shocked disbelief.

I am going to have to tap dance pretty fast to get over this speed bump. Mama may need another Big Ass Beer.

Four Score and Seven Years Ago, Well, Not Actually

That near crisis averted, I set my sights on Spring Break with the kids.

They will spend the first part of the week with Lars, very likely doing nothing of value or interest, and then return to me on Wednesday evening. The following morning we embark on a trip to Gettysburg. We have not been there in nearly two years; the last trip being as a convenient excuse to be out of town and otherwise detained while J.'s idiot niece and her fat fiancé got married at the Event of the Season (at least for a few dozen additional idiots) to which I had been extended an invitation and my children had not. (And thus, a blog was born!)

The last time we went, we'd enjoyed a Ghost Tour (Gettysburg is famous for them, and Hil is a big enthusiast) and taken a guided bus tour of the Battlefields (a prime interest of Pat's). Our little hotel was next to General Lee's headquarters and purported to be haunted, all of which thrilled the kids. It was also attached to a lovely little independent brew pub, which was a delight to Mommy.

But it was a little off the beaten path and had only an outdoor pool. This time, I wanted to get closer to town and stay in a hotel with an indoor pool so the kids could burn off the pent up energy. I am always baffled by the pent up energy thing. My energy depletes as the day wears on. Theirs takes on a life of its own.

So Thursday morning, after careful packing and a trip to get Easter hair cuts (Hil's plans to get the much hyped hot pink streak foiled by the fact that the salon ran out of hot pink, how unfortunate!) we pile into the car. With our bags and our stash of in-room snackable items.

The kids are thrilled to be going and so am I. I had made one additional return to Gettysburg since our trip together, to attend my 25th reunion. How different this trip would be. Far less reminiscing. Far less drinking. Far fewer realizations about how far we've all come and how similar we all remain to one another. I'd found myself all those years ago at GBurg, and found dozens and dozens of people who found me too, and found that I am just fine. Why it took me so long to find that out remains a mystery.

An astonishing amount of time later, thanks to an accident just beyond our entrance to the Turnpike, we pull into the parking lot of our our hotel. OK it is a little further out of town than it had appeared to be on the map. The trade off, however, is it is adjacent to a large OUTLET MALL!

Oh if only the outlet mall had been here when I was in school! I would have walked here! There were so few spending opportunities at that time (bars with lax rules about checking IDs notwithstanding) a clothing store of any kind would have been an oasis. Consider the fact that when I was a junior and a weirdo was evidently breaking into apartments all over town and stealing (get this) all the girls' underwear and their photo albums (All together now, "Eeeeewwwwwww!) and either a copycat or someone desperate for panties came into the laundry room at the dorm and stole every pair of my panties, and only my panties from the dryer, and left everything else to tumble around for the rest of the cycle, leaving me with just the pair I had on (and it being finals week, they were the dregs of the meager collection) and I had to use my Mothers Day gift and card money to buy new ones, and I could not find a single shop from which to purchase anything but Granny Panties. And outlet mall would have been a life saver. but I digress...

The kids and I check in and immediately head into town. We'll get a late lunch and then do some souvenir shopping. Hil has her eye on the Ghost Hunting Museum shop and Pat wants to return to the General Store to buy a replica Civil War rifle against his mother's better judgement.

It feels good to be here. In this familiar place. In the place that has so much meaning to me. And to Scott. If not for Scott, whose parents and sister all attended GBurg like I did, I may never have heard of the school. Might never have considered it. Might just as easily gone off to Emerson or Washington and Jefferson or William and Mary as I'd once anticipated. But Scott had spoken so highly of the place when I was an impressionable gal of 15. And he held such respect for his parents and sister, who seemed so mysterious and magical to me. He'd figuratively placed the school on my map. Placed it within my reach. And set it as something to aspire toward.

And now, more so than ever, as I drive through the place I'd once only traveled through on foot, I feel like I've come home.

The End Is Near

The end of the week comes and I get a familiar "ding" signifying an email on my iPhone. It is from Miley. I am almost afraid to open it. Lucky for me, I am driving and can spare myself the results for another 5 minutes.

