With some of us showered and some of us not, we head out to the bar across the way. Close enough that no one has to call a cab, and even better, close enough to sneak out to use the bathroom at the hotel if the ladies room line is as long as it usually gets.
We are in luck. Arrive before the band takes the stage and the cover charge is imposed. Sweet. We head upstairs to the roof top bar to get cocktails and watch the sun set.
This bar used to be the magnet bar for young people when we were young people. Its property reached the dunes and and it had lots of outdoor space and took on the feel of a big beach bash. Then a few years ago, a competing bar with no beachfront space forced the city to enforce a code that disallows drinking on the beach, and the sandy yard by the open air bars was forced to close. It has never been the same.
Since then it attracts older people. Even a little older than us now that we are technically older people. It has finally become fun again. We have finally closed the gap a little between us and the crowd that goes there. No more 22 year olds. No more old fogies. Just us. In the middle. Dare I say, middle-aged. OMG. No, I won't.
We hear the band beginning to warm up and head to the first floor. Take up residence in the area perfectly situated between the bar and the dance floor. Most excellent. And most practical.
We run into some people Kate knows. One we've dubbed Bunny. As in Bunny-in-the-Pot Crazy. The other, Lady Liberty. I know we've been told her name a thousand times, I just can never remember it, the other details about her so overpowering. She's well over 6 feet tall, stunning, dated a famous now dead political figure, and we've never, ever, not even once seen her in anything other than a floor length gown. One that overemphasizes her boobs, but mostly by leaving the entire cross-strap of her bra showing in the back. Hooks and stains and all. Pretty.
We are making polite conversation, as best we can with Bunny and Liberty, when Kate appears next to me.
"I am about to be in a fight, I think."
And it's not even 9 o'clock.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Kate arrives every year, with the 30-pack of beer, but hilariously having not learned from the last.
Or maybe she has. She's learned that an underpacked suitcase merely increases her wardrobe choices, because the rest of us have plenty of choices for ourselves and have graciously thrown in a few items for her as well. And she leaves herself an excuse to shop also. Perfect.
She has often arrived on one of these trips with only one bathing suit...or maybe two, but at least one will be summarily thrown in the trash once we see it. Like the one with the elastic out of the leg which left the fabric dangling away from her body on the verge of indecency. That one, after the photographic proof had been secured, nearly went into the garbage disposal.
Jewelry. I always have jewelry to complete each of my outfits and then a few extra pieces in case I need to loan them out, or change my mind when the outfit is ultimately assembled. Joy too. Kate will be wearing the same earrings she's worn day in and day out for years. To work, to the gym. Dinner with her husband. Lunch with the ladies. Funerals, the delivery room, running a marathon. It's not that she doesn't have lots of jewelry. It just rarely comes out of the jewelry box to play. I don't blame her. Other people's jewelry is so much more fun. Think of the red carpet. What starlet is wearing her own diamonds?
Clothes. Hates her shorts but packed them anyway. Chose a shirt that she likes but not for this. Brought a skirt but feels like a sow in it. Not at all sure about the shoes with any of it. Has short short dress but not the right slip or bra. And there aren't enough choices in the bag to make the changes she wants now that we are here.
At least not in her bag. Joy and I have packed for a small crowd and have lots of wardrobe changes. And jewelry to match. And shoes. Someone will always have a spare pair she can pull the outfit together with. And maybe even a belt, though her belt collection usually doesn't disappoint. It is fun to start shopping for her in your own suitcase. She tries things on until we name a winner. It is a fashion show not unlike What Not to Wear.
Hair products. We could open a salon with the arsenal we have among us. Kate has great hair but rarely a product. One of us usually gets to take a few liberties to sex her up. And has a sharpener for the lip liner that has been worn to a nub and a little bronzer and highlighter. And lotion. And a curling or straightening iron or whatever other contraption is needed. Penny is usually the defacto stylist. She can make her hair or anyone else's do almost anything. And has a wig or two if she can't. We've all taken a turn in front of her mirror.
It is part of the fun. What girls are designed to do. Having a friend wear your clothes and look fabulous in them is a joy to experience. Validating. Intimate. Demonstrates the commitment to your friendship. What fun would it be to segregate the closet space and lock up our jewelry and squirrel away our miracle products? These things are for sharing. Sharing that is done in the spirit of girlfriends. We want eachother to be our best selves. And are happy to donate to the cause.
And all step out for the evening perfectly turned out, even in each other's esteemed opinions.
And it is only the first night. The fun is just beginning.
Or maybe she has. She's learned that an underpacked suitcase merely increases her wardrobe choices, because the rest of us have plenty of choices for ourselves and have graciously thrown in a few items for her as well. And she leaves herself an excuse to shop also. Perfect.
She has often arrived on one of these trips with only one bathing suit...or maybe two, but at least one will be summarily thrown in the trash once we see it. Like the one with the elastic out of the leg which left the fabric dangling away from her body on the verge of indecency. That one, after the photographic proof had been secured, nearly went into the garbage disposal.
Jewelry. I always have jewelry to complete each of my outfits and then a few extra pieces in case I need to loan them out, or change my mind when the outfit is ultimately assembled. Joy too. Kate will be wearing the same earrings she's worn day in and day out for years. To work, to the gym. Dinner with her husband. Lunch with the ladies. Funerals, the delivery room, running a marathon. It's not that she doesn't have lots of jewelry. It just rarely comes out of the jewelry box to play. I don't blame her. Other people's jewelry is so much more fun. Think of the red carpet. What starlet is wearing her own diamonds?
Clothes. Hates her shorts but packed them anyway. Chose a shirt that she likes but not for this. Brought a skirt but feels like a sow in it. Not at all sure about the shoes with any of it. Has short short dress but not the right slip or bra. And there aren't enough choices in the bag to make the changes she wants now that we are here.
At least not in her bag. Joy and I have packed for a small crowd and have lots of wardrobe changes. And jewelry to match. And shoes. Someone will always have a spare pair she can pull the outfit together with. And maybe even a belt, though her belt collection usually doesn't disappoint. It is fun to start shopping for her in your own suitcase. She tries things on until we name a winner. It is a fashion show not unlike What Not to Wear.
Hair products. We could open a salon with the arsenal we have among us. Kate has great hair but rarely a product. One of us usually gets to take a few liberties to sex her up. And has a sharpener for the lip liner that has been worn to a nub and a little bronzer and highlighter. And lotion. And a curling or straightening iron or whatever other contraption is needed. Penny is usually the defacto stylist. She can make her hair or anyone else's do almost anything. And has a wig or two if she can't. We've all taken a turn in front of her mirror.
It is part of the fun. What girls are designed to do. Having a friend wear your clothes and look fabulous in them is a joy to experience. Validating. Intimate. Demonstrates the commitment to your friendship. What fun would it be to segregate the closet space and lock up our jewelry and squirrel away our miracle products? These things are for sharing. Sharing that is done in the spirit of girlfriends. We want eachother to be our best selves. And are happy to donate to the cause.
And all step out for the evening perfectly turned out, even in each other's esteemed opinions.
And it is only the first night. The fun is just beginning.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Queens of the Road
No time to dwell on the details of someone else’s life for now. I have a Girls Weekend to prepare for.
As Girls Weekends go, I consider myself fortunate. What started with an annual pilgrimage to the shore, turned into that plus a Rock Star vacation to a dessert resort out west, to those plus an ad hoc trip to another city or the home of a friend who lives remotely in some desirable fun location. All in the same year. And maybe even one more trip. All with a bevy of beauties I call my dearest friends.
This trip is to the shore. Not that we get to the beach. We rent as many rooms as needed, all in a row, always in the same hotel, for as many as 20 women, but more often than not, the steady ender 5 or 6 that would only miss the trip because of pregnancy, near death experience, or disfiguring flesh-eating disease.
We’ve been doing this for over 20 years – and this year will be no different. At different times during the day, Joy, Penny, Kate, Kelly, Jill and I will take to our cars, each of us buffed, waxed, mani-ed and pedi-ed, with suitcases packed to where the zipper tines are screaming for mercy. All with cell phones affixed to our heads so that we can keep in constant touch and track each other’s ETAs.
Preparing for this trip is quite an undertaking. Some of these girls I see only a few times a year. It is time to get your very best Girl on. Haircut timed so that it is at its peak for the weekend. Hair color similarly timed. Diets and workout regiment strictly adhered to for weeks. And that is to say nothing of the meticulous attention to packing the right outfit choices, the right number of choices, the perfect shoes, jewelry and accessories for each and every anticipated activity.
There is a minimum of three bathing suits – one for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Plan to wear the one that requires the best shape on Friday before the drinking and fatty foods and late night snacking takes its toll on the beach body you’ve whipped into shape for just this occasion. The suits should each be making their Girls Weekend Debut. None shall have made the trip before.
Pool attire worn over the suits should be casual enough to be considered “not trying too hard” but flattering enough that it can make the trip to the beach bar without embarrassing the others.
Outfits. Friday is generally casual. Very casual. I should be prepared to sit poolside drinking canned beer from Kate’s collapsible cooler that makes the trip every year. We could be sitting there all night.
But in case we aren’t, I should have a No Shower Happy Hour outfit planned. One where I ditch the suit and put on something that a) won’t get permanently ruined by my suntan lotion and b) can be worn into the bar with a pair of flip-flops and my hair either in a pony tail or under a hat.
Oh yes, and something for Kate. Her suitcase will not be screaming for mercy. She may not actually have a suitcase.
As Girls Weekends go, I consider myself fortunate. What started with an annual pilgrimage to the shore, turned into that plus a Rock Star vacation to a dessert resort out west, to those plus an ad hoc trip to another city or the home of a friend who lives remotely in some desirable fun location. All in the same year. And maybe even one more trip. All with a bevy of beauties I call my dearest friends.
This trip is to the shore. Not that we get to the beach. We rent as many rooms as needed, all in a row, always in the same hotel, for as many as 20 women, but more often than not, the steady ender 5 or 6 that would only miss the trip because of pregnancy, near death experience, or disfiguring flesh-eating disease.
We’ve been doing this for over 20 years – and this year will be no different. At different times during the day, Joy, Penny, Kate, Kelly, Jill and I will take to our cars, each of us buffed, waxed, mani-ed and pedi-ed, with suitcases packed to where the zipper tines are screaming for mercy. All with cell phones affixed to our heads so that we can keep in constant touch and track each other’s ETAs.
Preparing for this trip is quite an undertaking. Some of these girls I see only a few times a year. It is time to get your very best Girl on. Haircut timed so that it is at its peak for the weekend. Hair color similarly timed. Diets and workout regiment strictly adhered to for weeks. And that is to say nothing of the meticulous attention to packing the right outfit choices, the right number of choices, the perfect shoes, jewelry and accessories for each and every anticipated activity.
There is a minimum of three bathing suits – one for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Plan to wear the one that requires the best shape on Friday before the drinking and fatty foods and late night snacking takes its toll on the beach body you’ve whipped into shape for just this occasion. The suits should each be making their Girls Weekend Debut. None shall have made the trip before.
Pool attire worn over the suits should be casual enough to be considered “not trying too hard” but flattering enough that it can make the trip to the beach bar without embarrassing the others.
Outfits. Friday is generally casual. Very casual. I should be prepared to sit poolside drinking canned beer from Kate’s collapsible cooler that makes the trip every year. We could be sitting there all night.
But in case we aren’t, I should have a No Shower Happy Hour outfit planned. One where I ditch the suit and put on something that a) won’t get permanently ruined by my suntan lotion and b) can be worn into the bar with a pair of flip-flops and my hair either in a pony tail or under a hat.
Oh yes, and something for Kate. Her suitcase will not be screaming for mercy. She may not actually have a suitcase.
Friday, August 26, 2011
The Queen is in her Castle
The kids return to me on Friday and I am thrilled to see them. Take them to see the Glee concert movie. We sing and rock in our seats from beginning to end. I dare you to see it and try not to sing along. It is impossible. Don't bring around a cloud to rain my parade!
The next day, Hil wants to make pancakes. This is an activity still needing supervision and provides a perfect opportunity to take a pulse check on her reaction to the pending marriage. And maybe do a little prying.
"So, sweetie... Oh see the bubbles? That means it's time to flip. Careful. Good! Ok, so tell me. What did you think about Dad's big news?
She turns with a big excited smile and enthusiastically squishes down the pancake with a spatula. I tell her not to turn the light and fluffy little things into frisbees.
"OK" she giggles and is ready to gush about the wedding.
"So they don't know when they are getting married but we have already looked at gowns!"
Clearly Liza has had notions about her Big Day that have festered and percolated for decades without evolving chronologically. A gown at our age is just weird.
But Hil is thrilled with the pageantry so it is fun to hear about.
"And they looked at one country club they like. It's really really nice. Over by the mall."
I had imagined a rain forest by a waterfall and a rainbow, but a country club will do. Lars will have to play along, however unnatural the setting is. It would be like setting down your pet toad in the rose garden.
"And her ring is so beautiful!" I had imagined something with some meaningful crystals. Lars's way of showing his respect for her beliefs while also respecting his wallet, natch.
"It is a big diamond, with 8 other diamonds!" I am shocked. Lars must have found a bag of money somewhere. It's not like him to part with cash for something as frivolous as an engagement ring.
"So, Hil," I say as she pours another pancake into the sizzling pan. "How is Liza able to shop for a dress when she doesn't know what season she is getting married in? What if she likes a summery little thing and ends up with a January wedding date?"
"Well the one she really likes looks just like Kate Middleton's. But she's not going to get it."
"Oh, no? Why not?"
"Because it's $800 and Dad says it's too expensive."
Now, that's more like it.
The next day, Hil wants to make pancakes. This is an activity still needing supervision and provides a perfect opportunity to take a pulse check on her reaction to the pending marriage. And maybe do a little prying.
"So, sweetie... Oh see the bubbles? That means it's time to flip. Careful. Good! Ok, so tell me. What did you think about Dad's big news?
She turns with a big excited smile and enthusiastically squishes down the pancake with a spatula. I tell her not to turn the light and fluffy little things into frisbees.
"OK" she giggles and is ready to gush about the wedding.
"So they don't know when they are getting married but we have already looked at gowns!"
Clearly Liza has had notions about her Big Day that have festered and percolated for decades without evolving chronologically. A gown at our age is just weird.
But Hil is thrilled with the pageantry so it is fun to hear about.
"And they looked at one country club they like. It's really really nice. Over by the mall."
