The next day was J.'s birthday. We had promised to meet him and the girls at a restaurant near his home to celebrate once more. (Given the events of the past few days, I didn't care if he wanted a motorcade and fireworks. We would accommodate.) My son was an easy sell - cake and the opportunity to see the NHL playoff game surrounded by 11 different flat screen TVs? Count him in!
My daughter was a harder sell...she was a gal with a budding social profile and there was another Middle School Orientation tonight. We stood in the bathroom, adjusting various things in the mirror and chatting.
"But Mom," she said. "The kids are encouraged to attend with their parents!"
"But, sweetie," I said, mimicking her. "You went last week with your class! This is for kids who don't already have a brother in 6th grade and whose parents don't know the ropes!"
"Derek doesn't have a brother in 6th grade" she said softly. Oh. Social Butterfly wanted to be the tour guide for 5th Grade Class Hottie. Can't say it wasn't a brilliant idea.
But still. "Honey, Derek is really smart and cool and confident. He won't be there with his parents. But I bet that snot-nosed whiner Alice will be."
Mission accomplished. Back to primping.
She looked at me in the mirror and seemed to be admiring my outfit. Had to admit it was quite cute. Tailored pencil skirt with an off-kilter plaid and oversized button closure. Coordinating twin set. Black roach killer pumps. Chunky jewelry. Perfection.
She stepped back and took a full length look and asked, "Mom, is it 50's day in your office?" I may as well have been wearing Mom Jeans. Cropped acid-wash Mom Jeans.
Wore the Laura Petrie outfit anyway and went to work, and immediately afterwards, like a bat out of hell, I raced home, inspected faces and hair and the condition of outfits, jammed the kids and J.'s gifts into the car, and went back out into the Wacky Racers episode that had been the evening's rush hour.
Forty minutes later, we squealed into the parking lot, huffed out of the car and into the cool darkness of the restaurant. I spotted J. from the bar and walked toward the dining room.
And as I drew nearer, my eyes adjusted. I approached the table to find it surrounded by not only J. and his girls, but Endora, Sheila and one of the nieces.
If only I could nod my head and blink and simply vanish.
Showing posts with label 70s TV shows. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 70s TV shows. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Dr. Bombay! Dr. Bombay!
Maybe if Dr. Bombay did not appear, a little Bombay Gin in the lemonade would work!
Deep breaths. Serenity now. Serenity now.
Busy hands, busy hands. The best way to calm yourself. Busy hands. Shred the cabbage for coleslaw.
Maybe this was a good thing. Unless there were disguised family members casing the neighborhood in unmarked cars and watching our every move so they could know when to converge on the house for a home invasion, it was just me and J. and the kids squaring off with Endora. I am sure even she would realize she was outnumbered in any kind of preconceived attack. The chance of "funny bithneth" was minimal.
And since she was the only guest, I could rest assured there was little chance of any real confrontation in front of the kids. No chance of a "So, about that 'fat old hen' comment you made..." interrogations.
And as for my other normal fonts of angst - my tenuous reputation for cooking and cleaning... There was little if any time to perform any last minute White Tornado act, so the house would be As Is. And cooking - half of it was J.'s - his birthday, his favorites.
But still, I wouldn't mind Dr. Bombay being on hand. Perhaps with that reviving gin and lemonade.
We made a (potentially life preserving) decision to eat inside in the A/C and out of the late afternoon sun...which would surely help with the beads of sweat forming on my upper lip and hair line. Pretty.
We sat. And we passed the bowls and platters and condiments. Dinner was underway. I angsted over adolescent breaches of manners. Apologized for cold butter (even though cold beats putrid any day of the week in my book). Regretted the absence of wine. Prayed for dinner to end without incident, and if it could not end without incident, that the incident itself would be swift and decisive. Preferably deadly.
Once the children had scattered in search of scooters and bikes and video games, I was happy to leave J. and his mom to talk while I cleared dishes and made a lengthy production of loading the dishwasher, scrubbing pots and pans until they sparkled, and lovingly storing leftovers. The safety of a familiar task a welcome asylum. Busy hands.
Then as it grew dark, Endora prepared to board the Vroom Broom for home and it became awkward. Even more so because my kitchen is the size of a minivan, and well, so is she. We made no eye contact. I offered her leftovers. She refused. She offered to help in the kitchen. I refused. J. kissed her goodbye. I waved like a dork.
And she was gone.
The checkered flag was waving.
Too soon to call a truce, but a baby step in the right direction.
Deep breaths. Serenity now. Serenity now.
Busy hands, busy hands. The best way to calm yourself. Busy hands. Shred the cabbage for coleslaw.
Maybe this was a good thing. Unless there were disguised family members casing the neighborhood in unmarked cars and watching our every move so they could know when to converge on the house for a home invasion, it was just me and J. and the kids squaring off with Endora. I am sure even she would realize she was outnumbered in any kind of preconceived attack. The chance of "funny bithneth" was minimal.
And since she was the only guest, I could rest assured there was little chance of any real confrontation in front of the kids. No chance of a "So, about that 'fat old hen' comment you made..." interrogations.
And as for my other normal fonts of angst - my tenuous reputation for cooking and cleaning... There was little if any time to perform any last minute White Tornado act, so the house would be As Is. And cooking - half of it was J.'s - his birthday, his favorites.
But still, I wouldn't mind Dr. Bombay being on hand. Perhaps with that reviving gin and lemonade.
We made a (potentially life preserving) decision to eat inside in the A/C and out of the late afternoon sun...which would surely help with the beads of sweat forming on my upper lip and hair line. Pretty.
We sat. And we passed the bowls and platters and condiments. Dinner was underway. I angsted over adolescent breaches of manners. Apologized for cold butter (even though cold beats putrid any day of the week in my book). Regretted the absence of wine. Prayed for dinner to end without incident, and if it could not end without incident, that the incident itself would be swift and decisive. Preferably deadly.
Once the children had scattered in search of scooters and bikes and video games, I was happy to leave J. and his mom to talk while I cleared dishes and made a lengthy production of loading the dishwasher, scrubbing pots and pans until they sparkled, and lovingly storing leftovers. The safety of a familiar task a welcome asylum. Busy hands.
Then as it grew dark, Endora prepared to board the Vroom Broom for home and it became awkward. Even more so because my kitchen is the size of a minivan, and well, so is she. We made no eye contact. I offered her leftovers. She refused. She offered to help in the kitchen. I refused. J. kissed her goodbye. I waved like a dork.
And she was gone.
The checkered flag was waving.
Too soon to call a truce, but a baby step in the right direction.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Becoming Don Knotts
So I faked it. I put on an Oscar-worthy portrayal of a woman completely calm and in control of her faculties while a potentially aggressive predator threatened. I gamely set about being engrossed in and consumed with the task of properly picking up and storing the damn lawn darts. (Which under normal circumstances I would have left right where they were out of hopeful anticipation of another round, and of course, sheer laziness.
I considered chickening out altogether and going in the side door on the opposite side of the house from where J. and his mother sat. Too obvious. (Again, there are enough bad manners citations out there being discussed over Early Bird Specials each week)
So, lawn darts in my hands to steady them, I walked toward the proper door without making eye contact until absolutely necessary. (Those day lillies were sooo interesting!) When I'd gotten near enough, I simply forced a polite smile and said "Can I get either of you something to drink?"
After getting refusals from both of them in unison, I walked through the door, and when I was safely out of veiw, began to breathe again.
So now it was just me and the kids in the house - and I needed to tell them that Mommom was here --- which would surely be met with mixed reviews. Not being my first day as a parent, I controlled the situation by telling each kid casually but privately. It was summer afterall, and the windows were open, so any kind of loud protests by my children would heard the world over.
At one point, J. asked that his tween come out to chat with Mommom. I gave Endora and her granddaughter a wide berth, but noticed through the kitchen curtains that J. had disappeared. I looked around the yard and in the garage before deciding that he'd vanished, and was probably stuffed in Endora's trunk suffocating while I boiled water for corn on the cobb.
So I went to my house phone and dialed his cell, hoping against hope that I'd hear it ringing nearby. It was not. He picked up on the 3rd ring. He was not in Endora's trunk. He was at the hardware store!
Stifling the urge to scream obscenities at him for leaving me alone with the Boogey Man, I inquired as to the urgency of the hardware emergency. His explanation, by the Grace of God, made sense given the recent threats and aggression from Sandy, and he said he'd be home in 5 minutes, could I heat up the grill.
Of course that would require me to walk by Endora several times. Damn him his hardware store crisis.
I walked by the first time. Offered drinks on the way back.
Walked by a second time, this time with matches because the ignition would not spark (natch). Offered that everyone could come inside since it was so hot. (and Endora was wearing pants and a cardigan sweater!)
Went out a third time to put the table cloth on the picnic table and raise the market umbrella.
Walked by a fourth time to check on the grill temperature (Where the hell was J.????????) and bumped into him on the walk. He was smiling.
"We have another guest for dinner," he stated with hopeful expectation about my response.
"Great!" I said with uncertainty and feigned joy. "Glad to have you. Let's eat inside where it's cool."
And I am less likely to faint from all of this.
I considered chickening out altogether and going in the side door on the opposite side of the house from where J. and his mother sat. Too obvious. (Again, there are enough bad manners citations out there being discussed over Early Bird Specials each week)
So, lawn darts in my hands to steady them, I walked toward the proper door without making eye contact until absolutely necessary. (Those day lillies were sooo interesting!) When I'd gotten near enough, I simply forced a polite smile and said "Can I get either of you something to drink?"
After getting refusals from both of them in unison, I walked through the door, and when I was safely out of veiw, began to breathe again.
So now it was just me and the kids in the house - and I needed to tell them that Mommom was here --- which would surely be met with mixed reviews. Not being my first day as a parent, I controlled the situation by telling each kid casually but privately. It was summer afterall, and the windows were open, so any kind of loud protests by my children would heard the world over.
At one point, J. asked that his tween come out to chat with Mommom. I gave Endora and her granddaughter a wide berth, but noticed through the kitchen curtains that J. had disappeared. I looked around the yard and in the garage before deciding that he'd vanished, and was probably stuffed in Endora's trunk suffocating while I boiled water for corn on the cobb.
So I went to my house phone and dialed his cell, hoping against hope that I'd hear it ringing nearby. It was not. He picked up on the 3rd ring. He was not in Endora's trunk. He was at the hardware store!
Stifling the urge to scream obscenities at him for leaving me alone with the Boogey Man, I inquired as to the urgency of the hardware emergency. His explanation, by the Grace of God, made sense given the recent threats and aggression from Sandy, and he said he'd be home in 5 minutes, could I heat up the grill.
Of course that would require me to walk by Endora several times. Damn him his hardware store crisis.
I walked by the first time. Offered drinks on the way back.
Walked by a second time, this time with matches because the ignition would not spark (natch). Offered that everyone could come inside since it was so hot. (and Endora was wearing pants and a cardigan sweater!)
Went out a third time to put the table cloth on the picnic table and raise the market umbrella.
Walked by a fourth time to check on the grill temperature (Where the hell was J.????????) and bumped into him on the walk. He was smiling.
"We have another guest for dinner," he stated with hopeful expectation about my response.
"Great!" I said with uncertainty and feigned joy. "Glad to have you. Let's eat inside where it's cool."
And I am less likely to faint from all of this.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Not So Cool McCool
There was yard game we had as a kid - one that only the parents were allowed to play, that everyone seemed to love to play for hours at every cookout and pool party, even long after they were taken off the market for being too dangerous and causing too many irreversible injuries.