I pull up to my curb and look at the phone, willing myself to open the email from Miley. But before I do, Hil calls me. She is overjoyed. Miley has accepted our offer for the summer. Lars must have been sitting there watching his inbox with beads of sweat forming on his expansive (billboard-sized) forehead. I am thrilled that Hil is so happy. She says Pat is happy too. They are finally getting the summer they want and frankly, the summer they need, and get to have it under the watchful eye of Mary Poppins' much younger sister.Yay them.

Surely the Earth is destined to crash into the sun before summer begins. It is inevitable.

One day, just days later, I get an e-mail confirming the arrangements with Miley. She will work 25 hours a week at the wage we agreed upon. I will obtain a Nanny pool membership. She will drive to and from my house and Lars' and will take the kids to the pool or whatever outings we agree upon. She will be compensated for her gas. I will open an account in our names and give her a Visa debit card so she can take the kids places without worrying about cash. I will transfer money as she needs it. Buy movie tickets on rainy days via Fandango. She will allow other kids to come on over but I insist that their parents know it is she watching them, not me.

Confirmed in its entirety. Pinch me.

Then days after that, doom.

Her mother has been offered the job at the college in the deep south. She may be moving much earlier than she'd hoped. She apologizes profusely. It leaves us with a few weeks of unsupervised, unplanned time with the kids. Crap.

I text Lars the facts. He calls. It's like he's been jilted. And as if my plan was perfectly stupid all along. What if she's a kook? What if she keeps looking for a better babysitting job and ditches us right at the end? What guarantee do we have? (Well, none, Lars. People are people. They do unpredictable things. He should know that by now, no?)

I remain calm. There are other people we can interview. One that contacted me the other day who also lives nearby and is home on break this coming week if we'd like to meet her. Or, if and when Miley finds she has to move, we find another gal to fill in, or cover it with the neighbor down the street who would love the money. Or enroll the kids in a single, tolerable week of camp, or something - we have months to work it out.

I hate it when he panics.

He tells me he'd like to call Miley. (I am sure he would!) And he'd like to ask her about her commitment, otherwise. Reluctantly, I agree.

And later when she sends me an e-mail, it seems like Lars, true to form, scared her a little. Questioned her commitment and said he was disappointed, made her feel like crap. (Been there, done that.)

I told her not to let Mr. Royal scare her off. She will deal with him so minimally and the kids are thrilled to have her. So am I. Lars is just a high strung worry wart and nothing to worry about. I wished her good luck with the rest of the semester and told her we'd spend some time letting her get to know the kids when she gets home.

She wrote right back. Obviously relieved.

And I live another day having dodged yet another bullet Lars had no f-ing clue he'd inadvertently fired.

Who is Interviewing Whom, Part Deux

I send the lovely Miley on her way to Lars. I call him to give him an ETA, so he can put a stop to whatever embarrassing behavior he's engaged in within her travel time.

I tell him I really liked her, and that I think the kids will too. I run down a list of her most favorable features. He is skeptical as usual. My endorsement of anything is usually the kiss of death. Usually without competent, logical argument. It is just wrong because it has to be. If the plot was hatched in my head it is doomed. If I stand behind an idea it is certain to fail. If I creatively resolve a problem, the solution has no merit. It is Lars' way of winning, even if it is not actually winning, but just obstinacy instead. Miley has "doom" tattooed across her lovely face, I am sure of it. I found a really great thing and as usual, Lars is going to piss all over it. (Sorry for the graphic.)

I busy myself as I always do when the kids and I are apart. I wait for Lars call asking "What else have you got to show me?" as if this were all my responsibility because I am the one with the loony plans and if I want them to come to fruition then I am going to have to pull all the oars or he'll just do what he wants, with no regard for the children or anything or anyone else. What suits him will have to be what suits us all.

I could kill him for moments like this.

But when he calls, he is flabbergasted he is so delighted. Completely shocked and awed that anything I have done could be so perfect. Actually, he's so impressed with Miley, it's a little weird. He thinks it's kismet that she goes to school where he went to high school, and her father lives where he spent the other part of his misguided youth. She lives a mere blocks from his house and so resembles Hil that they could be mistaken for sisters. He is almost creepy the way he gushes about her. I am almost more afraid now that she'll say "NFW" than he will.

Just shoot me, please.

I ask if the kids were as taken with her as he seems to be. Whether they were or they were not, he says they were. Natch.