I had imagined a rain forest by a waterfall and a rainbow, but a country club will do. Lars will have to play along, however unnatural the setting is. It would be like setting down your pet toad in the rose garden.
"And her ring is so beautiful!" I had imagined something with some meaningful crystals. Lars's way of showing his respect for her beliefs while also respecting his wallet, natch.
"It is a big diamond, with 8 other diamonds!" I am shocked. Lars must have found a bag of money somewhere. It's not like him to part with cash for something as frivolous as an engagement ring.
"So, Hil," I say as she pours another pancake into the sizzling pan. "How is Liza able to shop for a dress when she doesn't know what season she is getting married in? What if she likes a summery little thing and ends up with a January wedding date?"
"Well the one she really likes looks just like Kate Middleton's. But she's not going to get it."
"Oh, no? Why not?"
"Because it's $800 and Dad says it's too expensive."
Now, that's more like it.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
The Royal Wedding, Part Two
I am momentarily so distracted by my own reaction to Lars's Big News that I almost forget to wonder about the kids.
Part of me wants to be The Bigger Person and send a lovely sincere Congratulations on Your Engagement card - from me and Scott. But that would not only be suspect, it would be false. I could really not care less. No skin in the game. No horse in the race. No money wagered. Yesterday's news is already tomorrow's fish-n-chips paper, to loosely quote Elvis Costello.
But I am wondering how the kids handled the news. But I'll have to wait for them to return to get the deets. I am sure there would be fierce hairy eyeballs aplenty if either of them were overheard talking about Lars's private matters to the enemy.
In the mean time, I feel compelled to share the update with friends and family.
I send an FB message to friends I worked closely with who had a front row daily ticket to the misadventures of my unraveling marriage. Tell them not to be too heartbroken, Lars was Oh-ficially Off the Market.
The response is universal disbelief that anyone would take on such a charity case, and speculation that Liza is one float short of a parade herself. Straight from the Land of Misfit Toys. A Clearance Bride.
I text Charlotte. Get a prompt "WTF?" followed by "Eeeewwwww." And then finally, "Does this mean you can stop paying so much child support?"
Email my Besties, mentioning the inkling that I had that he was gloating. The responses are supportive and immediate:
"What an ass."
"No seller's remorse there!"
"OMG it's hilarious that you both have the same name. Gross."
My office pals are filled in on Monday. Yoga Liza and His Royal Nastiness would become Mr. and Mrs. Nastiness sometime soon.
Practically rolling on the floor with laughter, they describe their visions of a hippy wedding Liza in a gauzy lace A-line, bell-sleeved get up and a daisy chain in her uncolored, home cut, wildly untamed hair. Lars would be in a Nehru jacket and Birkenstocks, for sure. So flattering on his troll feet.
Through tears of hysteria they imagine bridesmaids all in Chantilly lace dyed in all the colors of the chakras. A barefoot mandolin player. Chanting. Patchouli. Officiation provided by the religion Liza practices that favors doughnuts and bowling.
I realize that this could be great fun to watch my rigid and opinionated yet unprincipled and unconcerned with tradition ex-husband attempt to abide by Liza's life-long dreams for her counterculture hippy-dippy nuptials.
Move over Will and Kate. It is a reality show in the making.
Part of me wants to be The Bigger Person and send a lovely sincere Congratulations on Your Engagement card - from me and Scott. But that would not only be suspect, it would be false. I could really not care less. No skin in the game. No horse in the race. No money wagered. Yesterday's news is already tomorrow's fish-n-chips paper, to loosely quote Elvis Costello.
But I am wondering how the kids handled the news. But I'll have to wait for them to return to get the deets. I am sure there would be fierce hairy eyeballs aplenty if either of them were overheard talking about Lars's private matters to the enemy.
In the mean time, I feel compelled to share the update with friends and family.
I send an FB message to friends I worked closely with who had a front row daily ticket to the misadventures of my unraveling marriage. Tell them not to be too heartbroken, Lars was Oh-ficially Off the Market.
The response is universal disbelief that anyone would take on such a charity case, and speculation that Liza is one float short of a parade herself. Straight from the Land of Misfit Toys. A Clearance Bride.
I text Charlotte. Get a prompt "WTF?" followed by "Eeeewwwww." And then finally, "Does this mean you can stop paying so much child support?"
Email my Besties, mentioning the inkling that I had that he was gloating. The responses are supportive and immediate:
"What an ass."
"No seller's remorse there!"
"OMG it's hilarious that you both have the same name. Gross."
My office pals are filled in on Monday. Yoga Liza and His Royal Nastiness would become Mr. and Mrs. Nastiness sometime soon.
Practically rolling on the floor with laughter, they describe their visions of a hippy wedding Liza in a gauzy lace A-line, bell-sleeved get up and a daisy chain in her uncolored, home cut, wildly untamed hair. Lars would be in a Nehru jacket and Birkenstocks, for sure. So flattering on his troll feet.
Through tears of hysteria they imagine bridesmaids all in Chantilly lace dyed in all the colors of the chakras. A barefoot mandolin player. Chanting. Patchouli. Officiation provided by the religion Liza practices that favors doughnuts and bowling.
I realize that this could be great fun to watch my rigid and opinionated yet unprincipled and unconcerned with tradition ex-husband attempt to abide by Liza's life-long dreams for her counterculture hippy-dippy nuptials.
Move over Will and Kate. It is a reality show in the making.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
The Enemy Camp
I am privately wigging.
My kids will have another mother figure - only now on an official basis. Not that I am concerned about being upstaged. I have no such insecurities. It is more a matter of trust. I don't really know Liza. What if she asserts some bizarre parenting rites and rituals, and Lars is too pilled out and lazy to object? No one gets grounded. You have to hoola hoop for an hour and recite 18th century poetry.
And Lars is a Pollyanna when it comes to matters with the children. Won't ever face a real problem and foolishly believes everything is just fine while chaos and mayhem erupt all around him. There are going to be changes in the kids' lives as a result of this. Hopefully all good changes, but changes nonetheless. And someone needs to grease the skids. I am worried that Lars will just go on naively believing that his union with Liza is such a magical thing that it will bring pixie dust and moonbeams to all it touches and the kids will go blindly into the maelstrom of Big Change without a competent escort. Shouldn't someone be talking about it? I mean, in more significant terms than "What will we call Liza now that she's sort of your mom?"
And Liza has gone off to Canada recently to become an ordained minister in some fringe religion. Lars, who is too lazy to practice any faith may just delegate matters of faith to her, even though from the moment they were born we have practiced (the kids and I, at least) our Roman Catholic faith. What if there is now some sort of competing faith and it involves doughnuts and bowling and is way more fun?
And my worst fear has come home to roost.
Lars has made a life out of surrounding himself with people who do not conflict with him at any cost. Will not assert a dissenting opinion, will not argue a point, will not share an observation that enlightens. He is so very unpleasant and confrontational to disagree with, about anything however benign or significant, that even his closest friends and confidants do not ever go more than a few steps into a disagreement. It is clear he will happily annihilate you.
And now he's chosen a bride that will fit that mold. She's about my age (I would guess older from her appearance) and has never been married (Hello! Waving the caution flag!) so she has no experience with which to judge Lars as a spouse. I've heard him speaking to her in the background when I've been on the phone with the kids. He has the same harsh, "you're an idiot and I can't believe I tolerate you, get it through your head that I am superior" attitude with her that he eventually took with me. And the kids have shared similar observations. So she is another powerless person tasked with endlessly trying to please him, when it simply can not be done. So when he acts like a kook, and it is her place to call him on it, she won't. No one does.
And since she's never been a spouse or a housewife or a mother, she has no basis with which to challenge his bizarre parenting style - bullying, intimidation, ignoring a problem and hoping it goes away. She's tried and failed. The kids have told me she's interjected when he's been on a tear. Told him maybe he's being too harsh. And he's told her to go fly a kite (or something similar). So she will not conflict with him at her own expense for the benefit of the children. So now there are two misguided parental figures to my one. Two people who will stand up in court and fight me (even if one is there only under duress) if I assert that Lars is the unfit parent he is.
So really, I could not care less who or when or if Lars marries. It is a non-issue as a matter of the heart. But what matters to me most is the change in dynamics for the children. And I worry for them.
I suppose I always will. As they grow up, the worries just evolve, they don't go away. And this is what defines being a parent, I guess. Miles to go before I sleep.
My kids will have another mother figure - only now on an official basis. Not that I am concerned about being upstaged. I have no such insecurities. It is more a matter of trust. I don't really know Liza. What if she asserts some bizarre parenting rites and rituals, and Lars is too pilled out and lazy to object? No one gets grounded. You have to hoola hoop for an hour and recite 18th century poetry.
And Lars is a Pollyanna when it comes to matters with the children. Won't ever face a real problem and foolishly believes everything is just fine while chaos and mayhem erupt all around him. There are going to be changes in the kids' lives as a result of this. Hopefully all good changes, but changes nonetheless. And someone needs to grease the skids. I am worried that Lars will just go on naively believing that his union with Liza is such a magical thing that it will bring pixie dust and moonbeams to all it touches and the kids will go blindly into the maelstrom of Big Change without a competent escort. Shouldn't someone be talking about it? I mean, in more significant terms than "What will we call Liza now that she's sort of your mom?"
And Liza has gone off to Canada recently to become an ordained minister in some fringe religion. Lars, who is too lazy to practice any faith may just delegate matters of faith to her, even though from the moment they were born we have practiced (the kids and I, at least) our Roman Catholic faith. What if there is now some sort of competing faith and it involves doughnuts and bowling and is way more fun?
And my worst fear has come home to roost.
Lars has made a life out of surrounding himself with people who do not conflict with him at any cost. Will not assert a dissenting opinion, will not argue a point, will not share an observation that enlightens. He is so very unpleasant and confrontational to disagree with, about anything however benign or significant, that even his closest friends and confidants do not ever go more than a few steps into a disagreement. It is clear he will happily annihilate you.
And now he's chosen a bride that will fit that mold. She's about my age (I would guess older from her appearance) and has never been married (Hello! Waving the caution flag!) so she has no experience with which to judge Lars as a spouse. I've heard him speaking to her in the background when I've been on the phone with the kids. He has the same harsh, "you're an idiot and I can't believe I tolerate you, get it through your head that I am superior" attitude with her that he eventually took with me. And the kids have shared similar observations. So she is another powerless person tasked with endlessly trying to please him, when it simply can not be done. So when he acts like a kook, and it is her place to call him on it, she won't. No one does.
And since she's never been a spouse or a housewife or a mother, she has no basis with which to challenge his bizarre parenting style - bullying, intimidation, ignoring a problem and hoping it goes away. She's tried and failed. The kids have told me she's interjected when he's been on a tear. Told him maybe he's being too harsh. And he's told her to go fly a kite (or something similar). So she will not conflict with him at her own expense for the benefit of the children. So now there are two misguided parental figures to my one. Two people who will stand up in court and fight me (even if one is there only under duress) if I assert that Lars is the unfit parent he is.
So really, I could not care less who or when or if Lars marries. It is a non-issue as a matter of the heart. But what matters to me most is the change in dynamics for the children. And I worry for them.
I suppose I always will. As they grow up, the worries just evolve, they don't go away. And this is what defines being a parent, I guess. Miles to go before I sleep.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Do Not Adjust Your TV Set
I am not the type to be rendered speechless. Ever. I've made a career out of calmly listening to outrageous statements and showing no visible reaction. When you interview people for a living, this is a skill you get to hone continuously.
Not laughing out loud when the intern says he didn't like where he was assigned so he just started working in another department on his own.
Not rolling your eyes when the candidate offers the "truth" about her termination. It wasn't about being caught in the Radiology changing room with a certain naked MRI tech, it was that the department head was jealous that she is skinny.
And coolly asking for more details, because you are going to need them, when the highly touted, highly recommended, favored candidate launches into a made-for-TV diatribe about boldly and fearlessly making such significant and necessary changes in his last job that he developed a habit of carrying a concealed AK-47 to work at all times because there were threats to his life. And casually making an undetected visual search to see if there might be a weapon under his Brooks Brothers suit even now.
But when Lars made a point of calling me specifically to tell me of his engagement, I have to admit I was standing there in the department store, with an armload of pre-teen sized garments, feeling a little naked without my homework.
When you interview strangers, you expect the unexpected. It is anticipated that some comments will figuratively make your head spin and you will have to forcibly keep it steady while you reply, "How about that! So clever. Did anyone ever find out that you were shredding your timecard to conceal the fact that you were habitually late?"
But to be completely truthful, this was news I never in a million years expected from Lars.
I know my face betrayed me. I am sure Scott noticed the stunned Holy-Shit-the- Pope's-Been-Shot look on my face. And with an audience, the show must go on, so I rallied and never missed a beat.
Without hesitation, I replied, "Really? Congratulations! Lars, that is great news. When are you getting married?" with all the feigned camaraderie I could muster.
"I don't know yet," was all he could reply. I am guessing that he expected a different reaction.
"Well good luck to you. And to Liza. Congratulations to you both."
"OK thanks. Bye." Flat. I assume he expected more drama, less Super-what-else-is-new?
I looked at Scott. A grin was widening across his face. "Aww, honey, I know you're heart broken. Last chance to get him back!"
It is clearly not THAT.
But I am not entirely sure how to label what I feel. There are so many reactions going on at once.
Is it possible to be completely and totally indifferent, yet cringing at the same time?
And I am pretty sure, replaying the brief and idiotic conversation in my head, that I detected a tone from Lars. I am pretty sure he was gloating.
I am sure he's excited. I can't deny him that. But gloating? Really? Are we nine years old? My bike's cooler than your bike? Come on!
At this stage in our divorce, in matters like this, this exchange of information should take the form of a business transaction. Tell me what matters to me because of the children, and tell me dispassionately.
I am moving and here is my address.
I am changing jobs and the impact to the child support situation is X.
I am finally getting that much needed frontal lobotomy and will need you to keep the children an extra day while the swelling goes down.
But with Lars, it is always about winning. Not in life in general. He is a world class loser and is content to remain the lowest paid graduate in his Ivy League class. But in matters that pertain to me, he is always looking to spike the ball.
And he thinks this does that?
There is a part of me that hopes that marriage to Liza will finally distract him from his preoccupation with his hatred of me. But I am still skeptical. He is still so pissed that I dumped him. My not caring that he's given his heart away to another might not quell but exacerbate that. Or maybe not. Crazy people are unpredictable.