The game was called Jarts. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawn_darts)It was not unlike Horseshoes in that you tossed an object toward a target some distance away and got points for accuracy. But there was something considerably more exciting about tossing the heavily weighted darts with their brightly colored fins spinning as they flew. They stuck in the ground with a satisfying "thunk" and defiantly held their position. There was no chance they'd get knocked out of the ring or bounced by another jart landing on top. The kids had to stand clear while the grownups played. Since I can tell from the family 8mm films that the game often included cans of Schlitz and my ancient bucket-hat-wearing grandfather, there were still plenty of errant throws and Jarts piercing nearby lawn chairs and charcoal briquette bags. Perhaps the mystique contributed to my love for them. You always covet the forbidden. And at the age of 10, Jarts was about as forbidden a thing I could think of.
That morning I'd gotten the new version of the game for us to play as a distraction. It is called Lawn Darts, but there are no darts. Where there had been heavy steel tipped darts before, now were heavy, bulbous, rubberized balls that bounced around once they hit the ground and were subject to being knocked out of the ring by other rolling and skittering "ball darts."
But the kids never knew the banned-by-the-Consumer-Product-Safety-Commission version, so they were happy to play. I was closing in on 21 in a game against my son when I saw Endora's car casing the neighborhood through my wildly untamed hedges.
And my heart was off to the races. But being points away from victory in a hard fought game with my son allowed me to delay "noticing" for a few minutes and give J. a chance to realize his mother had arrived.
She came a foot or two down the walk and I greeted her from across the yard. I got no response. She went immediately to J. They took a seat on my patio (on benches among the dandelions) and became engrossed in conversation.
My son having edged me in the last toss of the game ran victoriously into the house. And I had my first real pang of awkwardness.
There I was on the lawn, lawn "dart" in hand, J. and his mom oblivious to me, and I had to walk past them to get into the house. I was overcome by the strangest most unfamiliar sensation.
I had no idea what to do.
The game was called Jarts. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawn_darts)It was not unlike Horseshoes in that you tossed an object toward a target some distance away and got points for accuracy. But there was something considerably more exciting about tossing the heavily weighted darts with their brightly colored fins spinning as they flew. They stuck in the ground with a satisfying "thunk" and defiantly held their position. There was no chance they'd get knocked out of the ring or bounced by another jart landing on top. The kids had to stand clear while the grownups played. Since I can tell from the family 8mm films that the game often included cans of Schlitz and my ancient bucket-hat-wearing grandfather, there were still plenty of errant throws and Jarts piercing nearby lawn chairs and charcoal briquette bags. Perhaps the mystique contributed to my love for them. You always covet the forbidden. And at the age of 10, Jarts was about as forbidden a thing I could think of.
That morning I'd gotten the new version of the game for us to play as a distraction. It is called Lawn Darts, but there are no darts. Where there had been heavy steel tipped darts before, now were heavy, bulbous, rubberized balls that bounced around once they hit the ground and were subject to being knocked out of the ring by other rolling and skittering "ball darts."
But the kids never knew the banned-by-the-Consumer-Product-Safety-Commission version, so they were happy to play. I was closing in on 21 in a game against my son when I saw Endora's car casing the neighborhood through my wildly untamed hedges.
And my heart was off to the races. But being points away from victory in a hard fought game with my son allowed me to delay "noticing" for a few minutes and give J. a chance to realize his mother had arrived.
She came a foot or two down the walk and I greeted her from across the yard. I got no response. She went immediately to J. They took a seat on my patio (on benches among the dandelions) and became engrossed in conversation.
My son having edged me in the last toss of the game ran victoriously into the house. And I had my first real pang of awkwardness.
There I was on the lawn, lawn "dart" in hand, J. and his mom oblivious to me, and I had to walk past them to get into the house. I was overcome by the strangest most unfamiliar sensation.
I had no idea what to do.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Fractured Fairy Tales
Understand that Sandy needed little motivation to rape and pillage. The slightest discrepancy with her version of perfect world order and complete domination would often lead to nuclear meltdowns. J. recalled one particularly explosive, full-throttle hissy fit inspired by his return from grocery shopping and the discovery that he'd purchased the wrong size box of Cheerios and the 50 cent off coupon had not applied (much less doubled! Gasp!)
***Note - Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth. (And hello a little help here...why do we say that?) I would have gladly paid full price for all 8 bags and a delivery fee for someone to have voluntarily taken on the grocery shopping for me - and in fact, might have had a lovely filet mignon and glass of Merlot waiting at the end of the trip.
But whatever drove Sandy to this madness, however admittedly short the trip, her sycophant family (ahem, AKA "support system") was seated at her (considerable) feet, "There, there Sandy"-ing and "We're all here to help" -ing her until her hormonally imbalanced rage could subside to normal human levels.
And now J. needed his "support system." But what Sandy had done was so reprehensible J. was hesitant to talk to anyone about it. It's hard to admit that you were once married to someone capable of such hatred. Sometimes even your friends don't completely understand. And who wants to make that call? "Hi there! It's J. Sandy's at it again and this time she's publicly humiliated me and discredited me! Wanna grab a beer after work and catch up?"
He'd called his mother, and she was appropriately horrified but still a little distant.
He needed me for sure. And although I have great faith in my abilities, in this case, he needed more than me.
So I took a deep breath.
I picked up my phone.
I called his mother.
The call went immediately to voicemail, natch. But it was not Endora's voice on the message as I'd been accustomed to hearing. And it was not the Squatters squealing in their newly wedded euphoria either.
I was a little out of practice at calling this house since the screaming match, so I hung up without leaving a message and checked the number.
I had in fact dialed properly.
Uh-oh. Damn that caller ID.
I took another deep, cleansing breath and dialed again.
She answered. Coolly.
I steadily greeted Endora and identified myself (omitting the last name). I remarked that I'd intended to have J. and the girls for dinner the next day to celebrate our birthdays, and in light of what's happened, I was sure he'd love to see her. He needed his family around him. Would she like to join us?
She replied, still coolly, that she had a party to attend but would try to come. What time?
I told her I was not clear on the details yet, but would call her again the next day with the time.
We got off the phone without any fanfare or drama...and then I properly exhaled, for the first time in months.
***Note - Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth. (And hello a little help here...why do we say that?) I would have gladly paid full price for all 8 bags and a delivery fee for someone to have voluntarily taken on the grocery shopping for me - and in fact, might have had a lovely filet mignon and glass of Merlot waiting at the end of the trip.
But whatever drove Sandy to this madness, however admittedly short the trip, her sycophant family (ahem, AKA "support system") was seated at her (considerable) feet, "There, there Sandy"-ing and "We're all here to help" -ing her until her hormonally imbalanced rage could subside to normal human levels.
And now J. needed his "support system." But what Sandy had done was so reprehensible J. was hesitant to talk to anyone about it. It's hard to admit that you were once married to someone capable of such hatred. Sometimes even your friends don't completely understand. And who wants to make that call? "Hi there! It's J. Sandy's at it again and this time she's publicly humiliated me and discredited me! Wanna grab a beer after work and catch up?"
He'd called his mother, and she was appropriately horrified but still a little distant.
He needed me for sure. And although I have great faith in my abilities, in this case, he needed more than me.
So I took a deep breath.
I picked up my phone.
I called his mother.
The call went immediately to voicemail, natch. But it was not Endora's voice on the message as I'd been accustomed to hearing. And it was not the Squatters squealing in their newly wedded euphoria either.
I was a little out of practice at calling this house since the screaming match, so I hung up without leaving a message and checked the number.
I had in fact dialed properly.
Uh-oh. Damn that caller ID.
I took another deep, cleansing breath and dialed again.
She answered. Coolly.
I steadily greeted Endora and identified myself (omitting the last name). I remarked that I'd intended to have J. and the girls for dinner the next day to celebrate our birthdays, and in light of what's happened, I was sure he'd love to see her. He needed his family around him. Would she like to join us?
She replied, still coolly, that she had a party to attend but would try to come. What time?
I told her I was not clear on the details yet, but would call her again the next day with the time.
We got off the phone without any fanfare or drama...and then I properly exhaled, for the first time in months.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Love is...
So Sandy had stomped across our world with her big, wide, sturdy feet one more time. She'd broken new ground with this maneuver, however, and we were scrambling to regain our balance.
Our turn to wring our hands. These were uncharted waters for us both. We needed advice. What do you do with someone who justifies breaking all the rules?
When I was a kid, a local dairy had a campaign where their sour cream (for dips and chips before we worried about things like cholesterol) was packaged not in jars or tubs but in juice sized and pint sized glasses. With plastic lids and little cartoons on the side. We collected dozens of them in our house (What was with all the dip?) and they became part of our drinking glass collection - right along side the jelly glasses with Tom and Jerry and Peanuts characters depicted on the side.
The cartoon for the sour cream company was called "Love is..." and bore cute little simple renderings of two young people, one male and one female, in varying stages of courtship, often looking pie-eyed or coyly at one another.
And completely naked.
How odd that seems today. I will spare you the political commentary.
But the point is, the cartoons had cute little pictures and says that finished the sentence "Love is..." (http://www.loveiscomicstrip.com/catalog2.php)
Love is ..the little things.
Love is...being together every step of the way.
Love is...come rain or shine.
Love is...not the wrapping but what's inside.
Perhaps we should start a sour cream container campaign for Sandy's benefit specifically. Let's call it "Love is not..."
Love is not ...blaming your spouse for your inability to be happy about anything and that in spite of a very nice life, you've become a bitter old hag with frown lines. (Bring on the Frownies - www.frownies.com/)
Love is not...using divorce proceedings to exact revenge for your disappointment with how your life has turned out, when really you've just reaped what you've sown.
Love is not...using every available means to ensure your spouse's certain misery for all eternity, just because your are pretty sure that is your fate.
Love is not...being incensed at the fact that your former spouse has found love and happiness when you have failed to have so much as a single second date.
Love is not...using your powerful parental influence over your children to encourage insolence and alienation toward their other parent when all other attempts to destroy him have failed. People like that should be forced to spend a long weekend in a juvenile detention center to witness the power and destruction of bad parenting.
Make no mistake. I am not suggesting that divorced couples should or even can, as a rule, love each other. It is pretty darn hard to even be in the same state most times.
But when all the papers have been signed, time should, as it is said, heal all wounds. And while there may not be love, there once was. Enough to invite children into your life together. And so long as there are children, there is a connection. You to them and them to your former spouse. And the more prosperous, fulfilling and peaceful that former spouse's life, the better your children's lives, for the time they share it. How nice for them to know that Mom or Dad is doing okay --- and they will do okay, too, by some sort of emotional osmosis.
It is safe to assume that we all love our kids. So therefore, all the Love Is Nots are off the table when it comes to the other parent. Period.
If only the sour cream company could make it so.
Our turn to wring our hands. These were uncharted waters for us both. We needed advice. What do you do with someone who justifies breaking all the rules?
When I was a kid, a local dairy had a campaign where their sour cream (for dips and chips before we worried about things like cholesterol) was packaged not in jars or tubs but in juice sized and pint sized glasses. With plastic lids and little cartoons on the side. We collected dozens of them in our house (What was with all the dip?) and they became part of our drinking glass collection - right along side the jelly glasses with Tom and Jerry and Peanuts characters depicted on the side.
The cartoon for the sour cream company was called "Love is..." and bore cute little simple renderings of two young people, one male and one female, in varying stages of courtship, often looking pie-eyed or coyly at one another.
And completely naked.
How odd that seems today. I will spare you the political commentary.
But the point is, the cartoons had cute little pictures and says that finished the sentence "Love is..." (http://www.loveiscomicstrip.com/catalog2.php)
Love is ..the little things.
Love is...being together every step of the way.