She sends us both an email letting us know how much she enjoyed meeting everyone and that pending the outcome of her interview later that week ( a prior commitment) she'd love to sit for the kids.

I pour a Chardonnay and pray to Saint Rita, the patron saint of the twin patronages, parenthood and desperate causes, for a favorable outcome.

Who is Interviewing Whom?

The date is set. Wednesday after work, so as not to conflict with any of the kids' evening activities, Miley is coming to meet us.

She is coming to my house first. That way I can set the stage and demonstrate that I am not a lunatic and give her hope before it is dashed by Lars and all his hang ups and weirdness. If she were to go to his his house first, surely she's leave skid marks peeling away from the place contemplating a break for the boarder.

I get home from work a few minutes early and make sure that my home and my appearance do not suggest harried-ness. Miley is on time and adorable. She is soft spoken but confident. She plays nonchalantly with Trinket who jumps onto the table to check out the guest.

She asks about the kids - what they like, what they ARE like. I decide to explain the toll the divorce has taken and some of the scars left. She says she is a child of divorce also. Mother in one state and remarried. Father in another state, also remarried. Five brothers, sisters, halves and steps that she's picked up along the road her parents have taken with other partners.

I tell her about my hopes for the summer. A normal summer at home for the kids with the ability to sleep late and come and go as they wish. Hang out with school friends or neighborhood friends without a lot of pre-planning and phone calls and parental obligations because I work. I want them not so much to be babysat, but to grow a little in their responsibility. Take their phones when they leave. Call when they change locations or plans. Check in at home. Be home for lunch or dinner. I certainly don't expect Miley to clean my house. (Hell, I don't even want to do that!) but I would ask that she remind the kids that used glasses and plates go into the dishwasher. And that wet towels and bathing suits do not get left on the floor. Beds get made. Toys and crafts and projects get put away when we move to the next activity. Learn that entertaining themselves is their responsibility, not someone else's.

She totally gets it. I love this kid.

But I am afraid she is going to be freaked out when she meets Lars. And the little soldiers with flat affects that she meets with him. The kids are completely different when they are with Lars. I am afraid she will find them to be nothing like I've described.

I decide to tell her a a few enlightening things. But have to tap dance because if I paint Lars the color he really is, she will run far and fast because he is just too much trouble.

I tell her to consider this gig one job with two bosses. Lars and I are very different parents, and therefore the kids are different around each of us. He is very high strung. I am very go-with-the-flow. He has very strict standards about things I don't care about at all. He is a strict disciplinarian (read that "tortures the kids endlessly") and I let the punishment emerge naturally from the fallout of the crime. The kids will be obedient and flat when she meets them at his house. They let their hair down with me. Lars will make a ruling (e.g. "Socks and closed shoes must be worn outside at all times to prevent ring worm, and sunscreen must be generously reapplied every hour on the hour even when indoors")," ) and she can assume that I don't subscribe to that thinking on any level unless she's heard it from me. She can use her judgment on most things unless I tell her something specific. And even then, it would sound more like a suggestion. The kids have learned to live by separate and distinct sets of rules. She will get the hang of things.

I wonder if I've said too much. If she's thinking that I am a bitter old jilted hag or if Lars is a complete lunatic. You never know.

She tells me she completely understands. She has had to go with the flow for years. For instance, her mother is a college professor at a college she does not like. Miley attends school at another university and pays tuition because her mother would not want her educated at her school, even for free (must be some school!). Her mother is pursuing an appointment at a school in the deep south and if she gets the job, Miley will transfer pending admission. So she'd say goodbye to friends here and move with very little notice. But her stepfather would remain local at least for a year, since her step sister is in a local university and needs to maintain state residence to keep her tuition deal. Even though she is studying abroad this semester. So Miley could still be around to see the kids and keep them company on breaks and such.

Evidently, Miley knows exactly what it is like to live a life that is more a product of her parents' machinations than her own desires.

This idea somehow comforts me and makes me feel horribly sad.

I am very impressed with this very brave, very mature girl. And not just because she is a competitive swimmer and will play in the water with my kids and loves all things girly like Hil does, or is an outdoorsy-won't-rely-on-the-TV-for entertainment kind of sitter. I send her off in the direction of Lars' house with fingers crossed and a heavy but hopeful heart.

