You Can't Take It With You

And just as Charlotte was about to start clicking the heels of her not-so-ruby slippers to transport herself to anywhere else on the planet, Jack came striding in from his run. He must have sensed the need for rescue. Immediately redirected the conversation.

Later, he asked what the problem had been and Charlotte related every last pitifully inappropriate detail.

It's not that Bill hasn't done all of this before. He's commented that Estelle is difficult to live with. (We know that, idiot, but she's your wife. You picked her. You also decided to move 5 states away where you have no friends or family or jobs or distractions to create even the slightest buffer between the two of you. Not only do you both have abrasive personalities, you have nothing but endless stretches of time together. No one would blame either of you for jumping off a bridge.) I am beginning to understand the drinking and passing out by dinnertime thing, to be honest.

But never before has Bill mentioned the pre-nup thing. He's told me before (in one of those endless, uncomfortable meandering conversations I've mentioned) that he will see to it that my brother doesn't get any money or any of their prized antiques when they die, but it has always seemed like a beef he has with my idiot sister-in-law. The one he used to openly bash while seated two chairs away at many a holiday table. It seemed as though he were saying, "Your mother thinks that all of our children will be getting some big pile of loot when I bite the dust but I have different ideas." And truthfully, I don't care what happens to Bill's money or any of his crap when he finally takes his last nap in the dirt. Let him find a way to take it with him for all I care.

But mentioning the pre-nup makes me and Charlotte think that there is some kind of plan afoot. Like he's started to get his business in order. He's making his list. He's checking it twice. What an asshole.

Charlotte is torn. Now that Bill's cat is out of its bag, she wants to let Mom in on The Big Secret. Tell her all the wonderful things that Bill had to say to her...many of which for the zillionth time.

Jack disagrees. And so does Scott. And while I share Charlotte's concern for our mother and would like nothing more than for her to be in a winning position to confront Bill, I think I agree with Scott and Jack.

Mom and Bill are bombing down the highway, chatting and sipping coffee and holding hands and singing to the radio, and talking about what a complete bitch I am, and what a shrew Joe is married to, but wasn't it a lovely Christmas? And Mom is blissfully unaware that she is traveling across five states to a home she shares with a man who is plotting to leave her alone and penniless.

Telling her all of this won't convince her that it is true. For her own survival she will have to decide that it is her wicked daughters making trouble again.

A Few Parting Words

Understand that even the most benign topics make for painful conversation with Bill. Even as his pointless stories meander aimlessly from boring factoid to uninteresting event to ho-hum a-ha moment, it is difficult not to get the anxious sense of dread that the story will eventually lead to some supremely uncomfortable topic. And coverage of that topic will inevitably cause his voice to rise, his demeanor to become wildly animated and his word choices to become, well, R-rated. I usually find myself wishing I had secret vanishing powers. Praying for them, actually.

So I can only imagine the way Charlotte's skin was crawling with bugs when Bill went down the rabbit hole that is trashing her sister.

Make no mistake. I do not claim to be an innocent. I have made my wicked comments and have done battle quite voluntarily more times than I can recount for you. (Go back and read this blog from the beginning!) But at least I can say that I make an effort to be direct. Follow the rules of engagement. I may wag my finger in your face but at least it is your face I wag it in.

Bill in his cowardice is fighting like a girl. There are words for men like that. Only I don't generally use them. They were all probably running through Charlotte's mind that morning.

She tried to stop him. Stop him before the point of no return. Bill, she'd said, "Remember who you are talking to." And when that caution flag went unnoticed, she said, "Bill, Liza is my sister." And as he blew through that road block, she said, "Bill, Liza is my best friend. We talk every day. Sometimes more than once. Remember who I am to her."

Oblivious as usual, he continued. I am not clear how many more of my flagrant insults and injuries he recounted for Charlotte as she buzzed nervously around her kitchen hoping for an earthquake, but eventually, Bill moved on to an even more controversial topic. Our mother, his wife, Estelle.

While Estelle was assumed to be teasing, back-combing, spraying and molding her hair into its usual helmet formation, Bill took an ill-advised opportunity to rehash all manner of complaints about her.

Some of the stories were years old. Have been rewarmed and served repeatedly. But all of the comments, every one, touches on the same themes:

Mom is difficult to live with. (Oh right, Bill, like you are a day at the beach.)

That he can not tolerate the attention she gives Joe. (Well, Bill, Mom just hasn't gotten around to running him off just yet, like you've done with everyone else in your lives. Be patient.)