Love is...come rain or shine.
Love is...not the wrapping but what's inside.
Perhaps we should start a sour cream container campaign for Sandy's benefit specifically. Let's call it "Love is not..."
Love is not ...blaming your spouse for your inability to be happy about anything and that in spite of a very nice life, you've become a bitter old hag with frown lines. (Bring on the Frownies - www.frownies.com/)
Love is not...using divorce proceedings to exact revenge for your disappointment with how your life has turned out, when really you've just reaped what you've sown.
Love is not...using every available means to ensure your spouse's certain misery for all eternity, just because your are pretty sure that is your fate.
Love is not...being incensed at the fact that your former spouse has found love and happiness when you have failed to have so much as a single second date.
Love is not...using your powerful parental influence over your children to encourage insolence and alienation toward their other parent when all other attempts to destroy him have failed. People like that should be forced to spend a long weekend in a juvenile detention center to witness the power and destruction of bad parenting.
Make no mistake. I am not suggesting that divorced couples should or even can, as a rule, love each other. It is pretty darn hard to even be in the same state most times.
But when all the papers have been signed, time should, as it is said, heal all wounds. And while there may not be love, there once was. Enough to invite children into your life together. And so long as there are children, there is a connection. You to them and them to your former spouse. And the more prosperous, fulfilling and peaceful that former spouse's life, the better your children's lives, for the time they share it. How nice for them to know that Mom or Dad is doing okay --- and they will do okay, too, by some sort of emotional osmosis.
It is safe to assume that we all love our kids. So therefore, all the Love Is Nots are off the table when it comes to the other parent. Period.
If only the sour cream company could make it so.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Funny As A Crutch, Rich
Just when push was coming to shove (What does that mean, exactly? Estelle? Anyone?) the Earth seemed to shift on its axis again.
At the exact crossroads where one of us what going to have to face the inevitable and as a matter of saving face, throw down the gauntlet (Where do I even get a gauntlet?) there was a turn of events so enormous, so unexpected, so precisely timed it had to be the Grace of God.
I am not suggesting that this turn was a good thing. It most definitely was not. In fact it is so heinous and uncommonly horrible that I can not even write about it here. Satire would miss its mark.
But it happened. And it set wheels in motion that will probably pick up speed and begin to smoke in a matter of minutes.
And who, you might ask, might be the wizard behind the curtain for this particular epic drama?
Drum roll, please.
Sandy.
Yes, Sandy. J.'s former little ray of scorching, searing, cancer-causing sunshine. She with the disposition of the Tasmanian Devil and a voice that sounds as though she regularly swallows tacks.
Sandy for reasons that most of humanity would find baffling, did something so violating and appalling, so crushing and destructive that it will likely be the subject of lengthy, drama-filled litigation . Papers are being prepared to be served even now.
She has hatched lots of self righteous, self serving, singularly focused schemes before. Always at other people's enormous misery and expense. She has done some unspeakable things to the people closest to her, always having somehow justified her actions by convincing herself that they somehow deserved it or were careless and oh-well-s***-happens. "Perhaps if you had been more careful I would not have needed to punish you/hurt you/humiliate you in this way." (*Note - This is a woman who has been known to break into fits of hysterical laughter over such things as fatal youth choir tour bus accidents.)
And, surrounded by sycophants like her sister with the Home-for-the-Criminally-Insane haircut, and her brother, Tube-socks-and-Barcalounger, there was little chance that she would ever change her destructive entitlement approach to human interaction. She was always a ticking time bomb.
And today she blew up in all of our faces.
At the exact crossroads where one of us what going to have to face the inevitable and as a matter of saving face, throw down the gauntlet (Where do I even get a gauntlet?) there was a turn of events so enormous, so unexpected, so precisely timed it had to be the Grace of God.
I am not suggesting that this turn was a good thing. It most definitely was not. In fact it is so heinous and uncommonly horrible that I can not even write about it here. Satire would miss its mark.
But it happened. And it set wheels in motion that will probably pick up speed and begin to smoke in a matter of minutes.
And who, you might ask, might be the wizard behind the curtain for this particular epic drama?
Drum roll, please.
Sandy.
Yes, Sandy. J.'s former little ray of scorching, searing, cancer-causing sunshine. She with the disposition of the Tasmanian Devil and a voice that sounds as though she regularly swallows tacks.
Sandy for reasons that most of humanity would find baffling, did something so violating and appalling, so crushing and destructive that it will likely be the subject of lengthy, drama-filled litigation . Papers are being prepared to be served even now.
She has hatched lots of self righteous, self serving, singularly focused schemes before. Always at other people's enormous misery and expense. She has done some unspeakable things to the people closest to her, always having somehow justified her actions by convincing herself that they somehow deserved it or were careless and oh-well-s***-happens. "Perhaps if you had been more careful I would not have needed to punish you/hurt you/humiliate you in this way." (*Note - This is a woman who has been known to break into fits of hysterical laughter over such things as fatal youth choir tour bus accidents.)
And, surrounded by sycophants like her sister with the Home-for-the-Criminally-Insane haircut, and her brother, Tube-socks-and-Barcalounger, there was little chance that she would ever change her destructive entitlement approach to human interaction. She was always a ticking time bomb.
And today she blew up in all of our faces.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
What Would Donald Hollinger Do?
I can only imagine the fainting spells, and gasps of horror at J.'s reprehensible behavior. How dare he make such an accusation of sweet and innocent Em? How dare he use such language and insult her with his notions about the purity of her intentions?
Thank God it had been an actual conversation or it would be forwarded to every and all cell phones in our network and going viral by midnight.
J. sat and waited. The phone call was satisfying on many levels, but Em was only one small, dim-witted part of the larger problem. The ranks are closed. There would be other attacks. But, nonetheless, he'd made his point. He had seen through Em's thinly veiled agenda and had called her on it. She may think she had deftly handled his objections, that her obvious reputation for truth and innocence would clearly work in her favor, but he had hit his mark. And they all knew it.
What he was waiting for was a call back.
It would not be from Sheila. She'd had exactly one confrontational conversation in her adult life, and it had been with me, and it had been an abysmal ass-kicking. Even her mood stabilizers and whatever other therapeutic whammy she may subscribe to could not motivate her to go down that ill fated path again.
It might come from Endora. The self-proclaimed matriarch of the Cullen family might actually make a call, but would have to be coached on content, and would call only when she knew she'd get your voicemail so she could screech and chastise without the possibility of any type of retort or counterattack. The worst kind of bully. (Note to self: learn how to transcribe voice mail to YouTube with hilarious synchronized sock puppet show)
But really, the call should come from Chuck. J. has said that if someone insulted or denigrated me, he didn't care if the guy was Mike Tyson, he'd knock on the guy's door and he'd have to answer to him. But we all knew that Chuck, the perpetual nursing student who cooks and cleans and dotes on the older ladies in the family, would never call J. No, he'd retreat to the bosom of his circle of women, and nod his head in agreement that Uncle J. was a big meany.
We've seen this side of Chuck before. Once, in an obvious lapse in reason, Chuck had offended a young woman in the family in a way that could not go without comment. To not mention it would have been to accept that he'd crossed a boundary. J. did not rant and rave and make a federal case out of it. He merely called Chuck and said he'd like to talk about it.
Before he knew it, Sheila and Endora and all the other hens had gotten involved and were backing J. off of the matter like a rabid pack of she-wolves. So Chuck, rather than facing J. had rallied the women and hidden behind their aprons.
I don't know what Donald Hollinger would do in a situation like this. But I have to believe that he'd grow a pair.
Thank God it had been an actual conversation or it would be forwarded to every and all cell phones in our network and going viral by midnight.
J. sat and waited. The phone call was satisfying on many levels, but Em was only one small, dim-witted part of the larger problem. The ranks are closed. There would be other attacks. But, nonetheless, he'd made his point. He had seen through Em's thinly veiled agenda and had called her on it. She may think she had deftly handled his objections, that her obvious reputation for truth and innocence would clearly work in her favor, but he had hit his mark. And they all knew it.
What he was waiting for was a call back.
It would not be from Sheila. She'd had exactly one confrontational conversation in her adult life, and it had been with me, and it had been an abysmal ass-kicking. Even her mood stabilizers and whatever other therapeutic whammy she may subscribe to could not motivate her to go down that ill fated path again.
It might come from Endora. The self-proclaimed matriarch of the Cullen family might actually make a call, but would have to be coached on content, and would call only when she knew she'd get your voicemail so she could screech and chastise without the possibility of any type of retort or counterattack. The worst kind of bully. (Note to self: learn how to transcribe voice mail to YouTube with hilarious synchronized sock puppet show)
But really, the call should come from Chuck. J. has said that if someone insulted or denigrated me, he didn't care if the guy was Mike Tyson, he'd knock on the guy's door and he'd have to answer to him. But we all knew that Chuck, the perpetual nursing student who cooks and cleans and dotes on the older ladies in the family, would never call J. No, he'd retreat to the bosom of his circle of women, and nod his head in agreement that Uncle J. was a big meany.
We've seen this side of Chuck before. Once, in an obvious lapse in reason, Chuck had offended a young woman in the family in a way that could not go without comment. To not mention it would have been to accept that he'd crossed a boundary. J. did not rant and rave and make a federal case out of it. He merely called Chuck and said he'd like to talk about it.
Before he knew it, Sheila and Endora and all the other hens had gotten involved and were backing J. off of the matter like a rabid pack of she-wolves. So Chuck, rather than facing J. had rallied the women and hidden behind their aprons.
I don't know what Donald Hollinger would do in a situation like this. But I have to believe that he'd grow a pair.
Monday, May 24, 2010
The Man from U.N.C.L.E
J. was seething.
He asked his daughter exactly how the conversation unfolded. There was very little if anything nebulous about it. Em had called his daughter directly and had extended an invitation just to her.
Did the Princess think for a moment that her relationship with J.'s daughter in any way eclipsed his own?
Was she leveraging what she thought was an eternal bond of servitude as a bridesmaid to pressure the girl into going, when it was already decided by her father that she would not?
Was she, a crafty and clever first year parochial school teacher, imploring J.'s daughter to exercise her newly gained rights as an 18 year old who can make her own decisions independent of the wishes of her parents?
Mrs. Scungili was feeling pretty powerful, wasn't she?
After taking a long car ride to alleviate his homicidal urges, he returned home to call Em directly.
He was picturing the scene. Sheila was probably over for a visit to look at the wedding video one more time. Mommom and Chuck and Em were all seated around the coffee table scratching their heads over the fact that their plan to manipulate the guest list had been met with uncharacteristic failure. (Where are Chuck's superhero powers when he needs them?) They'd inadvertently excluded J.'s girls. What to do, what to do?
Worse, they all assumed that J. had made the decision for his family without their involvement (Umm, hello, it is a decision, not a Constitutional Ammendment! We don't need to get the children's buy in every time!) His sour grapes from the wedding were staining his judgement and he was keeping his children away to spite them!
The perky and effervescent little Mrs. had a Girl Power thought! She would call J.'s oldest daughter. She was betting that she had no idea what had been decided for her and she'd be incensed! And she had such deep, abiding love and adoration for Em that she would thank her profusely for letting her know, and confront her evil wicked father and then insist that she be allowed to do the right thing. You go, Norma Rae!
J. picked up the phone and dialed Em. Knowing full well that she'd be sitting around in her Snuggy within earshot of his mother and Chuck, he wanted to send a shot over the bow that told them all the jig was up.
"Em, it's Uncle J. What was the purpose of your call to my daughter?"
"What do you mean, Uncle J.?" Surely she was sitting doe-eyed and blinking in her feigned innocence.