Contestant Number One...

Miley was the first or second canidate I contacted. The first had great credentials, but wanted to bring the two year old she was committed to watching. Ummm, no thanks, I think my kids would strangle the little angel when push came to shove and there was an imminent coin toss to decide Barney v. ICarly on a rainy afternoon. And besides, who does that?

Miley responded right away. From her picture she looked like she could be Hil fast forwarded a few years. She is a college student, has great experience and is home for Spring Break (as opposed to topless in Ft. Lauderdale) next week. The only bummer is that she is really looking for more full time work. The hours each day are fine, but the off week is hard to forfeit from a college tuition standpoint.

I totally get that.

Time to face the inevitable phone call to Lars. Under the best of circumstances, with no issues on the table, and only some benign topic like "the kids both made honor roll" on the docket, conversation with Lars is bizarrely unpredictable. I ask Miley what I am about to approach Lars with.

I write, "If you are interested, I could approach the kids' father about you sitting for him on his weeks as well. What do you think?" I had already explained the custody arrangement in the ad. And the fact that I have a cat, just in case there were allergy sufferers who would otherwise be interested.

She thinks the idea is great. I suggest that if all goes well, we may be able to arrange for her to meet everyone while she is home on break.

And then I call Lars.

I am not sure what meds he's started taking in vast amounts, but he was unusually agreeable. I gave him a thumbnail sketch of my plan for the summer, letting him read into the whole thing the notion that I will NOT be splitting the expenses for camp, especially for camp the kids hate, and that I am not getting use of, and at the usual court-ordered 58% to his 42% split. He can go his way, and I mine. Miley not withstanding.

He asked about pricing and I told him. I will hit him up for half the pool membership and half the site fee later. He said that there would be no tax write off of the expense and I told him I'd considered that. He said it would be cheaper than camp and aftercare, except for Pat who could do some junior counselor work for free thing (no thanks). And then he said he'd be interested.

And once I recovered from fainting, I called Miley back and set up an interview. Things were looking good!

Which could only mean one thing. Some asshole was going to come along and screw up the whole deal. Some asshole whose name is probably Lars.

The Hand That Rocks the Cradle

Following a successful Driver Photo experience, Hil and I proceeded to the bank to open a bank account for Miley our babysitter.

Yes. I have hired a a babysitter. I have an almost 14 year old, and almost 13 year old, and now I have a babysitter, too.

I know. Seems like a overkill for kids who could clearly call 911 for any emergency themselves.

But as the summer approaches, I have been feeling guilty. Guilty that I have a job that consumes more time, energy and most of my pleasant disposition than is fair. Guilty that I have sent my kids to full day camp since they finished Kindergarten. And by "full day" I mean from 7:30 am to 6 pm just as though they were in school and aftercare. A long day of structured, planned fun with no down time, sunshine or rain, every day of summer that we a re not on a family vacation of some sort. Not much of a summer at all. Not like the summers Charlotte and I enjoyed at our swim club with our swim team and diving team and life guard class friends. No sleeping in. No lazing around. No neighborhood pick up games of whiffle ball, or touch football, or dashing through sprinklers.

So this year, without consulting Lars, who would surely object out of paranoia and cheapness, I enrolled on Care.com, composed an ad, and began reaching out to local college students who might be interested in a very part time babysitting job.

Four to five hours per day. I didn't need to pay anyone to watch my kids sleep nearly until lunch time.
Five days per week, every other week, due to my whack-o custody arrangement.
Must have own transportation and be willing to drive kids to activities (that I would pay for) including the pool. A car. Not a bus, bike or Segway.
And speaking of pools, they'd need to supervise at the pool, and should be comfortable with young swimmers. I would spring for the nanny membership. They need to spring for keeping them from drowning or drowning each other.
Not really babysitting per se, more ensuring that no one has ice cream for lunch and neither kid does anything that they would normally try to get away with if they thought no one would find out.
Primary goal is safety, and helping them learn to be responsible. Pick up after themselves. Not traipse though the living room leaving a trail of wet clothes and towels and other debris on the hardwood floors, for instance.