That they are on the road to divorce, whether Estelle knows it or not, and that when their marriage finally disintegrates, all of the money is his. "You know we don't have a pre-nup. All that money she thinks is hers belongs to me, and I'll leave it to my grandchildren. Your brother won't ever get a cent."

Yes, he's that big an idiot.

Where's the Beef?

Evidently, Bill has at least one more beef with me. (There are probably hundreds but when you repeat every story at least three times, there is only so much ground you can cover. Especially when the person you are talking with is actively trying to terminate the conversation using any and all possible means, including running screaming from the building yelling "Fire!")

He relates to Charlotte (at least once...) that I didn't say anything - not one word of thanks - about the shelves.

The #@%^&* shelves! Really?

What the #@%^&* is he talking about?

I distinctly recall that I very convincingly feigned being impressed with their beauty and craftsmanship while reviewing the zillion photos, and made empathetic frowny faces when he told his little tale of woe about not being able to sell a single one at the flea market.

When Mom presented a set to me out of the clear blue sky I remarked on what a beautiful job Bill had done on them. Oooohed and aaaahed about them. Thanked her profusely, however insincerely.

What the #@%^&* is he babbling about?

What Bill doesn't seem to be able to wrap his little balding head around is the fact that he crashed and burned at six o'clock.

Six!

There were nearly two hours of festivities that took place after he had been assisted to bed in an alcohol haze and staggered unsteadily off to the Land of Nod. And that for presumably several hours before that, his brain had been saturated in booze to the point of being unable to observe and report on any of the festivities occurring around him.

Whether I thanked him for the #@%^&* shelves or not, he is in no position to say with any certainty at all whether I did or I didn't - or anything else for that matter. One of the boys could have announced his plans to become a monk. A squirrel could have emerged from a nest in the Christmas tree. Charlotte's dog could have gotten up and performed a comedy routine - Bill would have no way of knowing, thanks to acute pickling of the brain.

But he is convinced that he is correct and no one can convince him otherwise. And this latest alleged affront from me fits nicely in with the opinion he was itching to assert about me in the first place. And whether I walked into his trap or not, he thinks I did.

And again, I don't care. One more person of such alarming insignificance that good, bad or indifferent, his opinion is immaterial and of no consequence. Maybe I'll write him a letter in my head tomorrow in traffic.

But what is troubling is that he is so misguidedly comfortable in sharing his nasty little musings about me with my sister. And he has a few he'd like to share about my mother as well.

A Kiss is Just a Kiss

My phone rings moments later. It is Charlotte, of course. Time for the post-game show.

I am sure she is loathe to tell me all the hateful things Bill has had to say about me, so I invite her to tell me. Open the door. "So Bill is still mad at me for telling you how badly they behaved at the cottage two summers ago, eh?"

"Well, yes, there is that..."

"Oh Geez. What else did I do? I thought I was doing a darn good job remaining pleasantly neutral. I didn't bristle at the rude political jokes or shame anyone for the racial comments. Did I make a face that gave me away? Yawn during the photo slide show? Did they figure out that I can't stand being stuck talking to them? What did I get busted for?"

What comes out of her mouth is completely unexpected. Getting busted for not holding back a face that screams "What an asshole remark!" is something I am used to. My apparent social sins from yesterday were entirely off my guilt radar.

"Bill suspects that you are no more on peaceful terms with them than they are with you. And do you know how he thinks he knows this?"

I am baffled. (Jeopardy tune playing loudly in my head now.) Did I stage whisper something catty and get caught?

Bill, evidently fancies himself a body language expert.

Charlotte says, to my ever lasting horror, "Bill says that when he went to kiss you hello, you turned your head so he had to kiss your cheek."

Oh.
My.
God.

I am completely grossed out and completely amazed at the stupidity of his assumption.

"What???? He did not really say that to you!"

"Yes. Yes he did."

Scott is looking at me in anticipation. "Oh I can't wait to hear this!"

"So what he means to say is, that the warmth and familiarity of the greeting kiss is his litmus test for how warm and fuzzy I'm feeling about the two of them?"

Maybe that works at the end of a first date, but really? With your parents' holiday visit?

Charlotte is amazed as well. "Yep. You heard it here first. That is his big tip off. That's how Sherlock Holmes knows things aren't quite right yet."

Let me see if I can interpret how he grades the test. A kiss on the cheek means the jury is still out and I'm still a little tentative. A kiss successfully planted on my mouth would have meant things were hunky dory? And I suppose if I were really on solid terms I'd have let him goose me? Is that accurate to say?