"You called, Em, and invited just her to Mommom's party. And you must already know that I have said we can not be there, for a littany of reasons I do not need to explain to you."
"Oh, no Uncle J.! I called to invite you all. I just called her because her number is in my phone."
"Em, you expect me to believe that you have been sitting there with your grandmother all day, and have talked to your mother 16 times, and you were somehow unaware that the party has become an epic boondoggle? And that my daughter, whose IQ by the way far exceeds yours, somehow misunderstood that your invitation was for all of us, and not just for her? Em, it seems to me that your call was an attempt to manipulate this situation."
"Oh no, Uncle J. I had no idea."
And to that, J. replied, as his father might have, "Em, you are a lying sack of s***."
And she, as one might have expected, simply hung up.
He asked his daughter exactly how the conversation unfolded. There was very little if anything nebulous about it. Em had called his daughter directly and had extended an invitation just to her.
Did the Princess think for a moment that her relationship with J.'s daughter in any way eclipsed his own?
Was she leveraging what she thought was an eternal bond of servitude as a bridesmaid to pressure the girl into going, when it was already decided by her father that she would not?
Was she, a crafty and clever first year parochial school teacher, imploring J.'s daughter to exercise her newly gained rights as an 18 year old who can make her own decisions independent of the wishes of her parents?
Mrs. Scungili was feeling pretty powerful, wasn't she?
After taking a long car ride to alleviate his homicidal urges, he returned home to call Em directly.
He was picturing the scene. Sheila was probably over for a visit to look at the wedding video one more time. Mommom and Chuck and Em were all seated around the coffee table scratching their heads over the fact that their plan to manipulate the guest list had been met with uncharacteristic failure. (Where are Chuck's superhero powers when he needs them?) They'd inadvertently excluded J.'s girls. What to do, what to do?
Worse, they all assumed that J. had made the decision for his family without their involvement (Umm, hello, it is a decision, not a Constitutional Ammendment! We don't need to get the children's buy in every time!) His sour grapes from the wedding were staining his judgement and he was keeping his children away to spite them!
The perky and effervescent little Mrs. had a Girl Power thought! She would call J.'s oldest daughter. She was betting that she had no idea what had been decided for her and she'd be incensed! And she had such deep, abiding love and adoration for Em that she would thank her profusely for letting her know, and confront her evil wicked father and then insist that she be allowed to do the right thing. You go, Norma Rae!
J. picked up the phone and dialed Em. Knowing full well that she'd be sitting around in her Snuggy within earshot of his mother and Chuck, he wanted to send a shot over the bow that told them all the jig was up.
"Em, it's Uncle J. What was the purpose of your call to my daughter?"
"What do you mean, Uncle J.?" Surely she was sitting doe-eyed and blinking in her feigned innocence.
"You called, Em, and invited just her to Mommom's party. And you must already know that I have said we can not be there, for a littany of reasons I do not need to explain to you."
"Oh, no Uncle J.! I called to invite you all. I just called her because her number is in my phone."
"Em, you expect me to believe that you have been sitting there with your grandmother all day, and have talked to your mother 16 times, and you were somehow unaware that the party has become an epic boondoggle? And that my daughter, whose IQ by the way far exceeds yours, somehow misunderstood that your invitation was for all of us, and not just for her? Em, it seems to me that your call was an attempt to manipulate this situation."
"Oh no, Uncle J. I had no idea."
And to that, J. replied, as his father might have, "Em, you are a lying sack of s***."
And she, as one might have expected, simply hung up.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Sheila O'Malley, Sheila O'Malley
I am not sure which is more insane: Planning a party at 4 o'clock on Friday or expecting people to be able to show up (Fraternities the world over notwithstanding)
Unlesss it truly wasn't the customary insanity or ineptness we'd come to expect at all. What if it really was some madcap, not-so-subtle, ham-handed plot hatched by J.'s hapless Mary Hartman-esque sister and the other demented residents of their little Fernwood?
Knowing his mother would take high offense to his family being AWOL from the birthday gig, and with even just a smidge of egging on, high drama would ensue, J. called his mother to explain his anticipated absence.
It was clear from the first syllables that Sheila had called and had boo hoo hooed to her first. "J. was mean to me and I wear glasses!" or some similarly sniveling pea-brained whine from her prepubescent repertoire. As only a mother can, Endora defended the indefensible (and the defensless Sheila O'Malley Sheila O'Malley who "must have been born under an unlucky star...") (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0074021/quotes)
J. remarked that the whole plan appeared to be tailored to fit the new Mrs. Scungili's burgeoning social calendar.
"Well she is my granddaughter."
Yes she is, but she is one of 14 people expected at the table and 7 of them will have to jump through hoops of flame and sacrifice equally important engagements to be there at the appointed hour.
That night while J. had dinner with the girls, he told them about the plans that had been made and the multitude of conflicts. Since they'd have to miss it, they'd need to think of something special to do instead - mindful of needing to borrow time from their own mother, and that it was her birthday weekend too.
Brunch - lunch - barbeque. All possible contenders. The weekend was supposed to be beautiful. Maybe and outdoor cafe!
As it often does, J.'s teen's phone rang as dinner was ending. She left the room to take the call but returned moments later remarking to the caller, "Hold on, I have to ask my Dad."
J. looked up expecting a question about an after dinner latte or curfew leniency for a late movie. "Dad, can I go to Mommom's dinner?"
Turning purple, J. inquired as to the identity of the caller.
"It's Em. She called to invite me."
Through gritted teeth J. managed to hiss,
"TELL HER YOU'LL HAVE TO CALL HER BACK."
Unlesss it truly wasn't the customary insanity or ineptness we'd come to expect at all. What if it really was some madcap, not-so-subtle, ham-handed plot hatched by J.'s hapless Mary Hartman-esque sister and the other demented residents of their little Fernwood?
Knowing his mother would take high offense to his family being AWOL from the birthday gig, and with even just a smidge of egging on, high drama would ensue, J. called his mother to explain his anticipated absence.
It was clear from the first syllables that Sheila had called and had boo hoo hooed to her first. "J. was mean to me and I wear glasses!" or some similarly sniveling pea-brained whine from her prepubescent repertoire. As only a mother can, Endora defended the indefensible (and the defensless Sheila O'Malley Sheila O'Malley who "must have been born under an unlucky star...") (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0074021/quotes)
J. remarked that the whole plan appeared to be tailored to fit the new Mrs. Scungili's burgeoning social calendar.
"Well she is my granddaughter."
Yes she is, but she is one of 14 people expected at the table and 7 of them will have to jump through hoops of flame and sacrifice equally important engagements to be there at the appointed hour.
That night while J. had dinner with the girls, he told them about the plans that had been made and the multitude of conflicts. Since they'd have to miss it, they'd need to think of something special to do instead - mindful of needing to borrow time from their own mother, and that it was her birthday weekend too.
Brunch - lunch - barbeque. All possible contenders. The weekend was supposed to be beautiful. Maybe and outdoor cafe!
As it often does, J.'s teen's phone rang as dinner was ending. She left the room to take the call but returned moments later remarking to the caller, "Hold on, I have to ask my Dad."
J. looked up expecting a question about an after dinner latte or curfew leniency for a late movie. "Dad, can I go to Mommom's dinner?"
Turning purple, J. inquired as to the identity of the caller.
"It's Em. She called to invite me."
Through gritted teeth J. managed to hiss,
"TELL HER YOU'LL HAVE TO CALL HER BACK."
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
The Girl With Something Extra
I have a few days to prepare. Perhaps this is a good first step - a public place, no home field advantage for anyone, the ability to order an emergency cocktail.
Endora's birthday falls at the end of my custody week with the kids. I make an assumption that the kids will be with Lars on the TBD day and decide to test the waters a little with them - mention the potential for a party of sorts (spell that C-A-K-E) and feel out their general interest in or resistance to the idea - and if they are game, approach Lars about a couple of hours of borrowed time. If they are not game, I have no shot.
Another drawback to custody guidelines: The kids have a ready-made excuse to avoid things they are not especially jazzed by. Like anything requiring sitting still, periods of enforced quiet, wearing a tie, or eating a meal that does not include french fries. The Ballet, non-essential religious ceremonies, and evidently, J.'s mom's birthday all qualify.
I start with the path of least resistance, my daughter. She seemed to like Endora, and was always doing sweet things for her: Bringing her books from the teachers' library, getting snacks for her when she got one for herself. Surely she'd be game.
Maybe not.
I tell her that Endora's 75th birthday is coming and we'll be celebrating with a dinner party.
"When?" she inquires, one eyebrow up.
"It's coming next week. We'll have to talk about it. The party will probably be while you are with Dad."
"Oh thank God."
"Oh! You wouldn't want me to talk to Dad to see if you could join us for a little while?"
"No way!"
Baffled, I remarked, "I thought you guys liked each other. You seemed to get along so well. Didn't you watch Ghost Hunters every day?"
"Mom. I was only nice to her so she would be nice to me!" She had the lisp going full tilt and was winding up for the final hand and head gesture. She told me that Endora had been mean to her brother for no reason, and he had just gone to his room everyday to become one with his Playstation. She was not about to miss out on Ghost Hunters so she'd played the game. Did unto others. Killed her with kindness. Commanded the clicker as a result.
I am horrified. I'd had no idea. My Mother of the Year crown was tarnishing even as we spoke.
My daughter, safely assuming there would be no pressure to attend the ticker tape parade for Endora, turned to me and asked if I'd be going.
"Yes, sweetie. I'll be there."
She took my hand, her little face so earnest. "Mom, will J. be there, right by your side? The whole entire time? In case there is any, you know, funny bithneth?"
I am stunned. (I dismiss the first panic attack that she had somehow read this blog) She clearly has absorbed much. She's drawn some frighteningly accurate conclusions. She is worried for me. I can not brush that off.
"Peanut, I understand your worries. But you should know, J. has stood by my side for much scarier things than some dumb disagreement with his mother, and of course he'll be by my side if anyone forgets their manners or gets nasty. Don't you worry."
"But Mom! What if they are sneaky and he doesn't hear it? Or it doesn't sound like it's mean but it really is? Chuck does that all the time and everyone thinks he's just being funny!"
Schoolyard politics have taught this kid a lot.
"I know that can happen, sweetie, but I don't think it will. If it does, you know I can take care of myself better than anyone, and anyone else I need to take care of too.
"I know you can, Mom. Just like Grandmomstella."
Yes, I may just have to strap on a reserve tank of my inner Estelle. Wouldn't want to get caught in a cross fire changing clips in the heat of battle.
Endora's birthday falls at the end of my custody week with the kids. I make an assumption that the kids will be with Lars on the TBD day and decide to test the waters a little with them - mention the potential for a party of sorts (spell that C-A-K-E) and feel out their general interest in or resistance to the idea - and if they are game, approach Lars about a couple of hours of borrowed time. If they are not game, I have no shot.
Another drawback to custody guidelines: The kids have a ready-made excuse to avoid things they are not especially jazzed by. Like anything requiring sitting still, periods of enforced quiet, wearing a tie, or eating a meal that does not include french fries. The Ballet, non-essential religious ceremonies, and evidently, J.'s mom's birthday all qualify.
I start with the path of least resistance, my daughter. She seemed to like Endora, and was always doing sweet things for her: Bringing her books from the teachers' library, getting snacks for her when she got one for herself. Surely she'd be game.
Maybe not.
I tell her that Endora's 75th birthday is coming and we'll be celebrating with a dinner party.
"When?" she inquires, one eyebrow up.
"It's coming next week. We'll have to talk about it. The party will probably be while you are with Dad."
"Oh thank God."