The list of local sitters and their price ranges came up as soon as I placed my ad (and paid my first payment of $35 with my credit card) I skipped over the ones that were more than a couple of miles away. They'd eventually get tired of spending an hour's pay on gas just getting to my house. I vetoed the grandmotherly ones; J's mother had forever prejudiced my kids about sweet looking little chubby old ladies who were really just as mean as spit when it got right down to it. I panned the stay at home moms who would bring their children to my home or happily sit for my kids in theirs.

No. This summer would need to be custom designed to cater to my kids. I'd be willing to wait for just the right person.

Enter Miley.

Tell Me Mirror, Mirror

Oh there is work to be done and I have no idea what I am doing. Maybe Scott does.

And magically, he calls me from the road on his way to my house one Saturday about this very thing. He says the forecast is for rain and would I be able, in my travels with Hil, hither and yon on a Saturday morning while Pat sleeps, to stop into a nursery and pick out a few shrubs. Preferably those that a) won't grow to a height that makes them visible from space, and b) are ble to stand 6-8 hours of direct, scorching, punishing sunlight. He'd like to get them in the ground and let the rain give them a good soak.

I agree to do just that after Hil and I have gone and done the all important business of opening a bank account for our new summer babysitter, and getting my drivers license picture taken.

This is a special license. The last license I had made was just days before my divorce was final. Had I known, I would have waited. My lawyer was so excited about the judge's ruling, she broke her own tradition and called me rather than let me get the joyful news in the mail. Truly, I'd felt like celebrating, though most people aren't quite sure how to respond when you fill them in on that big news.(However everyone in my office practically turned cartwheels they were so overjoyed at my unburdening). But my one disappointment was in the timing. My license was due to expire any day, and had I known I'd be free of my was-band AND my heinous, boring last name, I'd have held out. The judge had been kind enough to grant my lawyer one last motion and had relieved me of 180 ugly pounds and the bitter reminder last name in the same stroke of the pen. Yay me.

But for 4 years I walked around with a license, and, as we do in Pennsylvania, a little typed yellow and white flimsy, folding card that indicates a name change. Which wouldn't be half bad if it said something explanatory and validating above where your name is like: "Divorced the ugly old asswipe and will now and forever be known as Miss Fabulous Blahblahblah, Saint."

But no. You were this and now you are that. No indication about how much time, money, blood, sweat and tears you expended becoming THAT again.

I got up early. I washed my hair. I artfully applied makeup. Hil checked it before I sealed the deal by curling my lashes and applying stage amounts of mascara so the camera will love me.

I used high end products in my hair and tousled it just so, drying it at a glacial pace on low heat. I chose a flattering photo-friendly ensemble that would coordinate nicely with my hair and makeup. I whitened my teeth. I ditched my Invisalign for the morning.

Hil and I are the first ones in the lot of the Driver Photo ID place. Before we step out of the car I check my hair and face and then double check that there is no lipstick on my teeth. That would suck.

Hil picks up on the fact that I am more concerned than usual about my appearance and gets my attention as we walk around the car to the door of the place. "Mom," she says. "Even if you had a live monkey on your head, Scott would still say you are beautiful."

My child. Better than any mirror I could buy. She is the fairest of them all.

Won't You Bee My Neighbor

So I step out into the jungle that I call a yard to survey the "opportunities" up close. I have one dead not-so-evergreen bush creating a fire hazard next to a much taller evergreen and some peonies. I can hack away at that for fun, but I'll need Scott's big manly truck and hitch and whatever other magic tools he has to get the stump out of the ground. With my luck, the stump is so deep it has grown under the house, which will probably cave into the hole I leave behind. Oh good. More to look forward to.

The lilac "tree" looks like it might actually muster the strength to bloom this year. It has been either too weak or too pissed for years now. The summer before my divorce having been the last time it flowered and filled the air with fresh fragrant loveliness. Lars decided it was "out of control" (as if that weren't the pot calling the kettle black..." that year and hacked it to collops one day while I was at the pool with the kids daydreaming about murdering him in his sleep while I worked on a savage tan. I've heard lilacs hold a grudge. Grudgy Wudgy hasn't bloomed since, but it appears to have buds. Maybe if I pretend not to be overjoyed it will go through with it.

My magnolia tree is lush and green. The unseasonably warm weather and lack of frost has forced it to bloom well ahead of schedule, but it is in full leaf. It has bloomed, wilted and dropped its petals all before April began. I have photographs of the kids on Mothers Days past that picture the tree in glorious full bloom. In May.