I am completely wigging. And grossed out. Is he really that stupid? Under the best of circumstances I would not let him kiss my lips. Even if I thought he was the world's greatest step father. It is just not something I am comfortable with. Gross.

"Oh and make no mistake," Charlotte continues. "He hasn't let you off the hook either. So don't think you are the only one not feeling all gooey inside."

Oh good. There's more.

There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays

A two hour car ride, a walk on the boardwalk, two deep fried turkeys, 3 Beef Wellingtons, 17 side dishes, 4 pies, 3 trays of cookies and several growlers of home made beer later, Scott and I finally enjoy a moment of quiet together. We have gifts and cards for each other and it is soothing to finally be able to focus on just us. His girls and their friends have gone visiting. The dogs have been corralled out of the room. It's just us, and I can finally stop feeling so crappy about being separated from my kids.

Scott's sister had touched a nerve, referencing Scott's girls' mother. She had wondered out loud to me how any mother can be spend Christmas without her children. She was not talking about me. She was talking about them. She and I had discussed my unique situation before and she'd been very empathetic about the choices I've had to make and the circumstances I have that I'd not choose for myself or my children or anyone else whose life intersects mine. She was not talking about me being seated at her table while my children were miles away at someone else's. She was talking about her nieces and their mother. But still, it had touched a nerve. No hard feelings toward her. Just a sensitivity that is all mine to own. Something I will never feel right about. I have Christmas china which will never be used to serve Christmas dinner to my children. It remains in boxes and stowed away, like many of the feelings I have on this day. No one can successfully navigate the land mine that is my Christmas.

I wonder if people who don't know me think I am selfish to be enjoying myself with Scott's family. Or Charlotte's. I wonder if they assume I've made a selfish choice. I know people assumed that about my mother. In the 70s it was inconceivable that a mother would choose to live apart from her children, no matter what the condition of her marriage. People assumed she was dead. I wonder what people assume about me.

The next morning Scott and I are up early making coffee and warming the Monkey Bread I'd made for my kids. I had brought it with me since Hil and Pat and I had polished off only about a fourth of it, despite our intentions to wolf down every last gooey morsel. It makes me feel guilty. Like I gave something away that belonged to the kids. I wash that thought away with strong coffee.

I have evidently missed a few desperation texts from Charlotte. She had sent up a few flares in the night. Texts commenting about Bill's habit of complaining about my mother the moment she leaves the room. That he rambles on endlessly telling the same stories over and over, usually covering a topic that is of minimal interest to begin with. Like the shelves. In a voice that sounds like his throat needs constant clearing. How did it get so gravelly?

I reply, however delayed. "He did that at the cottage. And the voice is courtesy of Jack Daniels." Jack's Jack Daniels. Most notably the entire bottle of Single Barrel he polished off unassisted two summers ago in a two-and-a-half day stay.

She replies at 8:49 am. "OMG they just left. Told the same stories in great detail (none of which were relevant) at least 3 times each day." Followed by "Bill has a major issue with you. I let him have it."

I write back. "Call me."

Bill and Estelle have been here for exactly 48 hours and have raced back to the nothingness that awaits them at home. The need to pull away evidently overpowering anything that would draw them near.

I'll Have A Blue Christmas

Christmas morning comes along as it always does. From where I lie in my bed, trying to avoid waking the kids by getting up and peeing, it seems twinkling, and sun-kissed and fresh and beautiful.

I risk it and get up to pee. I have been waiting since 6 am, there is no sleeping through the twinges my bladder is sending to my brain, and it is after 7 am, so what is there to be gained by staying in bed? If I am lucky, I can sneak downstairs, start the coffee, plug in the tree lights and feed the cat before I hear the first stirring upstairs.

No such luck. I am still seated on the toilet when Pat stage whispers through the key hole informing me that it is Christmas. He asks if he can wake Hil. Why not? Just don't wake the dead in doing so.

I bargain with them for a few minutes. Wash my face and brush my hair and teeth lest I end up looking monstrous in Pat's YouTube video or get sent to all of Hil's phone contacts looking like Sea Hag. I tie my robe, find where the cat has stashed my slippers and head downstairs to inspect things. All is in order (no Grinch has stolen Christmas while we slumbered) and I plug in the lights. Let the games begin.