"Oh! You wouldn't want me to talk to Dad to see if you could join us for a little while?"
"No way!"
Baffled, I remarked, "I thought you guys liked each other. You seemed to get along so well. Didn't you watch Ghost Hunters every day?"
"Mom. I was only nice to her so she would be nice to me!" She had the lisp going full tilt and was winding up for the final hand and head gesture. She told me that Endora had been mean to her brother for no reason, and he had just gone to his room everyday to become one with his Playstation. She was not about to miss out on Ghost Hunters so she'd played the game. Did unto others. Killed her with kindness. Commanded the clicker as a result.
I am horrified. I'd had no idea. My Mother of the Year crown was tarnishing even as we spoke.
My daughter, safely assuming there would be no pressure to attend the ticker tape parade for Endora, turned to me and asked if I'd be going.
"Yes, sweetie. I'll be there."
She took my hand, her little face so earnest. "Mom, will J. be there, right by your side? The whole entire time? In case there is any, you know, funny bithneth?"
I am stunned. (I dismiss the first panic attack that she had somehow read this blog) She clearly has absorbed much. She's drawn some frighteningly accurate conclusions. She is worried for me. I can not brush that off.
"Peanut, I understand your worries. But you should know, J. has stood by my side for much scarier things than some dumb disagreement with his mother, and of course he'll be by my side if anyone forgets their manners or gets nasty. Don't you worry."
"But Mom! What if they are sneaky and he doesn't hear it? Or it doesn't sound like it's mean but it really is? Chuck does that all the time and everyone thinks he's just being funny!"
Schoolyard politics have taught this kid a lot.
"I know that can happen, sweetie, but I don't think it will. If it does, you know I can take care of myself better than anyone, and anyone else I need to take care of too.
"I know you can, Mom. Just like Grandmomstella."
Yes, I may just have to strap on a reserve tank of my inner Estelle. Wouldn't want to get caught in a cross fire changing clips in the heat of battle.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
That's My Mama
Mothers Day began to fade from view in the rear view mirror and the rest of the clan had to focus on the next gig. J.’s mom’s birthday. A big one. 75.
J. had been blown slightly off course by the bizarre shell game that Mothers Day had become, but followed the detour signs back to familiar territory. The birthday would be a regular family gathering. There were hundreds a year. This one would more than likely not make a huge departure from tradition.
First up, the obligatory phone call from Sheila, complete with a voice leaden with victimization and a tone that moans, “Me again, burdening myself voluntarily with another thankless, laborious task that I lack the requisite talent to accomplish and will surely end up in a blithering state of self loathing over. Call me back to feel some hint of my oppression and feel free to openly flog me like everyone else. Woe is me.”
Please don’t let this woman plan my birthday party. Not exactly reeking with happy-to-be-alive.
Since she’ll do just about anything for a little human interaction, she leaves no clues on the voicemail. No proposed dates, or times or locations or invitations to propose anything yourself.
Just call her back. Yippee.
J. does.
Through sighs of despair she imparts only that it will be dinner, that a particular franchise Italian place tops the list of locations (different from the rehearsal franchise Italian place), and the date and time are TBD. Oh and Sheila can’t possibly afford it all herself, can J. help?
Finances again? Are we on food stamps? Unless we are inviting the local chapter of the AARP it is hardly a cast of thousands. It’s Mommom and two average sized families. Hardly need to take out a loan for that. J. toys with a response. “Ummmm, Sheila, the wedding is over, and the financial sacking and plundering is complete. Of course we’ll split the bill. This isn’t exactly a State Dinner at the White House.”
But he doesn’t. She’s clueless. No need to point that out to her. She is oozing self pity and so completely bereft of confidence that the razzing may send her into the bowels of despondency. So he simply agrees to the obvious, that of course they’ll share the expense of the celebration. (Caution: Better make sure there is no 3 tier cake with The Golden Girls caricatures all over it.)
And in the last waning moments of conversation, she mentions that the kids and I are invited.
How touching.
And so here we are at the starting gate. Chomping at the bit. Anxious to see how the competition has trained for the event. Alert and observant as Secret Service Agents looking to see where the first shot might be fired from and practiced in what our responses will be.
Better make sure the flask fits in the purse.
J. had been blown slightly off course by the bizarre shell game that Mothers Day had become, but followed the detour signs back to familiar territory. The birthday would be a regular family gathering. There were hundreds a year. This one would more than likely not make a huge departure from tradition.
First up, the obligatory phone call from Sheila, complete with a voice leaden with victimization and a tone that moans, “Me again, burdening myself voluntarily with another thankless, laborious task that I lack the requisite talent to accomplish and will surely end up in a blithering state of self loathing over. Call me back to feel some hint of my oppression and feel free to openly flog me like everyone else. Woe is me.”
Please don’t let this woman plan my birthday party. Not exactly reeking with happy-to-be-alive.
Since she’ll do just about anything for a little human interaction, she leaves no clues on the voicemail. No proposed dates, or times or locations or invitations to propose anything yourself.
Just call her back. Yippee.
J. does.
Through sighs of despair she imparts only that it will be dinner, that a particular franchise Italian place tops the list of locations (different from the rehearsal franchise Italian place), and the date and time are TBD. Oh and Sheila can’t possibly afford it all herself, can J. help?
Finances again? Are we on food stamps? Unless we are inviting the local chapter of the AARP it is hardly a cast of thousands. It’s Mommom and two average sized families. Hardly need to take out a loan for that. J. toys with a response. “Ummmm, Sheila, the wedding is over, and the financial sacking and plundering is complete. Of course we’ll split the bill. This isn’t exactly a State Dinner at the White House.”
But he doesn’t. She’s clueless. No need to point that out to her. She is oozing self pity and so completely bereft of confidence that the razzing may send her into the bowels of despondency. So he simply agrees to the obvious, that of course they’ll share the expense of the celebration. (Caution: Better make sure there is no 3 tier cake with The Golden Girls caricatures all over it.)
And in the last waning moments of conversation, she mentions that the kids and I are invited.
How touching.
And so here we are at the starting gate. Chomping at the bit. Anxious to see how the competition has trained for the event. Alert and observant as Secret Service Agents looking to see where the first shot might be fired from and practiced in what our responses will be.
Better make sure the flask fits in the purse.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Are You My Mother?
Under the best of circumstances, Mothers Day can be a challenge. Whole, completely intact, and fully connected families are complicated. Throw in a strained relationship or two, a divorce, a remarriage, a custody battle or some kind of physical or emotional gap and the potential for stress, if not full on, pedal to the medal 8 cylinder pandemonium is possible.
So, there is the thing with my mother. Mothers Day comes 15 days into a conversational drought instigated by the chasm formed by her discovery that she can not tolerate the way I vote.
Of all things.
I can tolerate – and have tolerated – quite a bit about Estelle that would send a less liberal person running. Inclusive of the way she votes. How ironic. So I call her on Mothers Day, as I should, but choose a time when I know the conversation will be truncated in order to get myself and the kiddos to Mass. Oddly, she mentions that she did not send a card to me because all of the Hallmark stores she went to lacked the required Mothers Day card specifically designed for one’s daughter. And evidently, no other “For Someone Special on Mothers Day” variety would do. I am sure the lesbian parents and transgender families have similar laments. (There is a mint to be made here, people! Someone start an Off the Beaten Path greeting card company please! I'll even give you a name for it: My Two Dads Greetings.) We deftly avoid the subject of politics (the strain in her voice at skipping its normal entrée into regular conversation is audible) and she merely mentions that she finds it troubling that the world is suddenly in financial collapse so abruptly with this administration and… Oh my, where did the morning go? Better get going! Don’t want to get the hairy eyeball from Father.
J.’s drought was likely to be more troubling.
Or not.
Perhaps with the Squatters just having arrived at Mommom’s it was too soon to be doing any entertaining. The lack of an invitation to break bread did not mean anything necessarily. So, as he would have on other occasions, J. piled the girls, the gifts and the greeting cards into the car and went over the river and through the woods and was in her driveway in 15 minutes. The absence of any scheduled gathering let me off the hook entirely. Happy Mothers Day to me!
They arrived to find no one but the Scungili family dog to greet them. No happy couple. No Mommom. No cars in the driveway. They went in (the door is usually unlocked, it is that kind of neighborhood) and made themselves reasonably comfortable. For an hour.
After an hour, they placed the gifts, cards and flowers on the dining room table, left, went to get lattes, and drove home. The whole trip lasted about 2 hours. As they walked in the door, J. got a call from his mother. She had been at the grocery store. The grocery store that is 2 doors away from the house. For the routine 2 bags of groceries because that is all she can carry.
And that took more than two hours?
Accepting the fact that Mommom drives to the store 2 doors away for a variety of reasons, how is it that 2 bags of groceries took two hours to purchase? And why is Mommom doing the grocery shopping anyway when the younger and moderately more able-bodied newlyweds should be volunteering to do so?
And if that’s all there is to the story, why was there no “Have you gone far? Stop back for dinner so I can see the girls!” like there normally would be?
The possibilities are endless and none of them pass the sniff test. For once, the fact that J. and I have custody issues to contend with was not the most troubling matter of the day.
So, there is the thing with my mother. Mothers Day comes 15 days into a conversational drought instigated by the chasm formed by her discovery that she can not tolerate the way I vote.
Of all things.
I can tolerate – and have tolerated – quite a bit about Estelle that would send a less liberal person running. Inclusive of the way she votes. How ironic. So I call her on Mothers Day, as I should, but choose a time when I know the conversation will be truncated in order to get myself and the kiddos to Mass. Oddly, she mentions that she did not send a card to me because all of the Hallmark stores she went to lacked the required Mothers Day card specifically designed for one’s daughter. And evidently, no other “For Someone Special on Mothers Day” variety would do. I am sure the lesbian parents and transgender families have similar laments. (There is a mint to be made here, people! Someone start an Off the Beaten Path greeting card company please! I'll even give you a name for it: My Two Dads Greetings.) We deftly avoid the subject of politics (the strain in her voice at skipping its normal entrée into regular conversation is audible) and she merely mentions that she finds it troubling that the world is suddenly in financial collapse so abruptly with this administration and… Oh my, where did the morning go? Better get going! Don’t want to get the hairy eyeball from Father.
J.’s drought was likely to be more troubling.
Or not.
Perhaps with the Squatters just having arrived at Mommom’s it was too soon to be doing any entertaining. The lack of an invitation to break bread did not mean anything necessarily. So, as he would have on other occasions, J. piled the girls, the gifts and the greeting cards into the car and went over the river and through the woods and was in her driveway in 15 minutes. The absence of any scheduled gathering let me off the hook entirely. Happy Mothers Day to me!
They arrived to find no one but the Scungili family dog to greet them. No happy couple. No Mommom. No cars in the driveway. They went in (the door is usually unlocked, it is that kind of neighborhood) and made themselves reasonably comfortable. For an hour.
After an hour, they placed the gifts, cards and flowers on the dining room table, left, went to get lattes, and drove home. The whole trip lasted about 2 hours. As they walked in the door, J. got a call from his mother. She had been at the grocery store. The grocery store that is 2 doors away from the house. For the routine 2 bags of groceries because that is all she can carry.
And that took more than two hours?
Accepting the fact that Mommom drives to the store 2 doors away for a variety of reasons, how is it that 2 bags of groceries took two hours to purchase? And why is Mommom doing the grocery shopping anyway when the younger and moderately more able-bodied newlyweds should be volunteering to do so?
And if that’s all there is to the story, why was there no “Have you gone far? Stop back for dinner so I can see the girls!” like there normally would be?