It has also sprouted new branch growth. Some of which I am not thrilled about due to how low the branches are. I can just see clotheslining myself while mowing my lawn. One branch has fallen from the tree entirely, and I am almost compelled to preserve it for the memory it holds. It is one of my favorites.

When Hil and Pat were very little, maybe two and three years old, Lars and I took them outside to play in our little sandbox under the magnolia while we did a little manual yard work. No mowing or leaf blowing. Raking and weed pulling. Lars was never voluntarily going to buy a piece of equipment that would do what his wife could do for free (Now, that didn't sound right at all.) Anyway, gardening gloves on, we were busy raking while the kids made sand castles and rubbed sand into each other's scalps.

Lars kept stopping and asking about some buzzing sound he was hearing. I on the other hand, heard no buzzing. I never even looked his way the first few times. But he kept stopping and asking, like a raving lunatic, "Don't you hear that buzzing sound?"

Finally, I responded by looking up and starting to say, "Maybe you need your head examined," and I saw it.

"It" being the basketball-sized wasp nest dangling from the low branch of the magnolia a mere 12 inches above Lars' head. I looked at him for a moment, soaking in the scene. It was like those National Geographic still photos of the shark flying out of the water with his mouth open and teeth showing and just a split second from chomping down on the poor unsuspecting seal.

He looked at me quizzically. The wicked part of me wanted to suggest that he do a few jumping jacks to clear his head and make sure he rigorously clapped his hands above his head. But for the children's safety, and a need to avoid eternal damnation, I refrained. Reluctantly.

I very quietly told him to just slowly walk toward me and to pick up one of the children while I picked up the other and walked toward the entrance to the house. I told him not to look back, for fear that he would Lot's Wife and turn to salt or stone or some other immobilized thing and become a meal for 1,000 wasps.

But he did, and freaked out. And scared the children. And to this day Hil has a mortal fear of bees. Or anything resembling a bee. Even if it is just an airborne dust bunny. Such is the permeating overreactive paranoia that is Lars.

But now Lars is gone and the tree remains. No wasps having come home to roost since.

I suppose they are building a nest at Lars's house. Just for fun.

The Whole Nine Yards

And so while I wait for Charlotte to have 30 minutes in a row free to enjoy a glass of wine and simultaneously enlighten me about what I need to do to get my kitchen transformation to become more than a twinkle in my eye, I attempt to transform the outside of my house. As in the shrubbery.

I say this like they do on Monty Python's Flying Circus. As in " A shrub-bah-ree!"

My yard nearly 14 years ago when Lars and I bought the house, was actually one of the selling points. OK it's an odd shape, triangular, with 300 feet of sidewalk to contend with (which Lars was never thrilled with) but the sellers, who before they were the sellers were the owners for 43 years, had had the yard beautifully landscape designed and planted.

As I'd look out my front door and down the steps to the yard, I could smell the two boxwoods that flanked the walk at its entry, sitting in rock formations surrounded by daffodils and tulips. I love the smell of boxwoods. To me they smell like coffee. It is one of the prevailing opinions on boxwoods. The other is that they smell like cat pee. I think it is a matter of perspective. I like the glass half full with coffee as opposed to half empty with cat pee.

Along the right side of the yard were holly trees and evergreen shrubs that grew tall and lush and were artfully planted to entirely obscure the hideous chain link fence separating the property from that of the neighbor. Good thing. The neighbor also parked a full sized RV in the yard and ran an underground dog kennel/breeding mill for yappy little cat-sized dogs who crapped on every square inch of the yard. And the owners, bless their hearts, left the turds to fester and smolder in the noon day sun, often sending a tantalizing aroma of half-baked feces wafting toward my open windows. The shrubs did an admirable job of concealing the Addams Family estate from view, if not entirely from smell.

There were also mature azaleas and rhododendron planted on all sides of the house, that bloomed at different times as spring progressed and provided gorgeous color throughout the season. Fragrant lilac and spice verbena competed with the scent of crap next door. A large flowering bush in the corner of the yard was the hot spot for the burgeoning avian social scene. Day lillies and irises and hydrangea and peonies filled beds around the property. Lily of the Valley and vinca grew beneath everything, including a weird orange flowered fruit-bearing bush we never could identify.

