Joy? No. Hell.

I may have shared this before, but it is worth repeating: I remember when my mother was about 40 and she'd said, "I love being the age I am. I don't have to take any crap from anyone."

Let's be clear. Mom was never the type to take a lot of grief sitting down. Someone who chose to rattle her cage would only ever attempt it one time. Mom's obituary will not contain the words "shy and retiring." No shrinking violet, she.

Well, in her 40s, Mom was just revving her engines. In her 70s, Mom is a well-oiled machine.

Mom and I, if you remember, had exchanged little nasty-grams while I was off being a good citizen and serving on jury duty. My patience waning, I'd told her I had no interest in her particular brand of craziness and she should cease and desist any further contact. Especially the nasty variety. I can get my fill of nasty anywhere. Who needs it from my mother?

Pissed beyond redemption, she'd set her sites on Charlotte and had tried to turn her against me. Mom is a bully that way. I can almost hear her saying "I'll show you, you little pipsqueak. I'll ruin you. You may as well leave town."

And as they always do, while this verbal volleyball match of who said what to whom and why, and Who Shot John, and which person commmitted the worst foul against whom and is therefore most deserving of the gas chamber, the holidays roll around.

Joy of joys. Unprecedented awkward family togetherness on the horizon.

Or not.

Charlotte's intestines turn into a Jacob's Ladder of silly string at the mere mention of Christmas. She almost always hosts our Christmas Eve gathering. A carefully orchestrated collection of beloved family, family members we'd sooner choke than converse with, and friends to whom our family dynamics need no explaining and who will be holding a fresh drink and rolling their eyes with us at all the appropriate Kodak moments.

But this year is different. I am on Estelle's Shit List (which is longer than the Naughty List and the Nice List COMBINED)and she is on my Shoot On Sight list. Bill barely tolerates any of us on the best of days and within an hour of the commencement of the festivities will be ass-faced and slurring obscenities about me loudly enough for me to hear. Loudly enough for most of the residents of the Asian Pacific islands to hear. My brother Joe is persona non grata and has been for years. There may as well be an elephant in the room. Two elephants if he brings his shrew wife. Two elephants in coordinating corduroy Disney attire, most likely. And their unruly progeny. Get out the Clorox wipes.

But I have a solution.

What if I host Christmas Eve?

I have no moral or ethical issue with excluding my brother. The Blessed Mother herself could step from behind the ficus tree and petition my cooperation. I'd hold my ground.

Mom and I are not speaking. She's not even getting a Christmas card much less an invitation. And she won't give me the satisfaction of reaching out to say she'd like to come when she learns of the plan we've hatched. And it's not like Bill even wants to come. Excluding him plays right into his hands.

Charlotte's angst is in overdrive. What will Mom say? She'll know we are in collusion.

She'll know she's been outsmarted, that's what. That is the beauty of it.

I can practically hear Charlotte smile. Signed, sealed, delivered. Christmas Eve is at my house.

Writer's Block Unblocked

And so here it is, more than two weeks since my last entry - without a syllable in between. It will be interesting to see who may still be tuning.Re-reading. Composing a "Where the hell are you?" email in their heads.

I've been here. I just haven't been here.

The crime of it all is that I have so much to write and yet, with all this living going on, very little time to write it. Truly a Catch-22. A good one. I think.

My blog sprang to life just over 4 years ago. A PMS medication and chardonnay induced rant, memorialized in cyberspace on the advice of my constant supporter, my sister Charlotte, who thought my inflammatory, incendiary emails on every aspect of my life (which has a tendency to unravel at the most inopportune times) needed to be shared with the public.

I toyed with the idea. I needed one more commitment like I needed a frontal lobotomy. (No comments, smart asses!.) But there was something liberating about writing it all down and sending it out into the universe to be read or ignored. To inspire or deflate. To entertain or to annoy. Words have such power.

And now, all these years later...

Two jobs later.
Two villainous boyfriends later.
Two bad breakups later.
A bad haircut or two later.
An ill fated tattoo later.
A lot of bad dates later.
A lot of wonderful dates later.
A thousand miles on foot later.
Two middle school bullying issues, untold Lars conflicts, and a percolating family feud later.
Countless hilarious stories, outrageously fun Thelma and Louise road trips, bizarre encounters with society's outcasts, endless buffoonery, and a million moments that made me scratch my head (no matter what my hair color might be at the moment)later.

Here I am crying "Uncle!"

No, I am not abandoning Tang and Cigarettes. That would be nothing short of criminal. There aren't enough happy hours in the world to share all the stories that desperately scream to be retold. Someone needs to tell them.

But I do feel that Tang and Cigarettes will be stubbed out in the big orange plastic ashtray of Life if I don't do something.

So here is what I've decided.

I will write when I am inspired and only when I am inspired.

I will write when I should and not when I think I am expected to.

I will write with purpose, not for writing's sake.

And maybe, just maybe, if I let inspiration be my guide, this meandering story of my life will find itself going somewhere meaningful and the story will unfold before you. Wouldn't that be something to write about?