Other than that, his message is just one more piece of SPAM in my inbox. One more article of junk mail through the mail slot. One more commercial tuned out.
On the upside, I will get miles of blog out of watching the drama unfold. Stay tuned.
Not laughing out loud when the intern says he didn't like where he was assigned so he just started working in another department on his own.
Not rolling your eyes when the candidate offers the "truth" about her termination. It wasn't about being caught in the Radiology changing room with a certain naked MRI tech, it was that the department head was jealous that she is skinny.
And coolly asking for more details, because you are going to need them, when the highly touted, highly recommended, favored candidate launches into a made-for-TV diatribe about boldly and fearlessly making such significant and necessary changes in his last job that he developed a habit of carrying a concealed AK-47 to work at all times because there were threats to his life. And casually making an undetected visual search to see if there might be a weapon under his Brooks Brothers suit even now.
But when Lars made a point of calling me specifically to tell me of his engagement, I have to admit I was standing there in the department store, with an armload of pre-teen sized garments, feeling a little naked without my homework.
When you interview strangers, you expect the unexpected. It is anticipated that some comments will figuratively make your head spin and you will have to forcibly keep it steady while you reply, "How about that! So clever. Did anyone ever find out that you were shredding your timecard to conceal the fact that you were habitually late?"
But to be completely truthful, this was news I never in a million years expected from Lars.
I know my face betrayed me. I am sure Scott noticed the stunned Holy-Shit-the- Pope's-Been-Shot look on my face. And with an audience, the show must go on, so I rallied and never missed a beat.
Without hesitation, I replied, "Really? Congratulations! Lars, that is great news. When are you getting married?" with all the feigned camaraderie I could muster.
"I don't know yet," was all he could reply. I am guessing that he expected a different reaction.
"Well good luck to you. And to Liza. Congratulations to you both."
"OK thanks. Bye." Flat. I assume he expected more drama, less Super-what-else-is-new?
I looked at Scott. A grin was widening across his face. "Aww, honey, I know you're heart broken. Last chance to get him back!"
It is clearly not THAT.
But I am not entirely sure how to label what I feel. There are so many reactions going on at once.
Is it possible to be completely and totally indifferent, yet cringing at the same time?
And I am pretty sure, replaying the brief and idiotic conversation in my head, that I detected a tone from Lars. I am pretty sure he was gloating.
I am sure he's excited. I can't deny him that. But gloating? Really? Are we nine years old? My bike's cooler than your bike? Come on!
At this stage in our divorce, in matters like this, this exchange of information should take the form of a business transaction. Tell me what matters to me because of the children, and tell me dispassionately.
I am moving and here is my address.
I am changing jobs and the impact to the child support situation is X.
I am finally getting that much needed frontal lobotomy and will need you to keep the children an extra day while the swelling goes down.
But with Lars, it is always about winning. Not in life in general. He is a world class loser and is content to remain the lowest paid graduate in his Ivy League class. But in matters that pertain to me, he is always looking to spike the ball.
And he thinks this does that?
There is a part of me that hopes that marriage to Liza will finally distract him from his preoccupation with his hatred of me. But I am still skeptical. He is still so pissed that I dumped him. My not caring that he's given his heart away to another might not quell but exacerbate that. Or maybe not. Crazy people are unpredictable.
Other than that, his message is just one more piece of SPAM in my inbox. One more article of junk mail through the mail slot. One more commercial tuned out.
On the upside, I will get miles of blog out of watching the drama unfold. Stay tuned.
Monday, August 22, 2011
So Long, Farewell, auf Wiedersehen, I Do?
That Friday after six-and-a-half days of glorious remote and unplugged relaxation, we pack up our memories and head for home.
We’ve shopped (obviously), we’ve visited and left pennies and blown bubbles in the magical Fairy Garden, we’ve stuffed our faces with ice cream sundaes and French pastry, we’ve run amok in and amusement park and water park, we’ve napped in hammocks, assembled puzzles, played board games, canoed, hiked, beached and walked all about the place pointing to darling cottages with twinkling lights and saying “That’s the one I’d buy.” We’ve all enjoyed ourselves immensely, including Miss Kitty who could not take her big golden eyes off of the smorgasbord of birdies and bugs just outside Charlotte and Jack’s windows.
I am always blue on the way home. I’ve enjoyed vacation for obvious reasons but further, the uninterrupted time with Hil and Pat is so enjoyable and passes too quickly. The fact that my time with them is half of what it should be strikes a tender spot deep in my heart. I always feel like I am failing them by having to return them to the lair of the beast. Their lightness weighed down with worry and concern.
Soon enough we are in front of our house. The kids are happy to be home, not so happy to have to unpack. Trinket is having trouble adjusting and is retreating to the rafters of the basement again. And I am a wreck knowing that Lars will be beeping from the curb all too soon, summoning the children to get in his car and leave the week and me behind. And the children will go all Patty Hearst-Stockholm Syndrome and comply.
My one consolation is that upon their departure, I can fill the kitty litter, freshen the water and food bowls, and get on the road to Scott’s. We have a whole weekend together ahead and it will give me some comfort to have reasons to smile and laugh and be hopeful.
Not long into the weekend, I call the kids. Hil’s phone is dead (against type) and Pat’s is not with him. (Who are these children who let their phones out of their sight?) It is evidently at home with Hil while he is out with Lars. I call Lars since no one is answering. He lets Pat answer. (WTF?)
I chat with Pat and then ask him to text Hil to have her call me. I want to see how she’s doing, and I am shopping with Scott and his girls and have come across a great sale. I think I can take a stab at her new style but not her sizes. I need her help.
Two minutes later my phone rings and I see that it is not Hil but Lars.
I answer thinking it is really Pat. (Again, WTF?)
But it is Lars. The man who does everything via email has called. Must have butt dialed. But no. He meant to call me.
“Umm, yea, hi. I just wanted to let you know. I got engaged this weekend.”
We’ve shopped (obviously), we’ve visited and left pennies and blown bubbles in the magical Fairy Garden, we’ve stuffed our faces with ice cream sundaes and French pastry, we’ve run amok in and amusement park and water park, we’ve napped in hammocks, assembled puzzles, played board games, canoed, hiked, beached and walked all about the place pointing to darling cottages with twinkling lights and saying “That’s the one I’d buy.” We’ve all enjoyed ourselves immensely, including Miss Kitty who could not take her big golden eyes off of the smorgasbord of birdies and bugs just outside Charlotte and Jack’s windows.
I am always blue on the way home. I’ve enjoyed vacation for obvious reasons but further, the uninterrupted time with Hil and Pat is so enjoyable and passes too quickly. The fact that my time with them is half of what it should be strikes a tender spot deep in my heart. I always feel like I am failing them by having to return them to the lair of the beast. Their lightness weighed down with worry and concern.
Soon enough we are in front of our house. The kids are happy to be home, not so happy to have to unpack. Trinket is having trouble adjusting and is retreating to the rafters of the basement again. And I am a wreck knowing that Lars will be beeping from the curb all too soon, summoning the children to get in his car and leave the week and me behind. And the children will go all Patty Hearst-Stockholm Syndrome and comply.
My one consolation is that upon their departure, I can fill the kitty litter, freshen the water and food bowls, and get on the road to Scott’s. We have a whole weekend together ahead and it will give me some comfort to have reasons to smile and laugh and be hopeful.
Not long into the weekend, I call the kids. Hil’s phone is dead (against type) and Pat’s is not with him. (Who are these children who let their phones out of their sight?) It is evidently at home with Hil while he is out with Lars. I call Lars since no one is answering. He lets Pat answer. (WTF?)
I chat with Pat and then ask him to text Hil to have her call me. I want to see how she’s doing, and I am shopping with Scott and his girls and have come across a great sale. I think I can take a stab at her new style but not her sizes. I need her help.
Two minutes later my phone rings and I see that it is not Hil but Lars.
I answer thinking it is really Pat. (Again, WTF?)
But it is Lars. The man who does everything via email has called. Must have butt dialed. But no. He meant to call me.
“Umm, yea, hi. I just wanted to let you know. I got engaged this weekend.”
Friday, August 19, 2011
Retail Therapy
Hil and I pile into the dressing room having accumulated an astonishing amount of garments in record time. Hil perches on the bench while I designate hooks – These are things I haven’t tried on, this hook is for the Maybes, this is for the No Way On God’s Green Earth, and this will be the “You’re Coming Home with Mama” stuff. Hil will do the hanging while I keep the wardrobe changes coming.
It is not long before I realize Banana has been living under the misguided illusion that women everywhere have 13 inch waists, no boobs, and no concern about visible bra straps. The No Way hook is about to detach from the wall with the weight of the clothes and leave an unsightly yaw. Pretty. We divert some of the No Way Jose stuff to the Maybe Baby hook, since it is empty.
When I get to a few almost acceptable pieces that might just be perfect in another size or color, Hil is a willing gopher. She is overjoyed to be helping me, when really, I am hoping I am teaching her some small points about clothes. When I point out what is wrong with each piece, I hope she’s absorbing:
“This looks great from this angle, but when I turn this way, I look like a mobile home.”
“Oooh. The beads stop at the seam and don’t go all the way around to the back. The hallmark of a cheap blouse. Next!”
“These pants grab at the crotch. Let’s not draw the eye THERE, thank you.”
"I’d need quite a contraption to keep the boobs in check and the bra straps concealed As They Should Be."
"Not even fashion tape can fix a gap like THIS.”
"I like the shape but the color makes me look like a squash.”
And then finally, a fabulous dress is next on the Try On hook. A gorgeous orange. Impeccable, intricate details all around the neck. The perfect body skimming constructed shape. An ideal hem length. Lined. Fabulosity.
I ask Hil for a thumbs up or a thumbs down. I get two enthusiastic thumbs, way up.
And then I get a set of gold bangles.
And I get cosmically sucked into Kenneth Cole where I pounce on a fabulous pair of cork wedge brushed gold sandals to put a complete Girls Weekend ensemble together. I am so giddy I make a donation to Haiti because Kenneth Cole wants me to.
And for good measure, and a matter of practicality, I buy the fabulous shoulder bag to carry home my empty wallet.
It is not long before I realize Banana has been living under the misguided illusion that women everywhere have 13 inch waists, no boobs, and no concern about visible bra straps. The No Way hook is about to detach from the wall with the weight of the clothes and leave an unsightly yaw. Pretty. We divert some of the No Way Jose stuff to the Maybe Baby hook, since it is empty.
When I get to a few almost acceptable pieces that might just be perfect in another size or color, Hil is a willing gopher. She is overjoyed to be helping me, when really, I am hoping I am teaching her some small points about clothes. When I point out what is wrong with each piece, I hope she’s absorbing:
“This looks great from this angle, but when I turn this way, I look like a mobile home.”
“Oooh. The beads stop at the seam and don’t go all the way around to the back. The hallmark of a cheap blouse. Next!”
“These pants grab at the crotch. Let’s not draw the eye THERE, thank you.”
"I’d need quite a contraption to keep the boobs in check and the bra straps concealed As They Should Be."
"Not even fashion tape can fix a gap like THIS.”
"I like the shape but the color makes me look like a squash.”
And then finally, a fabulous dress is next on the Try On hook. A gorgeous orange. Impeccable, intricate details all around the neck. The perfect body skimming constructed shape. An ideal hem length. Lined. Fabulosity.
I ask Hil for a thumbs up or a thumbs down. I get two enthusiastic thumbs, way up.
And then I get a set of gold bangles.
And I get cosmically sucked into Kenneth Cole where I pounce on a fabulous pair of cork wedge brushed gold sandals to put a complete Girls Weekend ensemble together. I am so giddy I make a donation to Haiti because Kenneth Cole wants me to.
And for good measure, and a matter of practicality, I buy the fabulous shoulder bag to carry home my empty wallet.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
The Style Council
With all the running around from Nike to Reebok to Zumiez to Gap to Aero, I have passed the Kenneth Cole outlet 7 or 8 times. It is hard not to be magnetically drawn to the open door, but so far, I’ve resisted. But there is a magnificent shoulder bag in the window and it is calling to me. Like the Sirens.
I am praying I don't cave.
Pat goes off, new shoes in hand, in an effort to placate me by at least looking at and trying on a few shirts with snarky cartoons and slogans on them. Cheaper by the dozen at 40% at the Gap. I am convinced that if he gives it a try, he’ll find something that appeals to his finicky taste, and maybe even armloads of things, which will alleviate the need for painful hours of shopping just before school starts and the deadline looms.
Hil, still riding the crest of her retail high, wants to accompany me to Banana Republic where I am sure to try on 1,000 articles of clothing like last year. (Inclusive of the shirt I wore to the ill-fated Girls Weekend, which I was wearing in my replacement FB profile pic – the one to replace the one that was nefariously tattooed onto J.’s thigh, which was later discovered by Scott – the new pic not the tattooed one. I also bought the fabulous pants, the ones that I naively wore on my also ill-fated date with Casey, aka Death Breath, the ones that also made my butt look extraordinary, a topic which has also been covered in this blog, filed under Casey’s Rude Preoccupation with Making Comments about My Butt.)
This year, much like last, Hil wants to be my stylist.
And I am suddenly reminded of her earliest days as my stylist. I knew I could trust her opinion when I’d take 3 dresses into a fitting room and ask her opinion and she’d actually ask to see one of them on me again before deciding. And she never ever steered me wrong.
Once, I had been working at a prestigious law firm for a few months when I’d been invited to the Chairman’s party. It was a Firm ritual. The Summer Associates social event. The Chairman would host a party in his home, invite the Summers, their mentors, and a select few partners and administrators of his choosing. An elite guest list, for sure. I was thrilled and petrified to have been included.
I did my homework. Relied on a few trusted girlfriends who’d attended before to help me navigate. I desperately did not want to misstep handling the delicate issue of who was “in” and who was “out.” And I would die if I didn’t nail the wardrobe.
The invitation read “casual.” I know better. I would need an outfit change. I wanted to look effortless but absolutely flawlessly pulled together in something interesting and noticeable, in the right ways. Don’t want to blend, don’t want to make a spectacle. Why can’t the invitation just say, “Noticeably fabulous but not overdressed?”
I shopped and got a smart fun casual dress and had it tailored to perfection. Bought shoes and a purse to coordinate. Found interesting pieces of jewelry to make the statement stick.
Two nights before the event, I put it all on. Shoes, bag, jewels and dress. If it missed the mark, I still had time to shop for adjustments. I liked the look but needed an unbridled, objective second opinion (and Lars would have been useless even then). I turned to 6 year old Hil for an assessment.