Lars and I added to the greenery by hedging in the yard with Chinese Elm hedges. We also planted English Hedge Roses at the point of the triangle. Gorgeous.

But that was all a very long time ago.

The boxwoods suffered and died after two winters with 30+ feet of snow. Scott replaced them with two lovely replacement shrubs last year, which promptly died in the wicked drought a few weeks later.

The bush that the birds loved was the first to be choked by the neighbor's ill-fated attempt at landscaping, which resulted in Morning Glory, rampant, predatory, killer Morning Glory attacking my plants and choking them in their sleep. A few years later, when Lars had left, I planted a Pink Smoke tree. It was tiny but I was patient. I put a little wire fence around it and when my brother came to mow my lawn, I'd left him a note warning him that it was there. Not to mow over it. I'd even drawn a diagram. He chucked the fence aside and mowed it down. That and the hostas I'd planted along the sides of the porch steps.

The rhododendron, also choked by the Morning Glory, began to die in large dry, rotting sections. Scott and I systematically removed the dead parts leaving a spindly little flowerless tree that drew attention to the air conditioning unit instead of concealing it.

The Chinese Elm hedges were now more like trees. They grow several feet in a week. I bought my first saw and hedge trimmer with my first post-divorce-settlement pay check. But still, they are out of control sections at a time. I cut a section, a section whose size is determined by the battery strength of the trimmer and my arm strength only, and by the time I've finished the entire project, it needs to be started again. At once.

And now that my home's interior is showroom perfect, except for the kitchen and bath, (OK, maybe "showroom" is an exaggeration!) it is my yard that screams of neglect.

I put on my gardening clogs and step out to survey the damage. Or rather, with an eye toward the glass being half full with coffee, to seize the opportunities that lie before me and my clippers and shovel.

Someone's in the Kitchen with Liza

It's time. I am going to boldly go where I have not gone before. Well maybe not so boldly. Not exactly peeing my pants, but not at all confidently.

I am going to get my kitchen redone.

Gasp.

My house is about 100 years old. It has all the charming features that an old house has, and even a few modern upgrades. I have beautiful mahogany inlay floors. But I have reached the maximum roof capacity and when I go to have it replaced, they will have to strip them all off...right down to and including the cedar shake, which is not even an approved roof material anymore. I have marvelous radiator heat, but I also have high velocity central air conditioning. When I stripped (some of the most uncommonly ugly) wallpaper from every wall in the house, we got down to the original unpainted plaster. I put the first coats of paint on the 80 year old virgin walls. However my kitchen was last remodeled in 1980 and so was the bathroom. And even though I have dutifully replaced appliances and the toilet and the bathroom sink, both rooms desperately need an upgrade.

I even have a very good idea about what I'd like the finished rooms to look like. I've torn out pictures from magazines and learned about what features appeal to me and can even articulate some of it quite competently.

The problem is, I have no idea where to begin. I don't know who to articulate it to. And am having an inferiority complex about it. And a general sense of mistrust about contractors.

Is it wrong to have a firm budget for something like this? I imagine myself talking to a contractor and him shaking his head like I am an idiot when I say I'd prefer to go with the subway tile backsplash instead of the individually hand-cast Aztec artifact-inspired tiles. Or refuse to have the window that faces the patio removed and replaced with a smaller, better positioned one to give me more counter top mileage, because my budget doesn't have room for reconstruction of a window space and plastering and stucco and exterior paint and a whole new window to replace the relatively new window that's there, just so I can roll out gingerbread men with room to spare at Christmas. Will he think I'm a silly little numbskull when I don't want to change the footprint of the room, when really, it is smaller than my office, or I want to keep my 10 year old appliances, because they work and they fit and I can't begin to imagine knocking down walls and expanding into God-only-knows-where? If I had the money to do all of these things, wouldn't they be done by now, or wouldn't I have moved? I imagine the contractor walking away muttering obscenities to himself and swearing at me for wasting his time.

This scares me. I don't want anyone thinking I am a cheapskate or stupid.

But before anyone can even have an opportunity to think those things I have to get started. And I have absolutely no idea where to start to even begin to invite the insults. But I do have an idea where where the warm-up circle is.

Charlotte.