My "film" rolling, the kids barrel down the steps and come to a stop at the tree shrieking in delight. There is frenzied gift unwrapping and more shrillness. Both kids are overjoyed. I've duped them into believing some gifts would not materialize under the tree. They are so surprised at what they've found there after all.

And then Pat realizes that there were a few gifts from Aunt Charlotte and from Scott that were not to be opened until Christmas morning. Where are they? Hil catches on and wonders the same thing.

"Oh," I explain. "I had a little trouble bringing everything back down from the third floor," I say. "Maybe you all can help with that. There are just a few more things. Come see."

I make my way around the winding staircases and landings to the attic door and pad up the soft carpeted steps to the loft just a few steps ahead of them. I let my camera roll again as the kids come in to look around. It takes a moment but as soon as they see the giant flat screen TV, the XBox console and Wii console they are shrieking again and jumping up and down. More gifts and envelopes are opened and gift cards for game stores and games themselves come spilling out. More shrieking.

All is right with the world.

Once the noise level has dropped and we've begun to take things from cartons and assemble what needs to be assembled, I pour more coffee and begin to make the Monkey Bread my kids so love and associate with Christmas. The smell of brown sugar and cinnamon and coffee mingles with fresh pine. Bliss.

It is my turn to open gifts. This year, instead of relying on hateful Lars and his cheapskate budget for a gift for the kids to give me, I made a deal with the kids. I would help them buy each other gifts, and would let them take the money from the change jar and use it for gifts for me. They could combine the money or go separate ways, but either way, they had money to spend and a more reasonable budget(as in more that $5 so we don't have to choose between the slipper socks and the coffee mug.) If there was more than they needed they had the option to use it to buy more for each other. It is a perfect arrangement. A little latitude to demonstrate their maturity. All I had to do was unleash them at the mall one day and stay in touch by phone and text.

They have really outdone themselves. A beautiful silver necklace with my last initial - and they were kind enough to remember my last initial is not the same as theirs. A funky, chunky bracelet and cool bangly earrings. A darling clutch. Some lovely shower gel. I am so touched. Not so much at what they've purchased (which is all wonderful) but in the pride they have taken in picking out special things, thinking about my taste, wrapping the gifts and hiding them. The joy on their faces at my reaction. Their Christmas Spirit is what has truly touched my heart. I can hardly speak I am so overwhelmed.

Soon all too soon, we must shower and dress. My deadline for getting them to Lars is noon. Hil uses her new straightener to touch up her hair. And then mine. She uses her new makeup to make us both fabulous. Pat hooks up both iHome clocks for their rooms and helps me water the tree and clean the cat box so we are not all so rushed.
Hil makes careful outfit choices to make sure nothing that she has just gotten will be confiscated by Lars and not make the trip back with her. Pat loves his new NHL hat but won't wear it because Lars might make him keep it there. It is a burden I hate that they bear.

Once we are all prepared, and the cat is ready to be alone for a few days while I am at Scott's, and the kids have helped me put all of Scott's gifts and his girls' gifts, and cookies and luggage and wine into my car, we are ready to pull away from the curb.

And I get the same bilious familiar twinge in the pit of my stomach. I am sending them into the lair innocent and defenseless on what should be a joyous day but most likely won't be. I am torn. I am so happy to be going to see Scott on our second Christmas together but heartbroken at being separated from my children. I am worried for them and they are worried for me (what if I get them there one minute past 12 noon? What will Dad do?) I try to remain positive, match their joy about more presents at Dad's and still try to soak in the tenderness of the moment. I have written them each a note and tucked it away in their things. Each one letting them know how much I love them and how special they have made my Christmas. I am enormously proud of them and hopelessly in love with them, and on this happiest day of the year, I am fighting back tears and barely able to breathe as I pull away from the curb.

A Letter to an Idiot

The next morning in traffic, I compose the following letter in my head:

Dear Mary-ellen, you uncommonly stupid woman -

Though I need to be clear that your inane opinions are completely meaningless and unimportant to me, and frankly, to most of the planet's inhabitants, the fact that you so confidently spew forth your unsolicited commentary on the events of my life and your assumptions about them, compels me to fill in the enormous gaps in your intelligence on this topic. Pun intended.

First, you are an idiot to think that my mother could influence even the most minor decisions in my life. Unlike your needy, dependent self, I do not regularly consult my mother on matters of any import, as I am a fully evolved adult with a superior education, and goals and ambitions, and distinct opinions about the life I intend to live myself and attain for my children. I also have standards, and taste, and some sense of propriety, all of which you would know nothing about.

