I Knew You Were Trouble When You Walked In

And so what do I do about the loneliness?  The boredom? The isolation?

I look for trouble, natch.  Trouble is not hard to find if you know where to look.

I know where to look, I assure you.

First there is Charlotte's son Griffin's graduation.  Be advised, people. Charlotte and I should never be seated next to one another at Mass. Or any other solemn occasion. It is a recipe for disaster.

She's actually made me laugh out loud at a funeral. At the grave site. No kidding.

There was a time once, when Charlotte and I took my kids to church on a weekend visit to her cottage. Small town - everyone is related to or has known each other for years. As the vocalist approaches the podium we stand with our hymnals. And then she opens her mouth to sing.

Loud and clear. And flat and profoundly tone deaf.

I glance at Charlotte. She does not take her eyes off of the hymnal but raises one arched eyebrow in recognition of my glance, smirking as she reverently sings.

And to my everlasting horror I laugh out loud. OUT LOUD! Disturbing the peace! Creating a disturbance! My children look up at me. I try to pretend that I'm coughing. I. Can. Not. Stop. Laughing.

I have to excuse myself and leave the church, passing completely aghast people as I pass them in the aisle. I get a drink of water at the fountain in the vestibule. It is a full ten minutes before I can sufficiently collect myself to return to the congregation.

It will not be the first or the last time for such antics.

Griffin's graduation is on a glorious sun-soaked day. I get to Charlotte's early enough to ride along with her and Jack. We are going to need some time to rehash a few events from the morning.

Estelle has not fallen and broken her face like she had this time last year, but does look like she picked out her outfit in the dark.  It is a mishmash of pieces that don't coordinate especially well (schizophrenically, to be honest) but seem to have been chosen for their ability to conceal her evolving figure flaws.  (She's 75 for God's sake. I'd expect a few uncooperative body parts.) Her hair has taken on the size and texture of a squirrel's nest. She'd wearing suntan pantyhose (gasp!) with open-toed sandals (Say it ain't so!).

But I greet her warmly and tell her she looks smashing. Bill is dressed like an aging member of a bowling league who doesn't have a prayer of concealing the figure flaws.  He hugs me hello (I avoid the gross kiss) and the only thing he can think to say to me is "You are wasting away to nothing."

No Bill. I am not.

I can hear the eyes rolling in Jack and Charlotte's heads.