Charlotte has redone every room in her house. Some of them twice. She's even remodeled her laundry room, for Christ's sake. And I am fairly certain she didn't start out with more to go on than I have at the moment.

She probably just had a vision. Just like I have a vision. I will call her to see if she knows how I can begin to give my vision wings.

If I am to make my vision come to life, my super hero Charlotte needs to pay a visit. I'll invite her for wine. Nothing makes a vision come to life better than wine.

Now we're getting somewhere.

Happy Birthday, Tang and Cigarettes

Happy birthday to my blog.

Well, it was actually Friday, but I had a story to finish. So today I post the first blog in my third year of blogging. Faithfully, through thick and thin, through laughter and tears, through triumphs and defeats. Every day, Monday through Friday. Fifty-two weeks a year. Each day the same circus with an occasional variation on the ensemble of clowns, saving one, the clown in charge, me.

And how far we've traveled, you and I, in the past two years.

I remember the insanity of Chuck and Em's wedding bringing some things sharply into focus and actually giving life to this blog. It was as if I'd turned a stone in a lovely garden to find maggots and grubs and worms and toads. The experience had been painful for J. and me. I'd spared my kids the hurt of it, but there was more hurt yet to come.

In the year that followed I began to see J. with the same clarity. What he'd become. The lows he'd stooped to. The liberties he'd taken, and worse, the liberties he'd felt entitled to take. The worst were those he took and lied about, but I'd discovered anyway. The lying was defining for me.

I am not sure my exit from his life was entirely about his feelings for me (though the bizarre life sized, unauthorized tattoo of my Facebook profile picture on his scrawny little thigh sort of suggests that he was infatuated to a degree that surpassed mere garden variety insanity.) I can't even look at the actual photo, it creeps me out so badly. It's a shame. It was a most flattering shot of me, looking fine with all of my fine girlfriends on one of our Rock Star vacations to Arizona. I hope it isn't ruined for them too. But that would be just J.'s style. Scorch someone else's beloved "something" to suit his own pathetic interests.

But it could have been just one more of his outrageous grand gestures to prove to me that he was madly in love with me. ("Madly" doesn't even scratch the surface, frankly.) Just like driving two hours to show up at Girls Weekend or driving me to an interview in Harrisburg as a sign of support for my career.

But really, it was all just so that I'd stay close. Stay stupid. Stay in a state of unwavering willingness to help. To pitch in. To provide Christmas for his girls when he'd hit a rough financial patch. To help him move. To go against my principles and get roped into his insane schemes. To trust him when he demonstrated time and time again that I could not. Should not. I kept going back into the burning building over and over again, trying to salvage something meaningful, and getting scorched each time.

But I've happily, joyfully, left that in the past and have enjoyed falling in love and being in love with Scott. Our future is in Fate's hands, as all the usual pressures try to tear at the fabric of our relationship in spite of our devotion. But no matter where we take this road, I have learned a lot about myself and about love and about the goodness of other people. J. is an anomaly. A sad, pathetic, insignificant wart on all that is beautiful in this world. And I know I am deserving of so much more. Scott. His girls. His love and his kindnesses.

Scott and I have shared much, have enjoyed much, have adventured much. I am a happier, healthier, smilier, more boyant version of myself. He has shown me a way to take serious things seriously without taking it all too seriously. We've taken our overwhelming lives and put them in a much better perspective. I am more peaceful than I've ever been. And my kids have never been in better emotional health.

I have had not one, but two full on blow out rifts with my mother. Both around the holidays. The first nagged at me; implored me to mend it. The second was much more permanent in its finality. My mother wants me to be the subservient, obedient, controllable fool she has always thought my siblings and me to be. When I refused, she rejected me. And I her. Period. Nothing since has compelled me to call her or invite her back in to my life. I doubt that will be a door I'll open.

But compared to the beginning of the first and second years of my blog, I am in a place of realitive peace. And so as I start year three in the blogosphere, I realize that a life of near bliss and contentment is far less entertaining than one filled with chaos and heartache, but I am committed to sharing my musings five days a week, if only as a diary for my children to read one day. And of course for my own sense of sanity. Putting words to my experiences has always helped me make sense of them, even when they defy logic and intuition.

So happy birthday to my blog. Tang and Cigarettes, in many ways, you've saved me. Even if only from myself.