Secondly, how you can even dare to assert an opinion or a musing of any kind about my life is beyond my comprehension. We have never been on friendly terms, I have shared nothing personal with you, and do not trust you. What you may think you have learned about me you are likely to be mistaken about; your version of factual information is diluted and distorted by distance, and grossly misunderstood by my brother who is as uninformed as you. So do yourself a favor and stow your opinions. You do nothing but embarrass yourself. You may as well be pontificating about Kate Middleton. You don't even know what you don't know.

And lastly, to make even a futile attempt to enlighten you and hope that your sieve of a brain retains even the slightest point of fact, I would like you to know that the following things, none of which had anything to do with my mother, were the reasons for my choosing to divorce Lars, and informed the choices I have made in doing so:

Lars is an unstable man. His parents clearly did not love him. The things they did as parents and failed to do as parents should have landed them in jail. These facts came home to haunt him right after the children were born. His behavior changed over the next few years to the point where he became intolerable to live with. His mistreatment extends not only to me but to our children.

Lars, in his sadness, turned to drugs. He did not choose therapy, or choose to confide in his wife, or seek any sort of professional help to heal himself. He chose drugs. He began abusing prescription drugs and put his career, his freedom, his life and the lives of his family at risk in favor of drug abuse. That is a very sad truth for a wife to accept.

Lars' personality became dark and suspicious. He sat in the dark for hours watching movies and insisting the children and I remain quiet. No phone, no lights, no computer, no talking. If we wanted to enjoy those things we had to go somewhere else.

He fantasized that I was having affairs with all manner of people at work and called me incessantly all day long in my office. All of my coworkers remarked on it and thought him a fool. The truth is that he gave me every motivation to run around and keep company with men who would appreciate me, but I never did. Not even once. And he thanks me by telling everyone that I did.

He became so jealous and paranoid that he saw fit to mistreat me. At home, in public, socially, and in front of the kids. I would avoid fights by ignoring it, but we fought on the way home from every party, wedding, school event, and gathering of friends, once outside the company of others. On the night before I told him I wanted a divorce, he humiliated me at a black tie charity event where we were seated with some very important partners from my firm. They commented to me later that week. I was mortified that they'd noticed. I'd so hoped I'd been the only one. The disrespect was so hurtful.

I got to the point where I could not get happy. Not at home, not with the kids, not on vacation, not in my work. My life with Lars was so oppressive that I could do nothing but simply put one foot in front of the other and go through the motions of living one day after another. It was a sad, bleak, hopeless existence with few moments of joy, and more moments of despair. After retreating to Charlotte's house a few times to escape, she said to me, "Liza, this is the third time this month you've been crying in my kitchen. What are you going to do? Your kids deserve a happier mother."

And she was right. I was afraid and I was confused and I was hurt and I was lonely and I didn't know how to fix what was wrong. I'd asked Lars to go to counseling with me a year or two before, and he'd refused, saying only, "You are the one with all the problems. If you want counseling, go get yourself some counseling." But I was certain about one thing. I was not giving my kids the mother they deserved and the attention they needed by wallowing in my misery day in and day out. And the only way to give them what they needed would be in divorcing their father and gaining the distance to restore myself.

When my mother came to town a week later, I told her I thought I needed to get divorced, and what you may be surprised to learn is that she told me the children were too young and to try to get myself happy, and to stick it out for a few years and maybe by then things would have changed for the better.

What I said then I will say now. I did not need anyone's permission. I did not seek anyone's approval. I did not need anyone to clear me for take off. I needed to change my life. Telling you in advance was just a courtesy.

I do not need you to understand any of this. It is complicated and personal. You think you can sit in judgement of me, but you can not. To do so, you would have to comprehend and your opinion would have to matter. You don't and it does not.

So before you go spouting off on topics about which your are woefully uninformed, and before you dare let my name or your opinion of me cross your lips, understand that you have been horribly wrong and misguided, and all that matters is that I KNOW IT. I don't care what you think or what you think you know about me, or what you've said about me. You are indescribably insignificant.

I hope you find some way to focus on your own life and stop dwelling on mine. In my worst moment I have been a finer, more productive, happier, more grounded, better informed, more thoughtful person than you have been in your finest hour. Shame on you for assuming otherwise. You are pathetic.


Most sincerely,

Liza

Of course I will never send it. But it feels good to have written it. She is not worth the paper and stamp it would waste, and any attempt to enlighten her is a fool's errand to begin with. I am satisfied knowing the truth in my heart.