“Hil, I need your opinion. I am thinking of wearing this outfit to a very important party. What do you think?”
She turned, put her hands to her face, drew in her breath and gasped, “Oh! Can I have your autograph?”
I knew I had a winning outfit, and a great little story to tell about a great little girl with a fashion sense way beyond her years.
I am in good hands as I cross the threshold into Banana.
I am praying I don't cave.
Pat goes off, new shoes in hand, in an effort to placate me by at least looking at and trying on a few shirts with snarky cartoons and slogans on them. Cheaper by the dozen at 40% at the Gap. I am convinced that if he gives it a try, he’ll find something that appeals to his finicky taste, and maybe even armloads of things, which will alleviate the need for painful hours of shopping just before school starts and the deadline looms.
Hil, still riding the crest of her retail high, wants to accompany me to Banana Republic where I am sure to try on 1,000 articles of clothing like last year. (Inclusive of the shirt I wore to the ill-fated Girls Weekend, which I was wearing in my replacement FB profile pic – the one to replace the one that was nefariously tattooed onto J.’s thigh, which was later discovered by Scott – the new pic not the tattooed one. I also bought the fabulous pants, the ones that I naively wore on my also ill-fated date with Casey, aka Death Breath, the ones that also made my butt look extraordinary, a topic which has also been covered in this blog, filed under Casey’s Rude Preoccupation with Making Comments about My Butt.)
This year, much like last, Hil wants to be my stylist.
And I am suddenly reminded of her earliest days as my stylist. I knew I could trust her opinion when I’d take 3 dresses into a fitting room and ask her opinion and she’d actually ask to see one of them on me again before deciding. And she never ever steered me wrong.
Once, I had been working at a prestigious law firm for a few months when I’d been invited to the Chairman’s party. It was a Firm ritual. The Summer Associates social event. The Chairman would host a party in his home, invite the Summers, their mentors, and a select few partners and administrators of his choosing. An elite guest list, for sure. I was thrilled and petrified to have been included.
I did my homework. Relied on a few trusted girlfriends who’d attended before to help me navigate. I desperately did not want to misstep handling the delicate issue of who was “in” and who was “out.” And I would die if I didn’t nail the wardrobe.
The invitation read “casual.” I know better. I would need an outfit change. I wanted to look effortless but absolutely flawlessly pulled together in something interesting and noticeable, in the right ways. Don’t want to blend, don’t want to make a spectacle. Why can’t the invitation just say, “Noticeably fabulous but not overdressed?”
I shopped and got a smart fun casual dress and had it tailored to perfection. Bought shoes and a purse to coordinate. Found interesting pieces of jewelry to make the statement stick.
Two nights before the event, I put it all on. Shoes, bag, jewels and dress. If it missed the mark, I still had time to shop for adjustments. I liked the look but needed an unbridled, objective second opinion (and Lars would have been useless even then). I turned to 6 year old Hil for an assessment.
“Hil, I need your opinion. I am thinking of wearing this outfit to a very important party. What do you think?”
She turned, put her hands to her face, drew in her breath and gasped, “Oh! Can I have your autograph?”
I knew I had a winning outfit, and a great little story to tell about a great little girl with a fashion sense way beyond her years.
I am in good hands as I cross the threshold into Banana.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
The Art of Shopping
Banana Republic. Coach. Gap. Calvin Klein. Aeropostale to Zumiez and every name in between.
I leave a little trail of change throughout the complex. My children relieve me of the burden material wealth with each and every threshold we cross.
Pat tries on and refuses at least two dozen pair of sneakers even after first ascertaining that they meet a specific set of criteria. High tops. One of four acceptable brands. Not white. It is harder than you'd think.
Out of sheer frustration, I leave him to his own devices with a cell phone and go to see what damage Hil is scheming to inflict on my financial security. Pat can call me when he's found the goose that lays the golden egg. He can text me pictures if he is unsure.
Hil has expertly rifled through dozens of shelves and racks and piles and has assembled a new fall wardrobe of her own design. I can't argue. It's a new year, she needs new sizes and new styles. And at least she has picked out the clothes herself. I won't find them under the bed with no hope of circulating into the weekly wardrobe. Afterall, 7th grade is a big year. No one wants to admit their mother approved of, much less picked out, their clothes.
I examine each article and cautiously approve after seeing her try on a pair of pants and a least one shirt. I want to see how everything looks on her actual body. I want to make sure we are taking home only the things that don't make a spectacle of her prepubescent body parts. You'd think half of these stores are owned an operated by Trollops R Us. Who needs to have their absorption of algebraic principles interfered with by someone's exposed hip bones?
As I fork over pounds of cash, my phone buzzes and buzzes again. Pat with two pairs of shoes by camera phone. Both cool. Both expensive but not to the point of needing to refinance my mortgage.
Hil and I schlep to meet Pat and I am wondering how I can bribe them to let me spend some time trying on a little fabulous for myself.
I leave a little trail of change throughout the complex. My children relieve me of the burden material wealth with each and every threshold we cross.
Pat tries on and refuses at least two dozen pair of sneakers even after first ascertaining that they meet a specific set of criteria. High tops. One of four acceptable brands. Not white. It is harder than you'd think.
Out of sheer frustration, I leave him to his own devices with a cell phone and go to see what damage Hil is scheming to inflict on my financial security. Pat can call me when he's found the goose that lays the golden egg. He can text me pictures if he is unsure.
Hil has expertly rifled through dozens of shelves and racks and piles and has assembled a new fall wardrobe of her own design. I can't argue. It's a new year, she needs new sizes and new styles. And at least she has picked out the clothes herself. I won't find them under the bed with no hope of circulating into the weekly wardrobe. Afterall, 7th grade is a big year. No one wants to admit their mother approved of, much less picked out, their clothes.
I examine each article and cautiously approve after seeing her try on a pair of pants and a least one shirt. I want to see how everything looks on her actual body. I want to make sure we are taking home only the things that don't make a spectacle of her prepubescent body parts. You'd think half of these stores are owned an operated by Trollops R Us. Who needs to have their absorption of algebraic principles interfered with by someone's exposed hip bones?
As I fork over pounds of cash, my phone buzzes and buzzes again. Pat with two pairs of shoes by camera phone. Both cool. Both expensive but not to the point of needing to refinance my mortgage.
Hil and I schlep to meet Pat and I am wondering how I can bribe them to let me spend some time trying on a little fabulous for myself.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
The Power Shop
One day while we are at the cottage, we awake to light rain and a dismal forecast.
Scott had taken his daughter home to the beach so that she could go to work as scheduled. Your first year at the boardwalk amusement park is a pivotal one. If you don't demonstrate reliability and punctuality (not to mention the will power to refrain from using your cell to talk or text for an entire shift) in your first year, you aren't likely to be hired the second. And it is a primo job. Cute uniforms, boys galore and all the free rides for family and friends you like. It's your first taste of power. Don't screw up.
So Hil and Pat and I lazed around a bit in the morning and once lunch had been prepared and eaten, I broached the mixed-review subject of Back-to-School shopping at the Outlet Mall.
Hil is immediately in. Hand raised, jumped in with both feet. I swear she'd volunteer to do the driving if she could. Her mother's child. Every cell.
Pat has conditions, natch. If we go to the outlet mall we went to last year, and if the Nike outlet is still open, and if I will let him get sneakers for school, and if I will stop trying to get him to buy white sneakers, he will go with us and cooperate by not objecting and by holding ever increasing armloads of bags as Hil and I shop ourselves to the point of needing IV fluids.
Hil runs to change into a dressing room ready, frequent wardrobe change friendly outfit designed to maximize opportunistic shopping with streamlined efficiency.
Pat puts on socks with his sneaks. Done.
I say a silent novena that I manage to retain some small portion of my net worth.
We take to the car. My GPS, dubbed Betty, or rather Scott's GPS, donated generously to me due to my being directionally undertalented, does not recognize the street address of the outlet mall of choice.
I try a "points of interest" search.
There are several outlet malls you could swing a cat and hit, and all sound inviting, but none of them are the one we seek (as part of the devils bargain with Pat). Our trip appears to be doomed. Pat has his hand on the handle of the door to my car. Ready to throw in the towel.
I click the locks to keep him in.
Wait one more minute. I have an idea. In the reviews of our intended mall, some disgruntled cheapskate whined that the real deals are actually 2 blocks away at another outlet mall.
I search on Betty for the neighboring outlet mall and bingo! I have a route. I head in that general direction and confidently assume that I will be able to follow the scent of smoldering bargains to the mall we want.
Let the fleecing begin.
Scott had taken his daughter home to the beach so that she could go to work as scheduled. Your first year at the boardwalk amusement park is a pivotal one. If you don't demonstrate reliability and punctuality (not to mention the will power to refrain from using your cell to talk or text for an entire shift) in your first year, you aren't likely to be hired the second. And it is a primo job. Cute uniforms, boys galore and all the free rides for family and friends you like. It's your first taste of power. Don't screw up.
So Hil and Pat and I lazed around a bit in the morning and once lunch had been prepared and eaten, I broached the mixed-review subject of Back-to-School shopping at the Outlet Mall.
Hil is immediately in. Hand raised, jumped in with both feet. I swear she'd volunteer to do the driving if she could. Her mother's child. Every cell.
Pat has conditions, natch. If we go to the outlet mall we went to last year, and if the Nike outlet is still open, and if I will let him get sneakers for school, and if I will stop trying to get him to buy white sneakers, he will go with us and cooperate by not objecting and by holding ever increasing armloads of bags as Hil and I shop ourselves to the point of needing IV fluids.
Hil runs to change into a dressing room ready, frequent wardrobe change friendly outfit designed to maximize opportunistic shopping with streamlined efficiency.
Pat puts on socks with his sneaks. Done.
I say a silent novena that I manage to retain some small portion of my net worth.
We take to the car. My GPS, dubbed Betty, or rather Scott's GPS, donated generously to me due to my being directionally undertalented, does not recognize the street address of the outlet mall of choice.
I try a "points of interest" search.
There are several outlet malls you could swing a cat and hit, and all sound inviting, but none of them are the one we seek (as part of the devils bargain with Pat). Our trip appears to be doomed. Pat has his hand on the handle of the door to my car. Ready to throw in the towel.
I click the locks to keep him in.
Wait one more minute. I have an idea. In the reviews of our intended mall, some disgruntled cheapskate whined that the real deals are actually 2 blocks away at another outlet mall.
I search on Betty for the neighboring outlet mall and bingo! I have a route. I head in that general direction and confidently assume that I will be able to follow the scent of smoldering bargains to the mall we want.
Let the fleecing begin.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Vacation, All I Ever Wanted
I have just returned from a wonderful week at Charlotte and Jack’s cottage. I am not at all hopeful about re-entry into the workplace, but am thrilled that vacation was fun, relaxing and edifying. Allow me to share.
Things I learned at the cottage:
Coffee tastes better on the porch in a hammock swing. Even better when the other half of the hammock swing is occupied by your adorable boyfriend who looks very handsome when he’s just woken up. And has no shirt on. (Sorry, if this offended your sensibilities in any way, Mrs. Miller.)
Darkness is a relative term. When I walk around my house at home and turn off the lights to go to bed I would say that it is dark. In a mountainside hamlet with no street lights and a lovely lush canopy of 200 year old trees, “dark” means “black as ink.”
It is a good idea to refrain from the Chardonnay until after the sheets have all been placed on the top bunks.
Vacation is way better when your boyfriend is a lot of fun and has a sense of humor and you can stand the sight of him for days in a row, as opposed to a pathetic tired out drag with a jealousy problem who appears to age exponentially faster than everyone around you.
Daddy Long Legs spiders are not dangerous to humans but a 12 year old girl with a bug phobia can not be convinced of that.
The same Daddy Long Legs spider can not occupy a canoe, however large and spacious, with that same 12 year old girl. For any length of time. One of them will have to go. The girl will go more willingly. Even in the middle of the lake.
Speaking of lakes, the term “man-made lake” does not mean that things that are not man-made don’t live it it. And those things are not necessarily shy.
Some people can make anything fun.
A regular old hot dog is gourmet quality when it is cooked on a grill and followed by a warm slice of homemade apple pie with extra cinnamon and a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
A 1000 piece, Rock-N- Roll themed puzzle can turn into an obsession. And Frank Zappa, Jimi Hendrix, and Jim Morrison’s hair can be hard to tell apart from one another.
When you are at an amusement park, they can charge you $11 for a hamburger and you will not hesitate to buy 5 of them.
There are people everywhere whose parents never taught them manners.
I will happily ride an amusement ride that goes 80 miles an hour, upside down and in reverse, and smile and laugh and want to do it again, but will put my hands over my face and say Hail Mary’s when my boyfriend backs into a parking space.
Some people can clog any toilet.
All the nooks and crannie’s of someone else’s rustic garage/crawl space can be fascinating to an indoor cat who has managed to escape.
Even with endless peace and quiet and ability to concentrate, I still can’t think of a dignified word for “boyfriend” when he’s not 20 anymore.
Geography matters. Being an hour away from home can feel like another galaxy when you don’t have to answer your phone, open your email or pay your utility bills.
It is hard to lose a friend, worse when she’s young and passes so suddenly. It is an easier thing to heal from when you have nothing to regret. I intend to live the remainder of my life leaving no regrets. So far, it is liberating.
If my theory is true about things absorbing the essence of the people who touch them, then we’ve just left our fingerprints on Charlotte and Jack’s cottage and smudged it with joy and laughter and love and family memories.
Vacation does not happen often enough.
And thus ends my What I Did on My Summer Vacation essay.
Things I learned at the cottage:
Coffee tastes better on the porch in a hammock swing. Even better when the other half of the hammock swing is occupied by your adorable boyfriend who looks very handsome when he’s just woken up. And has no shirt on. (Sorry, if this offended your sensibilities in any way, Mrs. Miller.)
Darkness is a relative term. When I walk around my house at home and turn off the lights to go to bed I would say that it is dark. In a mountainside hamlet with no street lights and a lovely lush canopy of 200 year old trees, “dark” means “black as ink.”
It is a good idea to refrain from the Chardonnay until after the sheets have all been placed on the top bunks.
Vacation is way better when your boyfriend is a lot of fun and has a sense of humor and you can stand the sight of him for days in a row, as opposed to a pathetic tired out drag with a jealousy problem who appears to age exponentially faster than everyone around you.