The possibilities are endless and none of them pass the sniff test. For once, the fact that J. and I have custody issues to contend with was not the most troubling matter of the day.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Incredible Mr. Limpet
My daughter’s fish have defied the odds and are still swimming happily around in the Section 8 housing that is my mixing bowl. Decision time – Buy the tank and filter and coral and treasure chest and thereby tempt Fate? Or let them live out their lives believing that they had truly traded up when they moved from the Baggie to the bowl?
The school year has begun its long, slowly descending glide into summer. With all of the field trips, and May Day, and Family Fun Day, and Field Day, and year end parties, and awards celebrations, I am not at all sure that this qualifies as school. Why bother? If all we were going to get were days filled with junk food and downtime, I could have left the kids home alone for the last two months of the “academic year.”
The deafening quiet is disconcerting. J. has not heard from anyone in his family for nearly two weeks. Not a peep. No calls. No voice mails. No texts. No e-mails. No hate mail. No letter bombs. No nasty-grams, notes on windshields, smoke signals, Morse code messages, or notes delivered by carrier pigeon.
Nothing.
Nada.
Zilch.
Zippy the donut.
What gives?
Has the family been so consumed by the long term devotion to the Big Day that in its absence they’ve forgotten how to participate in a normal life? With Em and Chuck out of sight, do they not have anything left to do? And have they strayed so far afield from regular existence that they don’t know what comprises a routine day? Let’s hope they are still bathing!
I am sure the fading glory of the Big Day has something to do with it – but it is probably more related to how the family structure has changed between the day the Big Question was posed and the Big Day itself.
It has changed on a cellular level. Its DNA is all scrambled. It is like the prehistoric water thing that swam around in ever-receding pools of water and over time found that it had grown much needed legs. Something changes and it changes YOU.
So J. has learned to walk around outside the gene pool. He can take an occasional dip but he can’t linger. He thrives in another environment now.
Sure, he may long for the relative comfort of the warm embracing waters of his family. But he’s learned that those waters can turn dark and become infested with predators. Swim at your own risk.
So he and I, and our kids, will learn to live a life that is different from what it was before. Every bit as happy, every inch an adventure. But with caution signs in unusual places and a few detours from the roads we’ve travelled. Still, we are happy to have adapted in this way and embrace what life has in store for us all.
And now, as if on cue, I notice that one of my daughter’s Firehouse Fun Fair gold fish has gurgled its last breath and has sunk to the bottom of the mixing bowl. How different it would be if they could simply grow legs.
The school year has begun its long, slowly descending glide into summer. With all of the field trips, and May Day, and Family Fun Day, and Field Day, and year end parties, and awards celebrations, I am not at all sure that this qualifies as school. Why bother? If all we were going to get were days filled with junk food and downtime, I could have left the kids home alone for the last two months of the “academic year.”
The deafening quiet is disconcerting. J. has not heard from anyone in his family for nearly two weeks. Not a peep. No calls. No voice mails. No texts. No e-mails. No hate mail. No letter bombs. No nasty-grams, notes on windshields, smoke signals, Morse code messages, or notes delivered by carrier pigeon.
Nothing.
Nada.
Zilch.
Zippy the donut.
What gives?
Has the family been so consumed by the long term devotion to the Big Day that in its absence they’ve forgotten how to participate in a normal life? With Em and Chuck out of sight, do they not have anything left to do? And have they strayed so far afield from regular existence that they don’t know what comprises a routine day? Let’s hope they are still bathing!
I am sure the fading glory of the Big Day has something to do with it – but it is probably more related to how the family structure has changed between the day the Big Question was posed and the Big Day itself.
It has changed on a cellular level. Its DNA is all scrambled. It is like the prehistoric water thing that swam around in ever-receding pools of water and over time found that it had grown much needed legs. Something changes and it changes YOU.
So J. has learned to walk around outside the gene pool. He can take an occasional dip but he can’t linger. He thrives in another environment now.
Sure, he may long for the relative comfort of the warm embracing waters of his family. But he’s learned that those waters can turn dark and become infested with predators. Swim at your own risk.
So he and I, and our kids, will learn to live a life that is different from what it was before. Every bit as happy, every inch an adventure. But with caution signs in unusual places and a few detours from the roads we’ve travelled. Still, we are happy to have adapted in this way and embrace what life has in store for us all.
And now, as if on cue, I notice that one of my daughter’s Firehouse Fun Fair gold fish has gurgled its last breath and has sunk to the bottom of the mixing bowl. How different it would be if they could simply grow legs.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Spring is Sprung
To quote my mother, and to be admittedly unsure of whom she might have been quoting, “Spring is sprung, the grass is riz. I wonder where the flowers is.”
I know where the flowers is. They are still at the Farmer’s Market because I have been too #@$*&%^ busy to go and buy them. And I have not even begun to try to clear out the plants, yes actual plants, that have begun growing in my gutters like nice long straight window boxes. And I continue to be baffled that not one neighborhood kid knocks on my door each week anxious for the opportunity to mow my lawn for a little beer money in return. I will have to remind myself to look frail and pathetic when I am out there next in my gardening clogs mowing it myself while they cruise around on their mountain bikes with their phones that cost more than my lawnmower. Maybe I can shame one of them into tiptoeing through the tulips with my Craftsman.
May is an action-packed month for me – and for J’s family, the Cullens. All of them. May sets the stage for the trifecta of Cullen-centered events – Mothers Day, J.’s mother’s birthday, and then J.’s birthday – followed by the victory lap that is Memorial Day, when the cover comes off the pool and all of humanity remembers that you have one.
I am still in a quandary as to what I should do – now that there have been words – and snubs- and my unthinkable non-attendance at the O’Malley-Scungili nuptials and post-game fete.
Traditionally, we’d all go to J.’s mom house for the afternoon, or maybe for dinner to celebrate these things (and for mind numbing conversation about the wedding, as you might recall) With the wedding slipping into long term memory status, what on Earth will we talk about? Better bring a riveting novel!
This year will undoubtedly be different. And J. would like me to be a grown up. (Should that be capitalized?) Just come with him as I always have. I am not sure that I can do that. Seems the risk far outweighs the ROI. Not enough water over the dam. Not enough water under the bridge. Not enough water on my brain to be able to be able to do that yet. But for his benefit, I could offer some parameters should I be Stockholm Syndromed into going along:
-I am not going unless he is expressly told that we are invited. Don't want to show up, unexpected and unwelcome, only to be met with a cast iron skillet to the face a la Roadrunner/Wile E. Coyote.
-I am not bringing the kids unless I am reasonably sure there will be no shenanigans (I am not at all sure. We have rarely enjoyed a shenanigan-free event.)
-I will not tolerate any variety, flavor, manner or sum of CRAP from any portion of the family, regardless of age, rank, imaginary social position or ability to defend one's self.
-It is not exactly just Endora’s home now that the Squatters have come home to roost, and that changes everything, so pardon my hasty exit if it becomes too Outer Limits to bear.
-I have no genuine desire to spend my Mothers Day with his mother. I am not even spending it with my mother. Again, prepare for a vanishing act that would make Houdini proud should there be one errant comment intended for no one to hear.
-I have no interest in a perpetual reel to reel replay of 17 hours of wedding video punctuated with high pitched squealing from his idiot niece. If forced, I may fake a seizure.
-If I ever cross the threshold again at the Bat Cave, I will for the foreseeable future be concealing a dainty but adequately sized flask of Jack, a deck of cards, a needlepoint project, and possibly a loaded gun, in my purse.
-I will walk out in flurry of expletives if provoked in the slightest way. I don't care about home court advantage. I have 30 years of Estelle Bootcamp under my belt and more stripes than a WWII General.
Duly warned, all of you.
I know where the flowers is. They are still at the Farmer’s Market because I have been too #@$*&%^ busy to go and buy them. And I have not even begun to try to clear out the plants, yes actual plants, that have begun growing in my gutters like nice long straight window boxes. And I continue to be baffled that not one neighborhood kid knocks on my door each week anxious for the opportunity to mow my lawn for a little beer money in return. I will have to remind myself to look frail and pathetic when I am out there next in my gardening clogs mowing it myself while they cruise around on their mountain bikes with their phones that cost more than my lawnmower. Maybe I can shame one of them into tiptoeing through the tulips with my Craftsman.
May is an action-packed month for me – and for J’s family, the Cullens. All of them. May sets the stage for the trifecta of Cullen-centered events – Mothers Day, J.’s mother’s birthday, and then J.’s birthday – followed by the victory lap that is Memorial Day, when the cover comes off the pool and all of humanity remembers that you have one.
I am still in a quandary as to what I should do – now that there have been words – and snubs- and my unthinkable non-attendance at the O’Malley-Scungili nuptials and post-game fete.
Traditionally, we’d all go to J.’s mom house for the afternoon, or maybe for dinner to celebrate these things (and for mind numbing conversation about the wedding, as you might recall) With the wedding slipping into long term memory status, what on Earth will we talk about? Better bring a riveting novel!
This year will undoubtedly be different. And J. would like me to be a grown up. (Should that be capitalized?) Just come with him as I always have. I am not sure that I can do that. Seems the risk far outweighs the ROI. Not enough water over the dam. Not enough water under the bridge. Not enough water on my brain to be able to be able to do that yet. But for his benefit, I could offer some parameters should I be Stockholm Syndromed into going along:
-I am not going unless he is expressly told that we are invited. Don't want to show up, unexpected and unwelcome, only to be met with a cast iron skillet to the face a la Roadrunner/Wile E. Coyote.
-I am not bringing the kids unless I am reasonably sure there will be no shenanigans (I am not at all sure. We have rarely enjoyed a shenanigan-free event.)
-I will not tolerate any variety, flavor, manner or sum of CRAP from any portion of the family, regardless of age, rank, imaginary social position or ability to defend one's self.
-It is not exactly just Endora’s home now that the Squatters have come home to roost, and that changes everything, so pardon my hasty exit if it becomes too Outer Limits to bear.
-I have no genuine desire to spend my Mothers Day with his mother. I am not even spending it with my mother. Again, prepare for a vanishing act that would make Houdini proud should there be one errant comment intended for no one to hear.
-I have no interest in a perpetual reel to reel replay of 17 hours of wedding video punctuated with high pitched squealing from his idiot niece. If forced, I may fake a seizure.
-If I ever cross the threshold again at the Bat Cave, I will for the foreseeable future be concealing a dainty but adequately sized flask of Jack, a deck of cards, a needlepoint project, and possibly a loaded gun, in my purse.
-I will walk out in flurry of expletives if provoked in the slightest way. I don't care about home court advantage. I have 30 years of Estelle Bootcamp under my belt and more stripes than a WWII General.
Duly warned, all of you.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
1-Adam-12, We Have a Domestic Dispute…
We were all enjoying the quiet stillness of the post-wedding gloaming. Nothing to check on a list. No appointments to keep. Nothing to decide, count, arrange, approve, pay for, comply with, stuff, fold, tie, paste, or squeeze into a specially designed undergarment.
A return to relative normalcy. But not Relative Normalcy.
The O’Malley-Scungili Extravaganza – and its runway – all 730 days plus one for Leap Year – had left the Earth scorched. Its plant life parched. The creatures in its path spent and clinging to life by their French Manicured fingernails. It was like the green fog that Moses conjured up in The Ten Commandments. Only pink.
J. was hoping that an olive branch had managed to survive the apocalypse and was ripe for the picking. Convinced that now that the levy-breaking pressure of the Big Day had subsided and no one was going to feel compelled to square off and take to their respective corners, that no one was going to have to give in the to the other’s logic or (God forbid) change their mind, or have to admit to their own defective reasoning in a fit of snots and tears and hand wringing, --- that there might be some enlightened, peaceable recognition of what the other side’s position had been.