A Short Shelf Life

At about 7:30, Scott and his daughter pile themselves and their loot into his zippy little sports car to head across state lines so that they can wake up on Christmas morning together at home.

I pile my loot and my kids' loot and my kids themselves into my car, and prepare to follow Charlotte's convoy of vehicles to Mass.

Mom whips and backcombs a little more, applies a fresh coat of shellac and gets herself looking spiffy enough to head out to Joe's to attend Mass with him, his shrew wife, her pathetic mother, and the three wicked children.

Wouldn't it have been nice for Bill to have stayed reasonably sober (and conscious!) so that he could join his wife and provide some much needed moral support as she heads into enemy territory? Just a pipe dream, I know. Bill will never do anything that doesn't specifically benefit him in some obvious way.

As we are all preparing to walk out the door, Mom yells. "Oh, Liza! I never gave you your shelves!"

Shells? Elves? What the hell is she talking about?

She scampers into the darkened dining room and emerges with a box lid (just a lid!) containing two shelves. Shelves that look suspiciously like the ones Bill showed me in his neverending slideshow of boring photos. And then proceeded to tell me how he so cleverly assembled and finished them and that he couldn't sell a single one at the flea market.

And now I am the proud owner of two of the prized shelves. Lucky me. Oooh. Can I get a pet rock, too?

Mom goes on gushing about how beautiful they are and how Bill spent so much time on them and look at this little clever gizmo on the back to make them easy to hang, and she can just picture them hanging in my center hall on that stretch of wall going up the stair way.

Not. Scott is mouthing "Burn them in the fireplace tonight" as I am giving an award-worthy performance portraying a truly appreciative, grateful gift recipient. I gush appropriately myself and ask her to please thank Bill for me (when he awakens from his stupor, natch.)

We go to Mass. It calms my nerves somewhat. I run into an old friend. I enjoy the choir. Charlotte's oldest boy makes me laugh out loud at a truly inappropriate time.

And after warm goodbyes and Merry Christmas wishes, Hil and Pat and I head for home to unload all the goodies and get on with our Christmas Eve traditions. I am happy to be alone in my house with my two joyful children. They are enthusiastic participants in even our most childish traditions, like cookies and milk for Santa and looking outside for signs of reindeer. Not even one eyeroll or whine.

But I am a little worried for Mom. Joe's psycho shrew wife is as unpredictable as anyone I've met in my life and a full-fledged, card-carrying kook at that. There is no telling what she'll do. Her thoughts are so demented and off base.

Do you know she actually blames my mother for my break up with Lars?

An idiot says what?

Yep. My idiot sister-in-law Mary-ellen, who I have done an admirable job avoiding the entire time she's been married to Joe, says that Mom interfered with my marriage to the extent that I ended it. She says this in defense of her attempts to to limit the amount of intruding my mother does into their lives. (I kind of get that, honestly.) I am sure Estelle's intrusions are unwelcome. My mother must be constantly finding fault with Mary-ellen. I am sure the intrusion would be much more welcome if Estelle were singing Mary-ellen's praises and agreeing with her that Joe is a moron.

But no, she tells Joe that Estelle is the root cause of my divorce from Lars. (and Joe, of course, has the good sense to mention it in front of my children...)

In my heart of hearts I don't give one flying fart in space about what Mary-ellen or anyone else out there thinks they know about the demise of my marriage. Lars tells all kinds of people all kinds of things he's fabricated about me just so that they aren't left to assume I dumped him because he was too atrocious to remain married to, and my choice was between divorce and hari kari. I have crossed all of them off of my list of people to bother caring about.

But there is a part of me that wants to send Joe's wife a scathing "If-you-weren't-so-witless-you'd-know" letter enlightening her about the more salient features of my marriage which paved the way to divorce court.

A girl can dream...

Goodnight and Good Luck

I visit the bathroom once again, and upon exiting, find myself confronted by a staggering Bill who seems a little confused about where he’s going. Scott has just gone into the loo upon my exiting it, and Bill seems to be hell bent on going in there himself. (Hello, ocupado, senor!)

And he is teetering at the top of the stairs. But there are only six steps separating him from the family room, so a broken neck is unlikely. (We'd never get that lucky.) A broken hip and a bloody face, much more probable. Whatever the damage, Scott and I would be trapped by his lethargic carcass blocking the egress. It is a disaster in the making.