Daddy Long Legs spiders are not dangerous to humans but a 12 year old girl with a bug phobia can not be convinced of that.
The same Daddy Long Legs spider can not occupy a canoe, however large and spacious, with that same 12 year old girl. For any length of time. One of them will have to go. The girl will go more willingly. Even in the middle of the lake.
Speaking of lakes, the term “man-made lake” does not mean that things that are not man-made don’t live it it. And those things are not necessarily shy.
Some people can make anything fun.
A regular old hot dog is gourmet quality when it is cooked on a grill and followed by a warm slice of homemade apple pie with extra cinnamon and a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
A 1000 piece, Rock-N- Roll themed puzzle can turn into an obsession. And Frank Zappa, Jimi Hendrix, and Jim Morrison’s hair can be hard to tell apart from one another.
When you are at an amusement park, they can charge you $11 for a hamburger and you will not hesitate to buy 5 of them.
There are people everywhere whose parents never taught them manners.
I will happily ride an amusement ride that goes 80 miles an hour, upside down and in reverse, and smile and laugh and want to do it again, but will put my hands over my face and say Hail Mary’s when my boyfriend backs into a parking space.
Some people can clog any toilet.
All the nooks and crannie’s of someone else’s rustic garage/crawl space can be fascinating to an indoor cat who has managed to escape.
Even with endless peace and quiet and ability to concentrate, I still can’t think of a dignified word for “boyfriend” when he’s not 20 anymore.
Geography matters. Being an hour away from home can feel like another galaxy when you don’t have to answer your phone, open your email or pay your utility bills.
It is hard to lose a friend, worse when she’s young and passes so suddenly. It is an easier thing to heal from when you have nothing to regret. I intend to live the remainder of my life leaving no regrets. So far, it is liberating.
If my theory is true about things absorbing the essence of the people who touch them, then we’ve just left our fingerprints on Charlotte and Jack’s cottage and smudged it with joy and laughter and love and family memories.
Vacation does not happen often enough.
And thus ends my What I Did on My Summer Vacation essay.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Funeral For A Friend
I would like to say that the drive to the cottage was uneventful, but it wasn’t.
On the way to Starbucks, I check my phone at the light. I have a message from my friend Kate. I listen but can not hear her clearly. She is on the beach and the wind made the message hard to hear.
When I am back in the car with a venti iced coffee and two hot chocolates, a breakfast sandwich, a piece of lemon pound cake and the meowing cat, I dial her back. I’d sent her a funny text earlier and I am dying to hear what she had to say about it.
But she is not in her usual zippy mood. She got a note from our friend Jane’s brother in the UK. Jane has died.
I make her repeat it. I simply can not have heard what she seems to have just said. She repeats exactly what she’d said and there is no mistaking it. Jane is gone from us. Suddenly. At the age of 44. And exactly 3 weeks since her wedding day.
I am immeasurably sad. I ask tons of questions, most of which Kate can not answer. But one thing is clear. We feel equally horrible about not having flown to the UK for the glorious occasion that was Jane’s wedding. She’d finally found the love of her life and we could not figure out how to juggle work, kids, finances, partners, custody issues and PTO time to get our fat American arses on a plane to England for what would be the last opportunity we’d have to see Jane.
To tell her how very much we love her.
To tell her she’s a radiant bride.
To tell her how beautiful and special she is to us.
To retell stories and relive old memories.
To toast her happiness.
To share a drink or two or ten.
To dance like we were 20 again.
I know people say these things when someone has died. People say how wonderful a person was. How close they were. How they never had a bad thing to say or thought a bad thought about them. Even when it is not entirely truthful. When someone has died we tend to deify them. Cleanse our memories of things gone wrong. Whether it is a matter of putting things in perspective or just respect, we seem to forget the times when someone borrowed our ladder and didn’t return it for months, or flirted with our boyfriend, or undermined us at work, or spoke harshly to our child. All forgotten and seemingly forgiven.
But with Jane, I have nothing I’d choose to rewrite. She lived with Kate and me for a few months in the year preceding my wedding to Lars and had scrambled back to the UK when an I-9 issue surfaced all of a sudden. She and Kate had been nannies for neighboring families years ago and had become famously good friends. When Jane came to temporarily occupy our absentee roommate’s room in the house we shared, I was momentarily skeptical. But my skepticism turned to elation within a day. I cherished those days.
Jane’s was a colorful, buoyant personality. Witty and outspoken and always game for an adventure. She was an engaging and gifted conversationalist. Charming and quick to see the humor in things. I adored her. She was flawlessly genuine. Genuine in her interest in you as a person. Genuine in her desire for your good fortune. And she could genuinely and robustly laugh at herself as easily as you would laugh at anything.
The world has grown a shade dimmer, its colors less vibrant, with her departure from it. To console myself, I will look to the stars in the Heavens for signs of her illuminating presence there.
Goodbye dear, sweet Jane. And Godspeed.
On the way to Starbucks, I check my phone at the light. I have a message from my friend Kate. I listen but can not hear her clearly. She is on the beach and the wind made the message hard to hear.
When I am back in the car with a venti iced coffee and two hot chocolates, a breakfast sandwich, a piece of lemon pound cake and the meowing cat, I dial her back. I’d sent her a funny text earlier and I am dying to hear what she had to say about it.
But she is not in her usual zippy mood. She got a note from our friend Jane’s brother in the UK. Jane has died.
I make her repeat it. I simply can not have heard what she seems to have just said. She repeats exactly what she’d said and there is no mistaking it. Jane is gone from us. Suddenly. At the age of 44. And exactly 3 weeks since her wedding day.
I am immeasurably sad. I ask tons of questions, most of which Kate can not answer. But one thing is clear. We feel equally horrible about not having flown to the UK for the glorious occasion that was Jane’s wedding. She’d finally found the love of her life and we could not figure out how to juggle work, kids, finances, partners, custody issues and PTO time to get our fat American arses on a plane to England for what would be the last opportunity we’d have to see Jane.
To tell her how very much we love her.
To tell her she’s a radiant bride.
To tell her how beautiful and special she is to us.
To retell stories and relive old memories.
To toast her happiness.
To share a drink or two or ten.
To dance like we were 20 again.
I know people say these things when someone has died. People say how wonderful a person was. How close they were. How they never had a bad thing to say or thought a bad thought about them. Even when it is not entirely truthful. When someone has died we tend to deify them. Cleanse our memories of things gone wrong. Whether it is a matter of putting things in perspective or just respect, we seem to forget the times when someone borrowed our ladder and didn’t return it for months, or flirted with our boyfriend, or undermined us at work, or spoke harshly to our child. All forgotten and seemingly forgiven.
But with Jane, I have nothing I’d choose to rewrite. She lived with Kate and me for a few months in the year preceding my wedding to Lars and had scrambled back to the UK when an I-9 issue surfaced all of a sudden. She and Kate had been nannies for neighboring families years ago and had become famously good friends. When Jane came to temporarily occupy our absentee roommate’s room in the house we shared, I was momentarily skeptical. But my skepticism turned to elation within a day. I cherished those days.
Jane’s was a colorful, buoyant personality. Witty and outspoken and always game for an adventure. She was an engaging and gifted conversationalist. Charming and quick to see the humor in things. I adored her. She was flawlessly genuine. Genuine in her interest in you as a person. Genuine in her desire for your good fortune. And she could genuinely and robustly laugh at herself as easily as you would laugh at anything.
The world has grown a shade dimmer, its colors less vibrant, with her departure from it. To console myself, I will look to the stars in the Heavens for signs of her illuminating presence there.
Goodbye dear, sweet Jane. And Godspeed.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
The Cat's in the Bag
This year represents a new first in vacations.
We are taking Trinket.
And Scott and one of his daughters (the one without the boyfriend that makes staying at home so appealing.)
It’s a whole new ballgame.
First – a cat can not be relied upon to pack its own suitcase.
My kids are by no means capable of deciding what is needed for a long trip either, but can do more than the cat can. Hil would pack 75 pounds of makeup, hair accouterments, and her entire earring collection and fill the remaining space with stuffed animals. We’d arrive and she’d have the clothes on her back and maybe a spare pair of panties. Pat’s suitcase would be brimming with video games, hand held electronic devices, DVDs and a portable TV. And his favorite basketball shorts. Maybe.
So for them I make lists – 2 of this item, 4 of that item, and let’s not forget your X,Y,and Z. I make it their responsibility to see that the entire list is checked off and makes it into the suitcase before it goes into the car. They can bring whatever personal choices they have as well, but they are limited to what can fit into their backpacks.
But the cat is my domain. I am admittedly a novice pet owner. (Read that: “I am sure I have no idea what I am doing.”) I toy briefly with the idea of leaving her at home and asking a neighborhood kid to check on her. One who is responsible enough to make sure that Trinket does not rip down the drapes, does not starve to death, does not have to resort to drinking from the toilet, and does not escape in the wild. But no such kid exists, and there is no paycheck big enough to motivate a parent to make sure that any of it is done.
And besides, she is so new to us. The way she craves attention when I walk through the door at night gives me pangs of guilt that if we left her for a week she’d be heartbroken thinking her People have left her. HER People. Her beloved People. The People that give her deli meat.
Charlotte says it’s okay to bring the cat to her cottage. I admit that I feel like a new mom – bringing everything the cat could possibly want or need for even a millisecond because my mother’s intuition tells me that the minute I get there the cat will desperately need the very thing that I chose to leave behind and it will be a life and death need. And I must go buy a replacement Thing. At once. Forget the beach. We need to find a Pet Smart.
Charlotte tells me that they have a litter box at the cottage already for their Fatty Cat. One less thing to pack, and still I am skeptical. Animals are territorial. What if Trinket knows that it is Fatty Cat’s toily and refuses to do her business in it? Picks a nice spot under the dining room table instead?
As the car fills up with luggage and coolers and beach gear and such, I have to make a sacrifice. Something must stay behind. The newly purchased cat carrier while homey for Trinket is big and bulky for the car and I have to make the choice. I bring the kitty litter but leave the box at home. I will hope for the best.
Against what I’d anticipated, Trinket goes willingly into the carrier at the last minute and is carefully place in the car between Hil and Pat where she begins a 90 minute meowing fest, interrupted only briefly when I dash into Starbucks for Roadies.
Our adventure has begun.
We are taking Trinket.
And Scott and one of his daughters (the one without the boyfriend that makes staying at home so appealing.)
It’s a whole new ballgame.
First – a cat can not be relied upon to pack its own suitcase.
My kids are by no means capable of deciding what is needed for a long trip either, but can do more than the cat can. Hil would pack 75 pounds of makeup, hair accouterments, and her entire earring collection and fill the remaining space with stuffed animals. We’d arrive and she’d have the clothes on her back and maybe a spare pair of panties. Pat’s suitcase would be brimming with video games, hand held electronic devices, DVDs and a portable TV. And his favorite basketball shorts. Maybe.
So for them I make lists – 2 of this item, 4 of that item, and let’s not forget your X,Y,and Z. I make it their responsibility to see that the entire list is checked off and makes it into the suitcase before it goes into the car. They can bring whatever personal choices they have as well, but they are limited to what can fit into their backpacks.
But the cat is my domain. I am admittedly a novice pet owner. (Read that: “I am sure I have no idea what I am doing.”) I toy briefly with the idea of leaving her at home and asking a neighborhood kid to check on her. One who is responsible enough to make sure that Trinket does not rip down the drapes, does not starve to death, does not have to resort to drinking from the toilet, and does not escape in the wild. But no such kid exists, and there is no paycheck big enough to motivate a parent to make sure that any of it is done.
And besides, she is so new to us. The way she craves attention when I walk through the door at night gives me pangs of guilt that if we left her for a week she’d be heartbroken thinking her People have left her. HER People. Her beloved People. The People that give her deli meat.
Charlotte says it’s okay to bring the cat to her cottage. I admit that I feel like a new mom – bringing everything the cat could possibly want or need for even a millisecond because my mother’s intuition tells me that the minute I get there the cat will desperately need the very thing that I chose to leave behind and it will be a life and death need. And I must go buy a replacement Thing. At once. Forget the beach. We need to find a Pet Smart.
Charlotte tells me that they have a litter box at the cottage already for their Fatty Cat. One less thing to pack, and still I am skeptical. Animals are territorial. What if Trinket knows that it is Fatty Cat’s toily and refuses to do her business in it? Picks a nice spot under the dining room table instead?
As the car fills up with luggage and coolers and beach gear and such, I have to make a sacrifice. Something must stay behind. The newly purchased cat carrier while homey for Trinket is big and bulky for the car and I have to make the choice. I bring the kitty litter but leave the box at home. I will hope for the best.
Against what I’d anticipated, Trinket goes willingly into the carrier at the last minute and is carefully place in the car between Hil and Pat where she begins a 90 minute meowing fest, interrupted only briefly when I dash into Starbucks for Roadies.
Our adventure has begun.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Same Time Next Year
So Disneyland Dad has returned my children to me unharmed and unsnatched. According to the kids, who have probably been sworn to honor a pact, someone named Heather watched them for a while each day, but Dad only went to class for a little while. Lars has walked the tightrope of propriety and ethics again, but at least my children are home in one piece.
And now I get to prepare for my own vacation with the kids. To the little remote hamlet we always venture to. And I can not help but reflect on what a difference the year since our last trip there has made.
A year ago this very same week, this very same trip was pocked with all the hallmarks of a relationship in the horrid throes of death. J. and I were broken up, yet still in a place of relative civility - but clearly only because he had not yet admitted to himself that what he was seeing and experiencing was me walking out the door of his life, taking my ball and going home, leaving the Big Top and plugging my ears to drown out the calliope music. It was still blurred and unclear to him, though precise and crisp and sharp around the edges to me.
And even then, the real drama had not even begun to unfold: His uninvited, unwelcome, completely intrusive and bizarre trespass into the sacred Girls' Weekend. The hacking into my phone records and subsequent Googling and dialing of unfamiliar numbers that I'd called or texted while away from him (like my son's new number and my secretary's cell...hello, boundaries please!) And of course, the piece de resistance, the impromptu unveiling of the dinner-plate-sized, four-color tattoo of my FB profile pic on his barely wide enough, scrawny little thigh. (He'd seriously have to turn a quarter turn for anyone to actually view me from ear to ear...yuck) And so many more violations of trust and respect.
And while I could never have imagined at that time that there was that much drama, that much trouble, that many more police reports yet to file before I'd seen the very last of him, I had no way to predict that at the very same time, my relationship with my mother would unravel like a cheap sweater.