I am sure there were Hatfields and McCoys with the same optimistic pipedream.
For J.’s sake, I hoped that there would be some covert or implied acknowledgement – whispered in the kitchen, in hushed tones, concealed from view by an open refrigerator door – that Sheila et al had been wrong not to consider his feelings about who his family was, and who among them would be invited. Wrong to expect so much understanding, and commitment and contribution from him with only narrow-minded inconsideration in return.
I had said out loud (and admittedly, at times, overly loudly!) that I understood their position. It was insulting to me and hurtful, personally, but intellectually I could grasp the logic, though I believed it to be flawed. Emotionally it missed the target – and would for our children. My decision had to favor the emotional side of the equation. Not some technicality or Bride’s Magazine how-to column. Truly – had no one been able to grasp that? Or was the failure to see it just a convenient act?
But with a graduation on the horizon and celebrations to be planned, there were relationships to massage. Perhaps resuscitate. Crow to eat. Swords to run on. Who would be cast in what roles and what the chances of survival are remain full blown mysteries to me.
I was curious but not kill-the-cat curious. I could live with the unknown for a long time. The Kennedys did. Why not me?
A return to relative normalcy. But not Relative Normalcy.
The O’Malley-Scungili Extravaganza – and its runway – all 730 days plus one for Leap Year – had left the Earth scorched. Its plant life parched. The creatures in its path spent and clinging to life by their French Manicured fingernails. It was like the green fog that Moses conjured up in The Ten Commandments. Only pink.
J. was hoping that an olive branch had managed to survive the apocalypse and was ripe for the picking. Convinced that now that the levy-breaking pressure of the Big Day had subsided and no one was going to feel compelled to square off and take to their respective corners, that no one was going to have to give in the to the other’s logic or (God forbid) change their mind, or have to admit to their own defective reasoning in a fit of snots and tears and hand wringing, --- that there might be some enlightened, peaceable recognition of what the other side’s position had been.
I am sure there were Hatfields and McCoys with the same optimistic pipedream.
For J.’s sake, I hoped that there would be some covert or implied acknowledgement – whispered in the kitchen, in hushed tones, concealed from view by an open refrigerator door – that Sheila et al had been wrong not to consider his feelings about who his family was, and who among them would be invited. Wrong to expect so much understanding, and commitment and contribution from him with only narrow-minded inconsideration in return.
I had said out loud (and admittedly, at times, overly loudly!) that I understood their position. It was insulting to me and hurtful, personally, but intellectually I could grasp the logic, though I believed it to be flawed. Emotionally it missed the target – and would for our children. My decision had to favor the emotional side of the equation. Not some technicality or Bride’s Magazine how-to column. Truly – had no one been able to grasp that? Or was the failure to see it just a convenient act?
But with a graduation on the horizon and celebrations to be planned, there were relationships to massage. Perhaps resuscitate. Crow to eat. Swords to run on. Who would be cast in what roles and what the chances of survival are remain full blown mysteries to me.
I was curious but not kill-the-cat curious. I could live with the unknown for a long time. The Kennedys did. Why not me?
Friday, May 7, 2010
My Name is Mudd
The kids and I had a wonderful time shopping and eating our way through my college town. Bellies and shopping bags full, we piled into the car and hit the road vowing to be tour guides for J. and the girls on a return trip this summer. Then they dozed off into much needed naps.
I was fading on the ride and called J. to be talked the rest of the way home.
He told me that he'd mentioned to his teen his inkling about Em returning from Disney pregnant; what isn't a surprise you can be prepared to be disappointed by.
She was not surprised at all even now. "Dad, everyone in the bridal party is already taking bets on how long it takes. Want in on the pool?"
So much ado about nothing, my derriere. If there was a will there would be a way. So long as it wasn't too icky. She could close her eyes and do it once.
Like I said in my very first post: Nothing brings out your family weirdness like a wedding or a new baby. And now we might have both. A double header. The family dysfunction shotgun was loaded for bear.
But J. was feeling a little better - relieved actually, now that the O'Malley-Scungili Affair had taken its place in the history books. And personally, I was feeling, in a twisted way, better about the Big Snub to my kids. And me. And J.
Em had openly disrespected her father in front of scores of family and friends and strangers while he poured his heart out, and evidently the contents of his wallet.
She had chastised a bridesmaid - who had paid for a dress, alterations, shoes, a mani, a pedi, an up do, plane tickets, a hotel room and a gift, all to honor her friend on her wedding day. And I'd bet there were Spanx and a really decent bra involved for the new mom, too.
She had disregarded, disappointed and dismissed her sister, her maid of honor, who had given her a personal, creative, meaningful gift she'd toiled over even while she finished her degree, studied for and aced her boards, held a full time job in her chosen profession and a part time one just for extra money, and managed to hold up her end of a thriving relationship - all while herding the cats on this vaudeville show.
Hell, Em had flexed her Alpha Dog muscle with Chuck in full view of his posse. She may as well have removed his penis and stashed it in her loot bag before dragging him down the aisle by his earlobe.
I was on the periphery of her world. An easy snub. In hindsight, J. and I should have anticipated the snub. It would have saved me the aggravation and thousands of words, and J. could have told her to go s*** in her hat when she asked him to read. Then we both could have skipped the whole shindig.
There is one thing that leaves me a little unsettled though. It would have been a glaring departure from the norm for J. to be at this event, at any event, without me. Yet not one person inquired as to my whereabouts.
Perhaps they ignored the elephant in the room and did not ask because they thought maybe we'd broken up. Not wanting to be nosey. Not wanting to harsh anyone's mellow.
But I don't think so.
No. I think no one asked because they knew. In a not so unexpected circling-of-wagons war tactic, Endora had gone out and poisoned the well. A smear campaign against me so no one would find fault in their abominable social faux pas.
Family weirdness aplenty.
I was fading on the ride and called J. to be talked the rest of the way home.
He told me that he'd mentioned to his teen his inkling about Em returning from Disney pregnant; what isn't a surprise you can be prepared to be disappointed by.
She was not surprised at all even now. "Dad, everyone in the bridal party is already taking bets on how long it takes. Want in on the pool?"
So much ado about nothing, my derriere. If there was a will there would be a way. So long as it wasn't too icky. She could close her eyes and do it once.
Like I said in my very first post: Nothing brings out your family weirdness like a wedding or a new baby. And now we might have both. A double header. The family dysfunction shotgun was loaded for bear.
But J. was feeling a little better - relieved actually, now that the O'Malley-Scungili Affair had taken its place in the history books. And personally, I was feeling, in a twisted way, better about the Big Snub to my kids. And me. And J.
Em had openly disrespected her father in front of scores of family and friends and strangers while he poured his heart out, and evidently the contents of his wallet.
She had chastised a bridesmaid - who had paid for a dress, alterations, shoes, a mani, a pedi, an up do, plane tickets, a hotel room and a gift, all to honor her friend on her wedding day. And I'd bet there were Spanx and a really decent bra involved for the new mom, too.
She had disregarded, disappointed and dismissed her sister, her maid of honor, who had given her a personal, creative, meaningful gift she'd toiled over even while she finished her degree, studied for and aced her boards, held a full time job in her chosen profession and a part time one just for extra money, and managed to hold up her end of a thriving relationship - all while herding the cats on this vaudeville show.
Hell, Em had flexed her Alpha Dog muscle with Chuck in full view of his posse. She may as well have removed his penis and stashed it in her loot bag before dragging him down the aisle by his earlobe.
I was on the periphery of her world. An easy snub. In hindsight, J. and I should have anticipated the snub. It would have saved me the aggravation and thousands of words, and J. could have told her to go s*** in her hat when she asked him to read. Then we both could have skipped the whole shindig.
There is one thing that leaves me a little unsettled though. It would have been a glaring departure from the norm for J. to be at this event, at any event, without me. Yet not one person inquired as to my whereabouts.
Perhaps they ignored the elephant in the room and did not ask because they thought maybe we'd broken up. Not wanting to be nosey. Not wanting to harsh anyone's mellow.
But I don't think so.
No. I think no one asked because they knew. In a not so unexpected circling-of-wagons war tactic, Endora had gone out and poisoned the well. A smear campaign against me so no one would find fault in their abominable social faux pas.
Family weirdness aplenty.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Love American Style
The next morning, J. awoke famished. Not eating the Chicken Whatever and replacing it with Necco Wafers and Jujubes had been a mistake. Though he wanted nothing more than to run screaming from the hotel to leave this incident behind, he’d have to join the girls – who were joining the bridal party – for breakfast downstairs. Pancakes with a side of aggravation.
Much to his surprise, the meal was uneventful and quiet – at least until the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Scungili made an appearance before walking across Lot C to board their flight to Disney.
And there, in front of hotel guests and restaurant patrons of all kinds appeared Chuck, wearing the cargo shorts that had become his uniform, flip flops (Eeeww) and a golf shirt (at least he’d opted for a collar). But on his head he wore a top hat. One with Mickey Mouse ears attached.
No word on the presence of a Superman cape.
Waiter! A round of Heimlich maneuvers, please!
The image singed the edges of J.'s brain. He made a note to himself on the table napkin: Call to schedule lobotomy.
Having endured all a grown man can bear, he gathered the gals and checked out of the Hotel du Freakshow. He hit the road and the girls were asleep at once. He was alone with his thoughts.
He wondered how Em was this morning with her whole purpose for living now in the past. She was not a gal to step willingly from the stage into relative anonymity without a fight. She would go on thanking the Academy long after the pit orchestra began her swan song – if it were her nature to thank anyone.
J. glanced at his teen in the backseat. Hair still shellacked into the up-do, snoozing away. Just weeks until she’d be capped and gowned and accepting her diploma.
He shuddered at the next thought. It would not be an outrageous surprise to anyone if Em just had to take one more twirl on stage and announced a pregnancy at the graduation party and reclaimed the spotlight for another insufferably long period of domination.
Because, barring any Freda Payne Band of Gold wedding night drama, or any sheepish admissions to one’s equipment being in disrepair, or even an apocalyptic revelation about one partner or another’s unnatural proclivities, or a penchant for his or her own gender, or a troubling aversion or inhibition of some kind, Em was going to be pregnant before Chuck could land the Batmobile in Mommom’s driveway.
They didn’t strike me as a touchy-feely couple. Or even as having any discernible sexual chemistry. But a mission was a mission. Em would need another project. And a reason not to return to her teaching job in the Fall.
Anything is possible. Em could return from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride having discovered her inner hellcat. Or that it’s a small world after all. Hopefully we’d not all hear about it at her first graduation party as a Scungili. Aaaawww.
J. would place a sizable bet on just-home-from-the-honeymoon Baby News. I had more dubious ideas.
Baby News, my friends, would require Baby Making. And intimacy. And passion. And more physical activity than either appeared capable of. And at least a modicum of attraction to one another.
If the top hat with ears was any indication, we’d be spared the Baby News for now.
Much to his surprise, the meal was uneventful and quiet – at least until the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Scungili made an appearance before walking across Lot C to board their flight to Disney.
And there, in front of hotel guests and restaurant patrons of all kinds appeared Chuck, wearing the cargo shorts that had become his uniform, flip flops (Eeeww) and a golf shirt (at least he’d opted for a collar). But on his head he wore a top hat. One with Mickey Mouse ears attached.
No word on the presence of a Superman cape.
Waiter! A round of Heimlich maneuvers, please!
The image singed the edges of J.'s brain. He made a note to himself on the table napkin: Call to schedule lobotomy.
Having endured all a grown man can bear, he gathered the gals and checked out of the Hotel du Freakshow. He hit the road and the girls were asleep at once. He was alone with his thoughts.