Luckily, Estelle comes clicking along in her heels to guide him like a hospital orderly up the stairs in the general direction of their bedroom. I am sure she will have to assist with disrobing and pushing his big lard ass into the bed. Lucky lady. At least she can wash her hands of him for the night. Good riddance. Thank God that’s over!

She returns to the living room to announce as she has so many drunken Christmases before, “Poor Bill, he’s so tired. He didn’t get any sleep at all last night. And then of course today there was all the driving. He’s just exhausted.”

Be that as it may, Mom, he’s also shitfaced. And you drove for two hours today. Hardly the Indy 500. Stop making excuses and let’s call it what it is.

Bill comes to Christmas every year, puts away more booze than a sorority on Spring Break, gets loud and insulting, tells the same old stories over and over again, repeats the same off-color jokes, gets too familiar, gets even louder still, makes inappropriate comments in front of strangers and impressionable children, passes out abruptly in the middle of the party (often so abruptly that he is mid-chew, nearly choking to death in the process) and then you push, drag, or carry his leaden ass up the stairs to bed making the same old lame excuse about fatigue, as if anyone is buying it. Anyone too fatigued to make it through dinner should have skipped the party to begin with. Or should have made a graceful exit at the first sign that he’d be nodding off while the hors d’oevres are still being passed. (Of course, passing out sort of sneaks up on you.)

But to admit even half of that would be too big an admission. She is guilty of such things herself.

Before she fell out of favor with her BFF, she’d hot foot it out of Charlotte’s party early every year after rushing everyone through gift opening and then doing a bunch of dishes so no one could say she ate and ran. She’d use the excuse that her dear friends were preparing a beautiful meal and they “really couldn’t just not show up.”

Sure you can. You tell them way in advance that you are spending Christmas Eve with your family and will not be home for dinner. Don’t go to the trouble for us. Or even better, join us all at Charlotte’s!

But then that wouldn’t involve dirty jokes and blender drinks that have more than once rendered my mother incapable of making it all the way down the hall to bed on her own steam.

And throwing up. What septuagenarian do you know that drinks to the point of puking? Have yourself a mudslide, Ma. It is the breakfast of champions.

So, so far, this is par for the Christmas course in my family. We have a family calamity (Joe), an outrageous drunk (Bill), the usual denial (courtesy of Estelle), and loads to rehash over cocktails at the post-game wrap up, which can start the day after Christmas as soon as Bill and Estelle have rushed back to nothing five states away.

Shaken, Not Stirred

There are a few minutes of conversation that I can’t account for, I am so distracted by the nastiness. A man I see once a year, who I only pay the slightest attention to because he’s married to my mother, who I barely tolerate for the average 2 day visit each year, who if not for the distraction of other family members and empathetic friends, I would have to avoid altogether in an attempt to preserve my eroding sanity, gets my undivided attention for 5 minutes and has to insult me?

He’s lucky, really. Lucky that I don’t care enough about him to fight back. Lucky I am more concerned with Scott than with myself to let the insult register more than skin deep. Lucky I will not make a scene and ruin everyone’s holiday over something stupid said by someone so inconsequential. Lucky he lives too far away for me to conveniently burn his house down. Lucky he’s a pathetic old drunk who would be an unworthy opponent in an argument. Because really, he’s stepped into the Master’s territory. You want to spar with insults? You better make sure you are beyond reproach, friend. I’ll clean your clock so fast it will make your head swim. Not that it isn’t already pickling in cocktails already.

Eventually I regain awareness and he and Scott have moved onto a relatively benign topic. Boats. That is a good thing. Nothing political. Nothing to have a strong opinion about. Something Scott knows more about than Bill, no argument. I take the opportunity to excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I have had to pee since the first Bicycle Thief.

And I am not sure where or why I meandered from there but Scott caught up with me shortly. Out of breath.

“Oh my God, what a windbag! I kept trying to send you telepathic messages to come rescue me. 911. Mayday Mayday. Help! SOS!”

I hand him a drink. A beer this time. The Bicycle Thief has left tire tracks on his brain, he thinks. Or maybe that was brain damage from conversation with Bill. Anything is possible. I try to convince him that it is not the cocktail making him sleepy. It is the boredom brought on by being left alone with my stepfather, and I am eternally sorry.

Mom sits down. She’s in a story-telling mood, and she wants to regale us with how she recently got fired. No, not from employment. She was dismissed as a patient from (yet another) physician practice. And not unlike the car dealership where she is persona non grata, and Bill’s cardiologist who will not allow her on the premises, she was asked not to return due to her surly behavior and argumentative conduct.