The few days she and Bill had spent with us last year were agitated, and tense, and harrowing, and fraught with the potential for disaster: The bizarre attitudes, the loud political rants, the guns, the alcohol, and the outrageous behavior. Followed by months of triangular conversation which ended in a stand off that threatened to interfere with the only holiday celebration my mother feels is important enough to exert herself to spend with family.
I unenthusiastically extended an olive branch at that time, but Estelle wasn't accepting, and I wasn't going to go waving it around for long. There were plans and backpedaling, more plans and then excuses. And then the biggest fail safe excuse, the threat of bad weather. Estelle and Bill came North and stayed away. Then retreated early.
The holiday was glorious in spite of the distraction I am never sure she didn't cause on purpose. She is a distraction without trying. But she took her bitterness to her friends' house, and ended up leaving there early too, following some terse words over God Only Knows What. Blamed the weather. Snow's coming so we're going. Like J., not seeing how by their own hand they were driving people from their life. And adamantly insisting that the problem lie with the other party.
Months later, I sent an Easter card; I called on Mother's Day. I did my part even though each act lacked genuine warmth. In its place, panic and dread and a sense of duty. There is a truce but no peace.
And even as I pack my bags for this trip I wonder if she knows we are going, and is telling herself that there is nothing unusual about not having been invited. Even though there is.
A few weeks ago, as I drove to a meeting, she called my cell. Not wanting to arrive at the meeting looking rattled in any way, I let the call go to voice mail. As I sat in traffic on the way home that evening, I called her back, wondering even as I dialed how I would dodge the issue if she hinted that she would enjoy seeing us and are we going to get away this summer.
Not to worry, she went on and on instead about politics and the state of the world. Told me she'd just bought a rifle.
I nearly drove right off the bridge.
She went on to volunteer that she'd gotten the gun because according to some closed-minded, right-wing redneck news source, people are upset with the state of things around here, and darn it, there is going to be an uprising, a revolution, looting and rioting - and darn it, she's going to protect what is hers.
I chuckled at the visual image of my mother, hair whipped and teased and back-combed into a meringue, Nefertiti earrings dangling, cowboy boots, pantyhose, Mom jeans and a really good blazer, cocking a gun to fire at someone trying to make off with her Weber grill.
I am secretly relieved at my de facto decision not to have invited Mom and her sidearm to join us on our tranquil vacation this year.
I am sure my children and the neighbors would thank me. If they only knew.
And now I get to prepare for my own vacation with the kids. To the little remote hamlet we always venture to. And I can not help but reflect on what a difference the year since our last trip there has made.
A year ago this very same week, this very same trip was pocked with all the hallmarks of a relationship in the horrid throes of death. J. and I were broken up, yet still in a place of relative civility - but clearly only because he had not yet admitted to himself that what he was seeing and experiencing was me walking out the door of his life, taking my ball and going home, leaving the Big Top and plugging my ears to drown out the calliope music. It was still blurred and unclear to him, though precise and crisp and sharp around the edges to me.
And even then, the real drama had not even begun to unfold: His uninvited, unwelcome, completely intrusive and bizarre trespass into the sacred Girls' Weekend. The hacking into my phone records and subsequent Googling and dialing of unfamiliar numbers that I'd called or texted while away from him (like my son's new number and my secretary's cell...hello, boundaries please!) And of course, the piece de resistance, the impromptu unveiling of the dinner-plate-sized, four-color tattoo of my FB profile pic on his barely wide enough, scrawny little thigh. (He'd seriously have to turn a quarter turn for anyone to actually view me from ear to ear...yuck) And so many more violations of trust and respect.
And while I could never have imagined at that time that there was that much drama, that much trouble, that many more police reports yet to file before I'd seen the very last of him, I had no way to predict that at the very same time, my relationship with my mother would unravel like a cheap sweater.
The few days she and Bill had spent with us last year were agitated, and tense, and harrowing, and fraught with the potential for disaster: The bizarre attitudes, the loud political rants, the guns, the alcohol, and the outrageous behavior. Followed by months of triangular conversation which ended in a stand off that threatened to interfere with the only holiday celebration my mother feels is important enough to exert herself to spend with family.
I unenthusiastically extended an olive branch at that time, but Estelle wasn't accepting, and I wasn't going to go waving it around for long. There were plans and backpedaling, more plans and then excuses. And then the biggest fail safe excuse, the threat of bad weather. Estelle and Bill came North and stayed away. Then retreated early.
The holiday was glorious in spite of the distraction I am never sure she didn't cause on purpose. She is a distraction without trying. But she took her bitterness to her friends' house, and ended up leaving there early too, following some terse words over God Only Knows What. Blamed the weather. Snow's coming so we're going. Like J., not seeing how by their own hand they were driving people from their life. And adamantly insisting that the problem lie with the other party.
Months later, I sent an Easter card; I called on Mother's Day. I did my part even though each act lacked genuine warmth. In its place, panic and dread and a sense of duty. There is a truce but no peace.
And even as I pack my bags for this trip I wonder if she knows we are going, and is telling herself that there is nothing unusual about not having been invited. Even though there is.
A few weeks ago, as I drove to a meeting, she called my cell. Not wanting to arrive at the meeting looking rattled in any way, I let the call go to voice mail. As I sat in traffic on the way home that evening, I called her back, wondering even as I dialed how I would dodge the issue if she hinted that she would enjoy seeing us and are we going to get away this summer.
Not to worry, she went on and on instead about politics and the state of the world. Told me she'd just bought a rifle.
I nearly drove right off the bridge.
She went on to volunteer that she'd gotten the gun because according to some closed-minded, right-wing redneck news source, people are upset with the state of things around here, and darn it, there is going to be an uprising, a revolution, looting and rioting - and darn it, she's going to protect what is hers.
I chuckled at the visual image of my mother, hair whipped and teased and back-combed into a meringue, Nefertiti earrings dangling, cowboy boots, pantyhose, Mom jeans and a really good blazer, cocking a gun to fire at someone trying to make off with her Weber grill.
I am secretly relieved at my de facto decision not to have invited Mom and her sidearm to join us on our tranquil vacation this year.
I am sure my children and the neighbors would thank me. If they only knew.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Take the Money and Run
I have changed banks.
For most people this is easy. For me it is like changing skin. And about as painful and scarring and nightmare-inspiring as that would be.
I do this as seldom as possible. Only when forced.
I had to change banks when I got divorced. Lars, in a bizarre but not unprecedented act of freakish paranoia, had insisted, and would have gone to the mattresses over it, that there be language in our agreement that I would close my account that I had in the bank we'd used as a couple, and go find myself another.
And why couldn't he just take his little bag of crinkled up bills and go find a new bank himself? Had he robbed all the others in the neighborhood?
But I agreed. Just walking into the old bank made my stomach churn. It was the account we shared in that bank that he had drained except for a few dollars, without telling me, natch, on the very day I'd been paid, and stashed the money in his name. Then to ice the cake a little more thickly, had canceled my credit card. No money, no credit card, no gas in my car. And as I sat in my car turning into a little sniveling pile of goo, Charlotte rallied, found a bank 3 blocks from my house with evening hours and met me there. Did all the talking while I fretted and wrung my hands. Spotted me enough cash to to survive for weeks on my own and for God's sake hire a lawyer. She very calmly explained to the very empathetic teller, with surprisingly few expletives, what my louse husband had done, and what we'd hoped to accomplish by sundown, if not murder, and answered all the pertinent questions, and then helped me record each piece of treasured jewelry and each important document pertaining to me or the children as I placed them in a safe deposit box.
So really, what remained to be done by the time Lars was on his horse and riding about me leaving the Royal Bank of Whoville, was the settlement of whatever we decided to do with the children's accounts. The accounts for which I was the custodian. Lars insisted, stomped his trollish little feet and held his fetid breath until I agreed to divide the balance of each child's account with him so that we could open separate and distinct accounts for them for which we would be the respective custodians.
And to this day I ask, "Who does that?"
I mean besides a total asswipe?
But in the interest of settling, I took and gave him half of what little money actually had made it into the accounts, since it was Lars's habit to take big checks, like the ones for $1,000 his friend's parents, the Firestones had given the kids when they were born, and pocket them for his own use, however nefarious. I went dutifully, promptly and responsibly to my bank and opened new accounts for each child and assumed he'd done the same at the Royal Bank of Whoville.
Lars, I've learned recently, did no such thing. He claims to have done so, and then to have debited the accounts to buy things the kids have asked for - like clothes and sneakers, and school supplies, and that the accounts, without regular deposits, have simply been depleted and closed. At least that is what he's told the kids.
But I know differently because I know Lars. And can see the hallmarks of one of his lies a mile away. I know that that money never saw the inside of a bank vault. It went directly into his pocket, because he could take it. And because he feels he should be compensated for all that Life has heaped upon him. And because the children would never be the wiser.
But that is where he underestimates them. Because they are smart enough to question when things don't add up. And when he told them the tall tale about the fate of their money - from birthdays and Christmases and visits from the tooth fairy, they asked me about the money in the accounts I'd opened with them. Do I use their money without telling them? Do I reimburse myself from their accounts when I've bought them gym uniforms and ski jackets and Halloween costumes?
I told them honestly. Certain things are my responsibility to buy. Like all the things I've mentioned. Other things, if they really want them, are theirs to buy, like Bobbi Brown makeup and sports memorabilia. And if they really want them, as they have in the past, I will take them to the bank and help them make the withdrawal that they need. I show them their passbooks so they can see the credits and debits..."Here is your birthday money from when you turned 9...and here is where you took out some to buy a pair of hockey skates."
Because it is their money and it is my responsibility to see that it is used responsibly. Some things you need and other things you really want. And some things you have to wait and save for. Clearly a philosophy to which their father does not subscribe. Because he has always been, remains, and will forever be an opportunistic taker, whose selfishness knows no bounds.
It is a sad but important lesson for them to learn. Every kid realizes one day that their parents did not hang the moon. Worse, they are flawed. My kids, sadly, have had to learn that their father is the Grinch, only his heart will not be warmed by Cindy Lou Who, or even his own children.
For most people this is easy. For me it is like changing skin. And about as painful and scarring and nightmare-inspiring as that would be.
I do this as seldom as possible. Only when forced.
I had to change banks when I got divorced. Lars, in a bizarre but not unprecedented act of freakish paranoia, had insisted, and would have gone to the mattresses over it, that there be language in our agreement that I would close my account that I had in the bank we'd used as a couple, and go find myself another.
And why couldn't he just take his little bag of crinkled up bills and go find a new bank himself? Had he robbed all the others in the neighborhood?
But I agreed. Just walking into the old bank made my stomach churn. It was the account we shared in that bank that he had drained except for a few dollars, without telling me, natch, on the very day I'd been paid, and stashed the money in his name. Then to ice the cake a little more thickly, had canceled my credit card. No money, no credit card, no gas in my car. And as I sat in my car turning into a little sniveling pile of goo, Charlotte rallied, found a bank 3 blocks from my house with evening hours and met me there. Did all the talking while I fretted and wrung my hands. Spotted me enough cash to to survive for weeks on my own and for God's sake hire a lawyer. She very calmly explained to the very empathetic teller, with surprisingly few expletives, what my louse husband had done, and what we'd hoped to accomplish by sundown, if not murder, and answered all the pertinent questions, and then helped me record each piece of treasured jewelry and each important document pertaining to me or the children as I placed them in a safe deposit box.
So really, what remained to be done by the time Lars was on his horse and riding about me leaving the Royal Bank of Whoville, was the settlement of whatever we decided to do with the children's accounts. The accounts for which I was the custodian. Lars insisted, stomped his trollish little feet and held his fetid breath until I agreed to divide the balance of each child's account with him so that we could open separate and distinct accounts for them for which we would be the respective custodians.
And to this day I ask, "Who does that?"
I mean besides a total asswipe?
But in the interest of settling, I took and gave him half of what little money actually had made it into the accounts, since it was Lars's habit to take big checks, like the ones for $1,000 his friend's parents, the Firestones had given the kids when they were born, and pocket them for his own use, however nefarious. I went dutifully, promptly and responsibly to my bank and opened new accounts for each child and assumed he'd done the same at the Royal Bank of Whoville.
Lars, I've learned recently, did no such thing. He claims to have done so, and then to have debited the accounts to buy things the kids have asked for - like clothes and sneakers, and school supplies, and that the accounts, without regular deposits, have simply been depleted and closed. At least that is what he's told the kids.
But I know differently because I know Lars. And can see the hallmarks of one of his lies a mile away. I know that that money never saw the inside of a bank vault. It went directly into his pocket, because he could take it. And because he feels he should be compensated for all that Life has heaped upon him. And because the children would never be the wiser.
But that is where he underestimates them. Because they are smart enough to question when things don't add up. And when he told them the tall tale about the fate of their money - from birthdays and Christmases and visits from the tooth fairy, they asked me about the money in the accounts I'd opened with them. Do I use their money without telling them? Do I reimburse myself from their accounts when I've bought them gym uniforms and ski jackets and Halloween costumes?
I told them honestly. Certain things are my responsibility to buy. Like all the things I've mentioned. Other things, if they really want them, are theirs to buy, like Bobbi Brown makeup and sports memorabilia. And if they really want them, as they have in the past, I will take them to the bank and help them make the withdrawal that they need. I show them their passbooks so they can see the credits and debits..."Here is your birthday money from when you turned 9...and here is where you took out some to buy a pair of hockey skates."
Because it is their money and it is my responsibility to see that it is used responsibly. Some things you need and other things you really want. And some things you have to wait and save for. Clearly a philosophy to which their father does not subscribe. Because he has always been, remains, and will forever be an opportunistic taker, whose selfishness knows no bounds.
It is a sad but important lesson for them to learn. Every kid realizes one day that their parents did not hang the moon. Worse, they are flawed. My kids, sadly, have had to learn that their father is the Grinch, only his heart will not be warmed by Cindy Lou Who, or even his own children.
Monday, August 8, 2011
The 27 Club
Amy Winehouse has died. Love her or hate her, you can not deny that she was captivating.
And now sadly, she has gone on to join a macabre club morbidly referred to as the 27 Club, referring of course to the evidently ever-expanding list of young musical geniuses who die at age of 27.
