Guess Whose Not Coming to Dinner, Part Deux

J.'s birthday loomed. And the situation grew more and more awkward.

Mothers Day was a bust. A no show. An anticlimax.

And then Endora's birthday was a debacle. A farce. A slapstick comedy.

And now J.'s birthday was just days away and the heat was on. The situation was becoming a big cosmic game of chicken. Who would lose their nerve first? Who would jerk the wheel to one side in a last minute desperate attempt to avoid certain disaster?

As I have groused before, all of these events are normally celebrated...(OK maybe "celebrated" is not the right word. It is hard to call what the Cullens do an actual celebration. Perhaps "recognized" is a better verb - what with the glaring abstinence from revelry, hoopla, glee, enjoyment of any kind, and of course, alcohol.) OK, let's just say that we show up and have cake for these events at Endora's house. There are a few that are "observed" at Sheila's house. Again, with prohibition-style dining. The chasm was widening with every passing day and every antagonistic slight, and no one was about to voluntarily blink first.

Maybe this was a test. Sheila hosted a good number of her children's pseudo-celebratory fetes. Endora hosted her share of holiday and summer month soirees so that the pool might provide some form of entertainment. Perhaps they were stonewalling. Perhaps in their minds they were making a statement (but evidently somewhat timidly). They may have been saying, however unconvincingly, "Hey if you want a dinner planned for your birthday, J., don't look at us. Get your girlfriend to churn out a little hype for a change!"

No doubt, this should be my responsibility at this point. I could easily summon my inner Martha Stewart and throw a dinner party so J.'s family could shower him with the obligatory golf shirts and argyle sweaters. Under normal circumstances, I would not think of doing differently.

But these are not ordinary circumstances.

I could indeed throw a party. But to do so would create a tipping point. I could invite the regular cast of characters. Sheila and her brood and the newlyweds and Endora. Maybe even those two guys at the end of the table (their names really do escape me) and that obnoxious neighbor with the high pitched voice that she uses to pontificate endlessly.

But would they come? What if they didn't? And if they came, would they snicker at my decorating taste or the cleanliness of my bathroom or the size of my kitchen? And what about my cooking? Would that get the once-over from Chuck, the self-appointed know-it-all cook?

And if I was going to throw a party, I would want to offset the potential for torture and torment by stacking the deck in my favor, inviting my sister and her family so that I would have agents in all the enemy camps.

But even so, all of this seemed like caving. Like I was flinching first. They would hold out, and since J.'s birthday could not go without cake, candles and a chorus of Happy Birthday, I would have to throw it myself. And then I'd have to show my hand. I would have to extend invitations to them all and in a not-so-insignificant way, extend an olive branch by inviting them into my home.

Or, I could keep the party to the immediate family - and perhaps my sister's - and not invite them, any of them, and thereby draw a line in the sand. Declare war.

Or, I play the game and win...

My sister could plan dinner. Host it at her house. Her family, me, J. and all the kids. And when curiosity killed Endora's cat and she called - not J. but maybe one of the girls - she'd learn that we didn't need to rely on her dinner party to celebrate (so there!) nor did we commit the heinous crime of intentionally not inviting them to our party. No, we'd pulled off the social crime of the season. We'd been invited out and were not in a position to do any of the inviting.

Perfect.

Home, Home On The Strange

The celebration for the day Endora was hatched came and went without incident. At least on J.'s end. I am confident he and I were raked over the coals with the grilled Branzino at the restaurant. "Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, but not those that trespass against us, troublemakers that they are. Amen."

The next day, J. called his mother on the phone a couple of times to see what opportunities existed for gathering with her and his girls to celebrate her birthday. Throughout the day the phone went repeatedly to voice mail, either ignored or not heard by Endora and the newlyweds. J, accepted the fact that it was probably coincidental. It was a Saturday; they could be doing anything. No need to assume anything sinister was afoot. Just the same, he decided to drive over to her house to pay a visit.

He made his way into the neighborhood and examined the car situation in search of some clue as to who might be home. The Vroom Broom was nowhere in sight. Witchiepoo must be out lunching or taking in a movie on her senior citizens discount with the Blue Hairs.

Em's car was not on the street so she must be out doing something terribly important.

Chuck's car - What does Chuck drive again? The parking situation is tight on the one way street, only one block long. There were no driveways. So Chuck normally parked ON THE LAWN to make the strenuous waddle from vehicle to dwelling more manageable. But that appalling habit was the only thing J. had ever observed about the car. In any case, there was no Batmobile on the crab grass. (That frankly, Chuck had better decide to volunteer to cut. And soon.) But could it be among the cars parked along the curb?

J. stood in front of the house he grew up in and wracked his considerable brain trying to think of what lame-o car Chuck drives.

And then he had a thought that struck him like a lightening bolt.

He stood in front of the house he grew up in trying to figure out who was home so he could decide whether or not to go to the door.

The house he grew up in.
The house that is always unlocked.
The house whose door is (figuratively speaking, of course) standing open with a welcome mat in place.
His home.
His home.

Suddenly he was less sure about the rules. For decades he's announce his arrival as he walked in the door. At any time of day or night. He'd putter and fix things. Take a nap on the couch. Retrieve things like yearbooks or photos from his room. Nothing was off limits. Not the fridge. Not the pool. His room still his room.

And now, his parents' bedroom and his bedroom had been transformed into the "honeymoon suite" - a bedroom and a TV room, outfitted with the furniture, flat screen and gaming system Em and Chuck managed to buy while they were not saving for their wedding or some sort of independent housing.

Would the door be locked?
Would he be asked to call first before popping over in the future?
Would he be turned away at the door if his mother were not home?

He took one long last gaze and turned to walk to his car.

He did not need to know today.

What's My Line?

More deafening silence.

No barky calls from Sheila interceding on the newlyweds’ behalf following J.’s abbreviated conversation with Em and Chuck’s appalling failure to respond, retaliate or revile – or do anything but retreat. Really.

No screechy re-treads of any one of a variety of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane rants from Endora on the same topic – and perhaps a few more that she’s imagined.

No very grown up phone call from Em wanting to explain. (Must be that she doesn’t have J.’s number. Maybe she can get it from his daughter…)

But really, what could anyone say?

Perhaps:

“We admit we were manipulating the guest list and are mad as a hornet that you didn’t fall for it. You usually do! What gives?”

Or maybe:

“Four o’clock on a Friday is an admittedly obtuse and insensitive time to plan a party. It’s even too early for Happy Hour. I am sorry that I assumed everyone had as little to do as I do, and failed to realize that most others lead far more interesting and demanding lives, with multitudes of activities and pressing engagements to juggle. Who knew?!”

Or:

“You caught us being sneaky and trying to lure your daughter to the dark side and persuade her to disobey you since you put your foot down. And now we are running around in little circles trying to figure out what to do!”

Or even:

“Forgive Em her stupidity. She is just too brainless to grasp that calling your daughter was totally inappropriate and transparent in its mission to undermine your authority as a parent by appealing to your daughter’s newfound 18-ness.”

Or how about:

“Em is not only painfully dim-witted but colossally self-absorbed. We did talk about the fact that you were not coming to dinner, and she should have known, but since the conversation did not directly mention her name, or reference her wedding or weight-loss regimen, all she absorbed was ‘Yakkety yakkety yakkety. Blah blah blah blah blah.’ And she called your daughter because those are the only 10 digits she can remember in the right order. Please don’t hold it against her.”

The possibilities are endless. But I think J. would be satisfied with two words.

"We're sorry."

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.