He wondered how Em was this morning with her whole purpose for living now in the past. She was not a gal to step willingly from the stage into relative anonymity without a fight. She would go on thanking the Academy long after the pit orchestra began her swan song – if it were her nature to thank anyone.
J. glanced at his teen in the backseat. Hair still shellacked into the up-do, snoozing away. Just weeks until she’d be capped and gowned and accepting her diploma.
He shuddered at the next thought. It would not be an outrageous surprise to anyone if Em just had to take one more twirl on stage and announced a pregnancy at the graduation party and reclaimed the spotlight for another insufferably long period of domination.
Because, barring any Freda Payne Band of Gold wedding night drama, or any sheepish admissions to one’s equipment being in disrepair, or even an apocalyptic revelation about one partner or another’s unnatural proclivities, or a penchant for his or her own gender, or a troubling aversion or inhibition of some kind, Em was going to be pregnant before Chuck could land the Batmobile in Mommom’s driveway.
They didn’t strike me as a touchy-feely couple. Or even as having any discernible sexual chemistry. But a mission was a mission. Em would need another project. And a reason not to return to her teaching job in the Fall.
Anything is possible. Em could return from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride having discovered her inner hellcat. Or that it’s a small world after all. Hopefully we’d not all hear about it at her first graduation party as a Scungili. Aaaawww.
J. would place a sizable bet on just-home-from-the-honeymoon Baby News. I had more dubious ideas.
Baby News, my friends, would require Baby Making. And intimacy. And passion. And more physical activity than either appeared capable of. And at least a modicum of attraction to one another.
If the top hat with ears was any indication, we’d be spared the Baby News for now.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Mary and Half Pint, Or Nellie Oleson and Half Pint?
The wedding waged on and my weekend with the kids was underway at last. I was so excited to show them the dorm where I'd lived, the dining hall (where I'd packed on the Freshman 10) the buildings where I took my classes. I felt like my Dad with all my "When I was here that was an orchard" and "this building wasn't here when I was a student" and "We played frisbee where the library is now" statements. The town had evolved from a cute little hamlet into a thriving college town with restaurants, brew pubs, boutiques and vintage shops all inviting our patronage. The kids had plenty to see and do and I loved the nostalgia of it all.
While we were on our ghost hunting walking tour through the historic town, J. called from the reception. Our storyteller was mid-story and the tension was building so I clicked the call directly to voice mail. Then on one of the next more walky than talky parts of the tour, I picked up the message. J. had said nothing but he had clearly been moved to place the call by the song being played. It was one we'd claimed as our own - one we always thought we'd have for our first dance some day when time and money and custody issues and extracurriculars and other vicissitudes of life subsided, however temporarily, but just long enough for us to get ourselves down the aisle. And it was not just playing, it was Em's dance with Tim. The very man she'd so publicly dissed not an hour before.
I could feel J's disappointment. We'd find another song. One that isn't scorched with the searing images of Em dancing as graceful and light on her feet as my refrigerator, fakey smile frozen in place for the photo ops alone.
J. made one more call to me. Not long after the last call but long before the reception was over, he'd handed his older daughter a copy of the hotel room key and given her her latitudes and limits. Then he said his brief goodbyes and ascended to his room for the night.
He related one final story to me. The one that made him take leave of his obligation to stay. The Maid of Honor (Maid of Horror?), Em's sister Cassie, had presented Em with a special gift. For the two years Em and Chuck had been engaged she'd worked on a beautiful scrap book chronicling their life together. By all accounts, it was a gorgeous book - lovingly prepared and no expense spared on pictures and beautiful paper and trimmings and such. It was something Cassie was clearly proud to present to her sister. So personal. Such a gift from the heart. And the presentation so genuine. Sister to sister.
And Em, the starlet to the end, simply and flatly accepted the book, muttered "Thanks" and placed it to the side. Cassie held her smile and walked away. J.'s heart broke for her.
I can only imagine a similar gift between my sister and me. The people around us would have faded into nothingness as we immersed ourselves in a sister moment. Paging through the book, howling at the memories, weeping at the very gesture of the gift, so thankful to have the life we shared.
And that's not because my sister is so special. (Though she is.) It's because she is my sister. To appreciate a gift from the heart, a person has to actually have a heart. Clearly this pair of sisters was one heart short.
While we were on our ghost hunting walking tour through the historic town, J. called from the reception. Our storyteller was mid-story and the tension was building so I clicked the call directly to voice mail. Then on one of the next more walky than talky parts of the tour, I picked up the message. J. had said nothing but he had clearly been moved to place the call by the song being played. It was one we'd claimed as our own - one we always thought we'd have for our first dance some day when time and money and custody issues and extracurriculars and other vicissitudes of life subsided, however temporarily, but just long enough for us to get ourselves down the aisle. And it was not just playing, it was Em's dance with Tim. The very man she'd so publicly dissed not an hour before.
I could feel J's disappointment. We'd find another song. One that isn't scorched with the searing images of Em dancing as graceful and light on her feet as my refrigerator, fakey smile frozen in place for the photo ops alone.
J. made one more call to me. Not long after the last call but long before the reception was over, he'd handed his older daughter a copy of the hotel room key and given her her latitudes and limits. Then he said his brief goodbyes and ascended to his room for the night.
He related one final story to me. The one that made him take leave of his obligation to stay. The Maid of Honor (Maid of Horror?), Em's sister Cassie, had presented Em with a special gift. For the two years Em and Chuck had been engaged she'd worked on a beautiful scrap book chronicling their life together. By all accounts, it was a gorgeous book - lovingly prepared and no expense spared on pictures and beautiful paper and trimmings and such. It was something Cassie was clearly proud to present to her sister. So personal. Such a gift from the heart. And the presentation so genuine. Sister to sister.
And Em, the starlet to the end, simply and flatly accepted the book, muttered "Thanks" and placed it to the side. Cassie held her smile and walked away. J.'s heart broke for her.
I can only imagine a similar gift between my sister and me. The people around us would have faded into nothingness as we immersed ourselves in a sister moment. Paging through the book, howling at the memories, weeping at the very gesture of the gift, so thankful to have the life we shared.
And that's not because my sister is so special. (Though she is.) It's because she is my sister. To appreciate a gift from the heart, a person has to actually have a heart. Clearly this pair of sisters was one heart short.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Mothers-In-Law
My drive home was frantic. I had set some existential wheels in motion and then gotten behind of the wheel of my car. The 2,000 pound bomb. Driving in a haze of emotionally fueled distraction is second only to driving asleep, at least from a hazard-to-one's-self-and-others perspective.
I accelerated and screeched to a halt and swerved and swore and apologized half-heartedly all the way through town to my block. The sight of Marnie leading a game of neighborhood-wide kickball gave me a small sliver of hope that life might go on in some familiar, if not warped, way.
My son saw my car and trailed me to the curb - pulling an envelope out of his hoodie as I stepped out. It bore my first name only, in the prim, parochial school, ruler-beaten into compliance penmanship I'd recognize anywhere. J.'s mom's.
After shaking away the fleeting panic that I'd just been handed a letter bomb, I opened it to find not a nasty note, but her copy of my house key.
Had she done it again? (Better check on the parakeet.)
I asked my son what she'd said when she'd delivered it.
"Nothing, Mom. It was between the doors." I was still going to check on the parakeet.
I was shocked at how much this skirmish bothered me. I am not accustomed to being the pariah. What's worse, it is not at all my tradition to lose favor with anyone. And I had no inclination toward fretting about a mother-in-law.
Lars had been no prize spouse but one problem we didn't have was his mother. She lived across the country and was so blatantly disinterested in her children that the scant few obligatory phone calls at holidays and birthdays could remain breezy and superficial. This one got a hair cut, that one learned to ride a bike, you should see my rose bush this spring, oh look at the time, better run, the laundry won't fold itself!
This would be different. Not only did we have something to fight about, we had actually fought about it. And instead of being a Caller ID-ed phone call gone to voice mail for a while, J.'s mom was local and ever present. Lurking in every local establishment. Envoys in every bar and restaurant. There were holidays to avoid, and birthdays, and graduations. It would never end. Hell, I could run into her anywhere. The dry cleaners. The car wash. The chiropodist.
I needed back up. I needed someone who'd dealt with a tough old Irish mother-in-law. Maybe even a wicked, embittered, envious sister-in-law. I needed (gasp!) my mother. I needed a plan for how I'd handle the next time Witchiepoo took the Vroom Broom out for a spin in my neighborhood.
It was risky business letting Mom in on the big brew-ha-ha. Mom was as fierce a defender of her cubs as any. Maybe more so. But Mom hasn't exactly built a reputation for taking prisoners and then obediently observing the Geneva Convention. Mom's killer instinct was on auto-pilot. She'd make Joan of Arc stammer. Subtlety was not her strong suit. It may not be in her wheelhouse at all.
If I sought her advice, and dared to tell her the story, and telegraphed that I was even a smidgen unsure...she might just take matters into her own capable, bitch-slapping hands. I'd already said words I couldn't take back. Mom would willingly napalm anything that remained standing.
Tempting.
I accelerated and screeched to a halt and swerved and swore and apologized half-heartedly all the way through town to my block. The sight of Marnie leading a game of neighborhood-wide kickball gave me a small sliver of hope that life might go on in some familiar, if not warped, way.
My son saw my car and trailed me to the curb - pulling an envelope out of his hoodie as I stepped out. It bore my first name only, in the prim, parochial school, ruler-beaten into compliance penmanship I'd recognize anywhere. J.'s mom's.
After shaking away the fleeting panic that I'd just been handed a letter bomb, I opened it to find not a nasty note, but her copy of my house key.
Had she done it again? (Better check on the parakeet.)
I asked my son what she'd said when she'd delivered it.
"Nothing, Mom. It was between the doors." I was still going to check on the parakeet.
I was shocked at how much this skirmish bothered me. I am not accustomed to being the pariah. What's worse, it is not at all my tradition to lose favor with anyone. And I had no inclination toward fretting about a mother-in-law.
Lars had been no prize spouse but one problem we didn't have was his mother. She lived across the country and was so blatantly disinterested in her children that the scant few obligatory phone calls at holidays and birthdays could remain breezy and superficial. This one got a hair cut, that one learned to ride a bike, you should see my rose bush this spring, oh look at the time, better run, the laundry won't fold itself!
This would be different. Not only did we have something to fight about, we had actually fought about it. And instead of being a Caller ID-ed phone call gone to voice mail for a while, J.'s mom was local and ever present. Lurking in every local establishment. Envoys in every bar and restaurant. There were holidays to avoid, and birthdays, and graduations. It would never end. Hell, I could run into her anywhere. The dry cleaners. The car wash. The chiropodist.
I needed back up. I needed someone who'd dealt with a tough old Irish mother-in-law. Maybe even a wicked, embittered, envious sister-in-law. I needed (gasp!) my mother. I needed a plan for how I'd handle the next time Witchiepoo took the Vroom Broom out for a spin in my neighborhood.
It was risky business letting Mom in on the big brew-ha-ha. Mom was as fierce a defender of her cubs as any. Maybe more so. But Mom hasn't exactly built a reputation for taking prisoners and then obediently observing the Geneva Convention. Mom's killer instinct was on auto-pilot. She'd make Joan of Arc stammer. Subtlety was not her strong suit. It may not be in her wheelhouse at all.
If I sought her advice, and dared to tell her the story, and telegraphed that I was even a smidgen unsure...she might just take matters into her own capable, bitch-slapping hands. I'd already said words I couldn't take back. Mom would willingly napalm anything that remained standing.
Tempting.
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