What strikes me about each of them, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain and Jim Morrison, is how old they seem. Amy and Kurt I might have guessed were younger than their appearances would have suggested. But Hendrix, Joplin and Morrison?…I would have guessed were far, far older. Especially Joplin. Yikes. Girlfriend could have used a few weeks at a spa, in addition to rehab. It must have been all the life they packed into too few years of living.
There is so much to be truly saddened by with Amy Winehouse. She was young. She was beautiful (give or take the beehive) and she was enormously, shockingly gifted. Her voice and style were unique and unmatched, and certainly could have taken her to places others only dream of: wealth, fame, ability to influence the world, a name that lives on in perpetuity. This generation’s Elvis or Michael Jackson.
Pity. That surreal voice that made her rich and famous is silenced like those before her. At 27.
And though that is plenty sad in and of itself, what makes me sad for those that love her is that her tragic, unending downward spiral, unlike the other members of the club, was public in a way that the others were spared.
I don’t think there is anyone who is on the fence about whether Hendrix or Joplin enjoyed their drugs. They certainly did. It is well documented. And even though Joplin’s family denied the producers of the movie “The Rose” the rights to her story, there is not a single person living on this planet who has seen The Divine Miss M come gloriously, completely unraveled in her screen debut and who does not completely understand that disclaimer or not, “The Rose” would be more accurately entitled “The Life and Times of Janis Joplin.”
And please, who has ever uttered the name Jimi Hendrix without also mentioning LSD or some other psychedelic drug? His death, shrouded in mystery and widely speculated about, screams of drug abuse. And cover up of same, natch.
And Morrison. Puh-lease. We have movies, authorized bio-pics, that come right out and tell you he used drugs. (Even if Meg Ryan wasn’t all that convincing as his co-conspirator, Pam, who famously changed her hazy recollection of drug use by herself and Morrison on the eve of his death in the bathtub.) And hello, if that weren’t proof enough, the very name of the band was taken from the title of Aldous Huxley's The Doors of Perception (as in "unlocking" of "doors of perception" through psychedelic drug use). Duh.
These were huge celebrities but none of them was exactly famous for their charity work. They were extremely talented, charismatic, dynamic artists who lived chaotic lives. But in a world that had only limited access to them.
What we know of them, if we weren’t at Monterey or Woodstock personally, is from stories we hear and pictures in magazines, and ancient, grainy amateur film footage.
But Amy. She died right in front of us. On the internet that was in its infancy when Kurt Cobain took his life, and on YouTube, the far reaching, highly accessible tool designed seemingly for little more than laughing at the misfortune of others (Unless you are Justin Bieber.) We watched her rise and fall. Every day. On every media outlet.
Sadly, these images will likely turn out to be what many remember her by. She won’t be remembered like Elvis, in his movies and his military uniform. (Because no one thought to post a picture of him dead on the toilet with the crusts from his peanut butter and bacon sandwich still on his lap) She will be remembered for being booed off stage too drunk to perform. Her haunting voice overshadowed by her shocking decline.
We don’t live forever. Our legacies may. If there is one thing you tell your kids tonight at dinner, make it this: Live your life as you want it remembered. Let your legacy really and truly and honestly speak for you. You may only have 27 years to create it. Make it something extraordinary and something of which you and your family can be eternally proud.
And now sadly, she has gone on to join a macabre club morbidly referred to as the 27 Club, referring of course to the evidently ever-expanding list of young musical geniuses who die at age of 27.
What strikes me about each of them, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain and Jim Morrison, is how old they seem. Amy and Kurt I might have guessed were younger than their appearances would have suggested. But Hendrix, Joplin and Morrison?…I would have guessed were far, far older. Especially Joplin. Yikes. Girlfriend could have used a few weeks at a spa, in addition to rehab. It must have been all the life they packed into too few years of living.
There is so much to be truly saddened by with Amy Winehouse. She was young. She was beautiful (give or take the beehive) and she was enormously, shockingly gifted. Her voice and style were unique and unmatched, and certainly could have taken her to places others only dream of: wealth, fame, ability to influence the world, a name that lives on in perpetuity. This generation’s Elvis or Michael Jackson.
Pity. That surreal voice that made her rich and famous is silenced like those before her. At 27.
And though that is plenty sad in and of itself, what makes me sad for those that love her is that her tragic, unending downward spiral, unlike the other members of the club, was public in a way that the others were spared.
I don’t think there is anyone who is on the fence about whether Hendrix or Joplin enjoyed their drugs. They certainly did. It is well documented. And even though Joplin’s family denied the producers of the movie “The Rose” the rights to her story, there is not a single person living on this planet who has seen The Divine Miss M come gloriously, completely unraveled in her screen debut and who does not completely understand that disclaimer or not, “The Rose” would be more accurately entitled “The Life and Times of Janis Joplin.”
And please, who has ever uttered the name Jimi Hendrix without also mentioning LSD or some other psychedelic drug? His death, shrouded in mystery and widely speculated about, screams of drug abuse. And cover up of same, natch.
And Morrison. Puh-lease. We have movies, authorized bio-pics, that come right out and tell you he used drugs. (Even if Meg Ryan wasn’t all that convincing as his co-conspirator, Pam, who famously changed her hazy recollection of drug use by herself and Morrison on the eve of his death in the bathtub.) And hello, if that weren’t proof enough, the very name of the band was taken from the title of Aldous Huxley's The Doors of Perception (as in "unlocking" of "doors of perception" through psychedelic drug use). Duh.
These were huge celebrities but none of them was exactly famous for their charity work. They were extremely talented, charismatic, dynamic artists who lived chaotic lives. But in a world that had only limited access to them.
What we know of them, if we weren’t at Monterey or Woodstock personally, is from stories we hear and pictures in magazines, and ancient, grainy amateur film footage.
But Amy. She died right in front of us. On the internet that was in its infancy when Kurt Cobain took his life, and on YouTube, the far reaching, highly accessible tool designed seemingly for little more than laughing at the misfortune of others (Unless you are Justin Bieber.) We watched her rise and fall. Every day. On every media outlet.
Sadly, these images will likely turn out to be what many remember her by. She won’t be remembered like Elvis, in his movies and his military uniform. (Because no one thought to post a picture of him dead on the toilet with the crusts from his peanut butter and bacon sandwich still on his lap) She will be remembered for being booed off stage too drunk to perform. Her haunting voice overshadowed by her shocking decline.
We don’t live forever. Our legacies may. If there is one thing you tell your kids tonight at dinner, make it this: Live your life as you want it remembered. Let your legacy really and truly and honestly speak for you. You may only have 27 years to create it. Make it something extraordinary and something of which you and your family can be eternally proud.
Friday, August 5, 2011
A Mouse Tale/Tail
So weeks go by following the middle of the night capture, torture and maiming incident which I have Pollyanna'ed myself into truly believing was a) an isolated incident (This mouse was clearly a loner. A recluse. No friends, no family. A party of one) and b) an event which culminated in the poor lone mouse's eventual death (which of course took place outside of my house and certainly not inconveniently in between my walls).
So it is this ignorant optimism I have to blame when three weeks later, I am awakened in the twinkling, half lit hours of dawn by the same woeful sounding throaty moan that haunted my sleep for days after Meeces to Pieces, Episode 1.
After realizing the moaning was not actually coming from inside my head where I was enjoying a dream about a big outdoor party, with live entertainment, that, wait a minute, that vocalist sounds like a cat...I sat bolt upright in bed. And yes, in a flop sweat and with a racing pulse.
I look down at Trinket, who is looking up at me from the floor in apparent bewilderment that I am overreacting already.
I expect to see a mouse dangling by its tail from her mouth, but she is licking her chops sans mouse.
But there in the dawn's early light, meant only to illuminate the Star Bangled Banner, and not the gore fest that I am about to deal with, I can see a little roundish dark blob on the light carpet. And the blob is not moving. And it is, even in the hazy lighting, and with my limited ability to see, evidently too small to be the preferred cat toy, the leopard print catnip mouse.
I secure my ponytail, lest it become a distraction or a screening problem in what activities I anticipate, and turn on my bedside light (again, surgical grade lighting). And there on the floor, now being softly chewed on by my darling kitty, is a pathetic, wet, small gray, lifeless mouse. It looks exactly like the one from Episode 1. But what do I know?
All together now: EEEEeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwww!!!!!
I put on the slippers I had schlepped around in the night before and turn on even more lights. Trinket is now prancing around her little dead friend very proudly.
I will never understand animals.
I try a little animal psychology, and choke out feigned praise. "Good girl, Trinket! Mommy is so proud of you! How about a treat?"
And like that, we are down the stairs and in the kitchen where I am immediately heaping pieces of smoked deli turkey into her bowl...enough to keep her purring and distracted for a while.
I need to act fast. Hil and Pat are asleep for only a few minutes longer. I can only imagine the drama. Hil can't share space with a bug. Imagine her reaction to a gruesome little dead thing!
I grab a grocery bag, the plastic environmentally unfriendly kind, and then one more to double it up. I also take a piece of unopened junk mail in a stiff over sized envelope and then race back upstairs as quietly as possible.
I kneel, open the bag as best I can, and then artfully flip the little rigor mortised thing into the bag and tie a double knot.
But on its way into its little plastic coffin, I noticed one thing.
Mr. Mouse has no tail.
And as I run downstairs to put the mouse and the bag in the can that holds the morning trash at the curb, I am skeeving.
Where oh where is the disembodied tail going to turn up???
So it is this ignorant optimism I have to blame when three weeks later, I am awakened in the twinkling, half lit hours of dawn by the same woeful sounding throaty moan that haunted my sleep for days after Meeces to Pieces, Episode 1.
After realizing the moaning was not actually coming from inside my head where I was enjoying a dream about a big outdoor party, with live entertainment, that, wait a minute, that vocalist sounds like a cat...I sat bolt upright in bed. And yes, in a flop sweat and with a racing pulse.
I look down at Trinket, who is looking up at me from the floor in apparent bewilderment that I am overreacting already.
I expect to see a mouse dangling by its tail from her mouth, but she is licking her chops sans mouse.
But there in the dawn's early light, meant only to illuminate the Star Bangled Banner, and not the gore fest that I am about to deal with, I can see a little roundish dark blob on the light carpet. And the blob is not moving. And it is, even in the hazy lighting, and with my limited ability to see, evidently too small to be the preferred cat toy, the leopard print catnip mouse.
I secure my ponytail, lest it become a distraction or a screening problem in what activities I anticipate, and turn on my bedside light (again, surgical grade lighting). And there on the floor, now being softly chewed on by my darling kitty, is a pathetic, wet, small gray, lifeless mouse. It looks exactly like the one from Episode 1. But what do I know?
All together now: EEEEeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwww!!!!!
I put on the slippers I had schlepped around in the night before and turn on even more lights. Trinket is now prancing around her little dead friend very proudly.
I will never understand animals.
I try a little animal psychology, and choke out feigned praise. "Good girl, Trinket! Mommy is so proud of you! How about a treat?"
And like that, we are down the stairs and in the kitchen where I am immediately heaping pieces of smoked deli turkey into her bowl...enough to keep her purring and distracted for a while.
I need to act fast. Hil and Pat are asleep for only a few minutes longer. I can only imagine the drama. Hil can't share space with a bug. Imagine her reaction to a gruesome little dead thing!
I grab a grocery bag, the plastic environmentally unfriendly kind, and then one more to double it up. I also take a piece of unopened junk mail in a stiff over sized envelope and then race back upstairs as quietly as possible.
I kneel, open the bag as best I can, and then artfully flip the little rigor mortised thing into the bag and tie a double knot.
But on its way into its little plastic coffin, I noticed one thing.
Mr. Mouse has no tail.
And as I run downstairs to put the mouse and the bag in the can that holds the morning trash at the curb, I am skeeving.
Where oh where is the disembodied tail going to turn up???
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Hi Ho Silver!
Quiet is not my strong suit but I creep with the stealth that people in horror movies never have when they are trying to outsmart the psycho killer with the hockey mask and the meat cleaver.
But Scott must be distracted because I literally sneak up on him.
Sneak up to find him positioned standing high on the bed where he is poised to wave a towel, lasso-style, presumably to whale on the little critter lest it run up his leg hairs and into his shorts unexpectedly.
He sees me see him and begins whirling the lasso/towel creating a big wind and frankly, a lot of noise. He claims to be intending to use the whirling terrycloth cyclone of doom to scare the cat from beneath the bed. I am not sure if the intention is for the mouse to go with the cat or remain under the bed when the cat runs for cover from The Loan Ranger. Frankly, I am skeptical that that was the purpose of the towel at all.
In any event, the whirling of the towel makes such a racket the Trinket streaks from beneath the bed, out into the hall, whizzing past me at break-neck speed, but slowly enough for me to see that she still has the mouse clasped between her teeth. Poor thing. It is probably hard to breathe like that, much less huff and puff as you run for your life.
I turn on a dime in my daughter's slip on fuzzy slippers, found and commandeered on the landing. (She's sort of a slob, my Hil. Leaves a little trail of debris like breadcrumbs in her wake.)
I hot-foot it down to the landing, spin and take off down the last turn in time to see which room Trinket turns to run in. The dining room. I assume she's under the dining table again. It's military genius. She has a great view and room to maneuver. Drats.
I have a brilliant idea. I suggest to The Lone Ranger, now having joined me on the first floor, towel still unholstered and in hand, that he make it seem really, really dangerous and unappealing to run toward the center hall or living room, while I make it seem like an easy break for Trinket to run into the kitchen. You know, he can wave the towel and jump around like a loon. No one in their right mind would dare go near him, even if your mind is the size of a Licorice Nib like Trinket's.
Then when she falls for it and is trapped in the kitchen, the interior of which is not unlike a walk in closet, with far fewer options for escape, we make it seem like a swell idea for her to run down the basement steps. When she does, I will dash to the landing with her water and close the door for the night. She can spend the night chasing Mr. Mouse and still have the benefit of water and her litter box, but no ability to go traipsing about the manse showing off her kill.
Trinket falls for it hook line and sinker, and Scott and I go off to bed in relative peace, after having jammed a towel under the basement door to prevent so much as a mouse paw to get through uninvited.
The next morning I can not fight my curiosity.
I go to the basement. Trinket is calm and peaceful. I expect to see her prize kill presented center stage in the middle of a hoola hoop or some similarly spectacular showy fashion.
Nothing.
I look around. The mouse isn't anywhere, and furthermore, Trinket is acting as though nothing has happened. (Maybe in that Licorice Nib brain, nothing has.)
I get her some food, freshen her water and continue looking for Mr. Mouse, all the while fearing that I am going to step on something gooey, yet crunchy, any minute.
Nothing.
I convince myself that Trinket chased and batted the little pathetic thing to the point of exhaustion or maiming. And then when it ceased to be any fun at all to play with, ignored it. It is my fervent hope that the heinous little varmint then limped outside to die.
Fingers crossed on that. But based on the way Trinket perches above the heat vent and swishes her tail each night, never giving in to distraction, I am sure I've not seen the last of the Meeces to Pieces.
But Scott must be distracted because I literally sneak up on him.
Sneak up to find him positioned standing high on the bed where he is poised to wave a towel, lasso-style, presumably to whale on the little critter lest it run up his leg hairs and into his shorts unexpectedly.
He sees me see him and begins whirling the lasso/towel creating a big wind and frankly, a lot of noise. He claims to be intending to use the whirling terrycloth cyclone of doom to scare the cat from beneath the bed. I am not sure if the intention is for the mouse to go with the cat or remain under the bed when the cat runs for cover from The Loan Ranger. Frankly, I am skeptical that that was the purpose of the towel at all.
In any event, the whirling of the towel makes such a racket the Trinket streaks from beneath the bed, out into the hall, whizzing past me at break-neck speed, but slowly enough for me to see that she still has the mouse clasped between her teeth. Poor thing. It is probably hard to breathe like that, much less huff and puff as you run for your life.
I turn on a dime in my daughter's slip on fuzzy slippers, found and commandeered on the landing. (She's sort of a slob, my Hil. Leaves a little trail of debris like breadcrumbs in her wake.)
I hot-foot it down to the landing, spin and take off down the last turn in time to see which room Trinket turns to run in. The dining room. I assume she's under the dining table again. It's military genius. She has a great view and room to maneuver. Drats.
I have a brilliant idea. I suggest to The Lone Ranger, now having joined me on the first floor, towel still unholstered and in hand, that he make it seem really, really dangerous and unappealing to run toward the center hall or living room, while I make it seem like an easy break for Trinket to run into the kitchen. You know, he can wave the towel and jump around like a loon. No one in their right mind would dare go near him, even if your mind is the size of a Licorice Nib like Trinket's.
Then when she falls for it and is trapped in the kitchen, the interior of which is not unlike a walk in closet, with far fewer options for escape, we make it seem like a swell idea for her to run down the basement steps. When she does, I will dash to the landing with her water and close the door for the night. She can spend the night chasing Mr. Mouse and still have the benefit of water and her litter box, but no ability to go traipsing about the manse showing off her kill.
Trinket falls for it hook line and sinker, and Scott and I go off to bed in relative peace, after having jammed a towel under the basement door to prevent so much as a mouse paw to get through uninvited.
The next morning I can not fight my curiosity.
I go to the basement. Trinket is calm and peaceful. I expect to see her prize kill presented center stage in the middle of a hoola hoop or some similarly spectacular showy fashion.
Nothing.
I look around. The mouse isn't anywhere, and furthermore, Trinket is acting as though nothing has happened. (Maybe in that Licorice Nib brain, nothing has.)
I get her some food, freshen her water and continue looking for Mr. Mouse, all the while fearing that I am going to step on something gooey, yet crunchy, any minute.
Nothing.
I convince myself that Trinket chased and batted the little pathetic thing to the point of exhaustion or maiming. And then when it ceased to be any fun at all to play with, ignored it. It is my fervent hope that the heinous little varmint then limped outside to die.
Fingers crossed on that. But based on the way Trinket perches above the heat vent and swishes her tail each night, never giving in to distraction, I am sure I've not seen the last of the Meeces to Pieces.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Divide and Conquer
Scott and I decide to split ranks and cover more ground. He goes upstairs and I enter the darkened living room.
I turn on a lamp and then another and then another. I want everything illuminated so that I can pick up on the slightest motion and spot anything, no matter how small or lifeless, on the patterned rug I am now regretting having laid there.
I stand still, trying to hear any minute movement above the sound of my pounding heart. You’d think I was evading the Boston Strangler.
After standing as motionless as humanly possible, given my visceral response to this particular stress, I decide that Trinket is trying to outsmart me by laying motionless unless the coast is clear. I assume she is under the sofa or one of the chairs. She’d have plenty of concealed room to run and lots of escape routes if she had to make a break for it (assuming I’d found the damn broom, which I hadn’t.)
I have not other choice. I have to get on my hands and knees and look under the furniture.
And this is why big scaredy cats who think there is a mouse about the house stand on chairs, people. Because up on a chair, you have a little distance. The mouse is not going to run across your feet and up your pant leg to parts unknown. And that is actually what we fear.
And here I am. Not only am I not on a chair, I am about to place my face against the rug, and potentially come face to face with The Beast, who will likely run into my massively curly hair where it will remained entangled while I have a full on hissy fit and die of a stroke of my own doing.
As silently as I can, so as not to inspire a mad dash, I get down upon my knees and turn my head to the side, my eyes wildly searching for signs of movement. I place my face against the floor and take in a wide view of the floor. And a deep breath so as not to pass out in that vulnerable a position.
Nothing.
Emboldened, I repeat this activity until I am sure the cat and her mouse are nowhere to be found on the first floor. Sqat-tah.
I call to Scott. “Scott, do you see her? She’s not down here. Neither is the mouse. They must be up there with you.”
I hear nothing from the second floor and ascend the stairs to the first landing and stop to listen.
More nothing.
With the caution of an international spy, I creep up the remaining stairs.
I turn on a lamp and then another and then another. I want everything illuminated so that I can pick up on the slightest motion and spot anything, no matter how small or lifeless, on the patterned rug I am now regretting having laid there.
I stand still, trying to hear any minute movement above the sound of my pounding heart. You’d think I was evading the Boston Strangler.
After standing as motionless as humanly possible, given my visceral response to this particular stress, I decide that Trinket is trying to outsmart me by laying motionless unless the coast is clear. I assume she is under the sofa or one of the chairs. She’d have plenty of concealed room to run and lots of escape routes if she had to make a break for it (assuming I’d found the damn broom, which I hadn’t.)
I have not other choice. I have to get on my hands and knees and look under the furniture.
And this is why big scaredy cats who think there is a mouse about the house stand on chairs, people. Because up on a chair, you have a little distance. The mouse is not going to run across your feet and up your pant leg to parts unknown. And that is actually what we fear.
And here I am. Not only am I not on a chair, I am about to place my face against the rug, and potentially come face to face with The Beast, who will likely run into my massively curly hair where it will remained entangled while I have a full on hissy fit and die of a stroke of my own doing.
As silently as I can, so as not to inspire a mad dash, I get down upon my knees and turn my head to the side, my eyes wildly searching for signs of movement. I place my face against the floor and take in a wide view of the floor. And a deep breath so as not to pass out in that vulnerable a position.
Nothing.
Emboldened, I repeat this activity until I am sure the cat and her mouse are nowhere to be found on the first floor. Sqat-tah.
I call to Scott. “Scott, do you see her? She’s not down here. Neither is the mouse. They must be up there with you.”
I hear nothing from the second floor and ascend the stairs to the first landing and stop to listen.
More nothing.
With the caution of an international spy, I creep up the remaining stairs.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Welcome to the House of Mouse
At the sound of my shriek, Trinket races off to parts unknown leaving me with no choice but to follow her.
OK there is another choice. I could let her run all over my house with the mouse and leave it for me to inadvertently step on and instantly drop dead. Not at all appealing.
So, I take to the stairs to the first floor (as opposed to the attic, which was just wishful thinking, really) and flick on additional lights as I go. No chance Scott will return to REM sleep anytime soon.
I get nearly to the foot of the stairs and find Trinket, mouse in her mouth on the center hall carpet, looking like a fleeing robber with his loot. Bat cat.
From upstairs, I hear Scott. “Liza, is it definitely a mouse? You’re sure.”
No, my mistake. It’s a giraffe. My bad. “Yes, Scott. It’s a mouse.”
“Is it alive or dead?”
Now that I can’t answer.
“I don’t know?” I ask like a buffoon.
And with those words, I see a swish of the mouse’s little damp tail, and let out an involuntary, inhuman yelp.
The noise, since not heard in nature apparently, scares Trinket, and she drops the mouse. Who is evidently very much alive and tries its little heart out to run away.
It gets about a paw length away and with one deft, fluid swoop, is scooped up and place back in Trinket’s mouth where it resumes playing dead. It could win a Tony, honestly.
I descend the remaining steps to the center hall and the floor creaks. It is a 100 year old house, after all. And Trinket is off to the races again. This time she’s ensconced under the dining table, between all the pedestals and chair legs, where she is protecting her kill like an animal in the wild.
Scott joins me on the first floor where I am pitting out in the kitchen trying to find a broom, for what that would be worth.
And Trinket and her mouse are on the run once again.
And I have no idea where she has gone.
OK there is another choice. I could let her run all over my house with the mouse and leave it for me to inadvertently step on and instantly drop dead. Not at all appealing.
So, I take to the stairs to the first floor (as opposed to the attic, which was just wishful thinking, really) and flick on additional lights as I go. No chance Scott will return to REM sleep anytime soon.
I get nearly to the foot of the stairs and find Trinket, mouse in her mouth on the center hall carpet, looking like a fleeing robber with his loot. Bat cat.
From upstairs, I hear Scott. “Liza, is it definitely a mouse? You’re sure.”
No, my mistake. It’s a giraffe. My bad. “Yes, Scott. It’s a mouse.”
“Is it alive or dead?”
Now that I can’t answer.
“I don’t know?” I ask like a buffoon.
And with those words, I see a swish of the mouse’s little damp tail, and let out an involuntary, inhuman yelp.
The noise, since not heard in nature apparently, scares Trinket, and she drops the mouse. Who is evidently very much alive and tries its little heart out to run away.
It gets about a paw length away and with one deft, fluid swoop, is scooped up and place back in Trinket’s mouth where it resumes playing dead. It could win a Tony, honestly.
I descend the remaining steps to the center hall and the floor creaks. It is a 100 year old house, after all. And Trinket is off to the races again. This time she’s ensconced under the dining table, between all the pedestals and chair legs, where she is protecting her kill like an animal in the wild.
Scott joins me on the first floor where I am pitting out in the kitchen trying to find a broom, for what that would be worth.
And Trinket and her mouse are on the run once again.
And I have no idea where she has gone.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Oh Meeces to Pieces!
Trinket is a mouser.
And I say this with absolute certainty.
I suspected she was, because truthfully, some cats aren’t, because of her behavior upon arrival at my house. She not only took to the basement, but went immediately and with purpose to a place in the basement where there is the potential for exposure to the outside, and therefore, to things that typically live outside. Like mice.
And her posture as she sat, staring, waiting and positioned to pounce, was even more of a giveaway. My cat Morris from my childhood would not have so much as quickened his pulse over a mouse any more so than the Man in the Moon. Unless the mouse became a nuisance to Morris personally, it could be dancing a jig on the end of the damn cat’s nose and he wouldn’t have raised a paw to swat it away. Morris was definitely not a mouser.
Then one night, not so long ago, as Scott and I lay falling asleep, I heard a muffled meow. Muffled may not be the right word. It was hollow. Throaty. Not Miss Meowypants’ usual meow.
And it was urgent. Repetitive. Something was wrong. I could tell. Just like the way a mother knows which cries mean “I’ve got the crankies.” and which cries mean “My hair has gone on fire.”
I looked down from the bed and could see Trinket’s silhouette on the light carpet. And could see that she was wildly batting at something on the floor with both paws. Really fast.
The thought balloon by my head read “Please God let it be the leopard print catnip mouse Trinket goes mad for…”
But I had to be sure.
Scott was nearly asleep but I asked anyway. “Would you mind if I turned on the light? It won’t be a second.”
He was instantly awake and agreed to the light. Maybe it was my voice. Nuanced as it was with sheer panic.
Rather than hop out of bed where I can turn on the light with the dimmer and thus not blind Scott and me both, I opt for the “no feet on the floor until I know what’s there’ choice and turn on the bedside table. Which provide illumination not unlike that of a surgical suite. Woo hoo!
I look down at Trinket and immediately ascertain that it is most definitely not the leopard print catnip mouse. This mouse is small and gray and damp with saliva and has a long tail NOT made of rawhide dangling from it.
And of course I shriek and Trinket takes off for another area of the house, which seems endless and sprawling, like the world does to a man who’s lost his hat on a windy day.
Woe is I.
And I say this with absolute certainty.
I suspected she was, because truthfully, some cats aren’t, because of her behavior upon arrival at my house. She not only took to the basement, but went immediately and with purpose to a place in the basement where there is the potential for exposure to the outside, and therefore, to things that typically live outside. Like mice.
And her posture as she sat, staring, waiting and positioned to pounce, was even more of a giveaway. My cat Morris from my childhood would not have so much as quickened his pulse over a mouse any more so than the Man in the Moon. Unless the mouse became a nuisance to Morris personally, it could be dancing a jig on the end of the damn cat’s nose and he wouldn’t have raised a paw to swat it away. Morris was definitely not a mouser.
Then one night, not so long ago, as Scott and I lay falling asleep, I heard a muffled meow. Muffled may not be the right word. It was hollow. Throaty. Not Miss Meowypants’ usual meow.
And it was urgent. Repetitive. Something was wrong. I could tell. Just like the way a mother knows which cries mean “I’ve got the crankies.” and which cries mean “My hair has gone on fire.”
I looked down from the bed and could see Trinket’s silhouette on the light carpet. And could see that she was wildly batting at something on the floor with both paws. Really fast.
The thought balloon by my head read “Please God let it be the leopard print catnip mouse Trinket goes mad for…”
But I had to be sure.
Scott was nearly asleep but I asked anyway. “Would you mind if I turned on the light? It won’t be a second.”
He was instantly awake and agreed to the light. Maybe it was my voice. Nuanced as it was with sheer panic.
Rather than hop out of bed where I can turn on the light with the dimmer and thus not blind Scott and me both, I opt for the “no feet on the floor until I know what’s there’ choice and turn on the bedside table. Which provide illumination not unlike that of a surgical suite. Woo hoo!
I look down at Trinket and immediately ascertain that it is most definitely not the leopard print catnip mouse. This mouse is small and gray and damp with saliva and has a long tail NOT made of rawhide dangling from it.
And of course I shriek and Trinket takes off for another area of the house, which seems endless and sprawling, like the world does to a man who’s lost his hat on a windy day.
Woe is I.
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