Wouldn’t submit to a breast exam.
Wouldn’t disrobe from the waist up.
Wouldn’t go for blood work.
Argued endlessly with the doctor about his procedures.
In short, made such a nuisance of herself that the practice would rather forgo her co-pays and Medicare reimbursement in favor of relative tranquility in the office.

We’ve heard this all before. Mom is not about to comply with what everyone else is doing just because they’ve figured out the best way to do it. Nope. Got a mind of her own.

And while she goes on and on getting ever the more loud and ever the more indignant as she retells the story and quotes her finest zingers, I look over and discover, to my relief and to my amusement, that Bill has passed out in the armchair in the corner, mouth open and snoring ever so slightly.

A reprieve. I am finding myself breathing a little more deeply at the thought that he is out of circulation for the evening.

A Circus Without a Tent

All the hellos have been said, the coats have been stowed, the kids are inspecting the myriad serving dishes of treats and hors d’oevres that Charlotte and Jack have prepared.

Jack offers cocktails. Asks what we’d like to drink. Scott replies that we’d like to drink what he is drinking. He says he’s having a Bicycle Thief. Would we like to try one?

I inquire, “If I have to tell my mother to stop talking, will it make me brave enough to do so, without slurring my words?” He’s not sure about the slurring but the bravery is covered.

Yes, please. We’ll take two.

Moments later Jack appears with two brightly colored drinks. Salve for my wounded nerve endings.

We take seats in the living room with Charlotte and Jack's boys. Another moment passes, and Jack appears with a beautiful dish containing some yummy looking smoked sausages and dipping sauce. As he proudly enters the room, Bill stops him and says, “Jooomeeeeyafaveurrrrrrannnncuddeminhaffffffffffff.”

A whino says what?

Loosely translated by Scott, Bill had intended to ask Jack to slice the sausages in half before serving them. Wouldn’t want anyone to choke because their swallowing reflexes have been anesthetized beyond the point of involuntary functioning. Don’t laugh, it’s happened. All I want for Christmas is a Heimlich Maneuver and a stomach pump.

Glances around the room are exchanged and Jack retreats to the kitchen to comply with the request. I am sure the next one will be to mechanically soften the salmon and to emulsify the spiral ham. Note to self: Buy PEG tube on eBay for next birthday.

Bill doesn’t even eat the freakin’ sausage now that Jack has Ginsued and sliced and diced them down to toddler-ready tidbits. He’s in the kitchen having another round of ill-advised cocktails.

After a short time, Scott and I are presented with two fresh drinks, courtesy of Jack. This is a Bicycle Thief concoction also, but made with OJ instead of grapefruit juice, because “Bill doesn’t like grapefruit.” Jack says this with an implied, “Pain in the ass, that he is” tacked onto the end of the sentence. Bill sure knows how to work the crowd.

The games have begun, and at some point, for lapses in reason that I can not explain, Scott and Bill and Mom and I find ourselves confined to the kitchen alone together. Bill is prattling on and on about an expensive camera he bought and the fact that a camera you spend that much money on should have a little instruction book included (well, it did, but it was online, where most users of that camera would be happy to have it, but that is assuming a lot about Bill and Estelle. Just saying.) But to them, it didn’t, so they took "that thing" back and got this nifty little camera, and “just look at all the great pictures we’ve taken…” No really. Look at them all. And what followed was us having to seem to enjoy looking at dozens and dozens of pictures of road signs with double entendres and bumper stickers with racial epithets that they’ve stopped on the road side to memorialize on film for all posterity. Even Mom gets bored and sees an opportunity to exit, Stage Left, on the double.

And then Bill wants a photo of us. Me and Scott. And I lean in close to Scott to be photographed, but first kiss him on the cheek. And out of nowhere Bill objects and takes offense. Makes a snarky remark as though I am his 12 year old daughter doing something beyond my maturity level. Like lighting up a doobie.

And for the umteenth Christmas in a row, I know what it is like to want to vanish.

Beating Around the Christmas Tree

Charlotte is in a panic and so am I. There goes another joyous holiday up in smoke thanks to our ding-a-ling brother.

Or maybe not.

Charlotte reports no whining, pleading, all-I-want-for-Christmas-is-this-one-small-gift-of-my-family-together-who-knows-how-many-Christmases-I-have-left phone calls from Estelle. And I have none as well. I was vacuuming up pounds of pine needles when she rang my cell phone, and I missed the call/dodged the bullet. But when I listened to the message, there was only the usual longitude, latitude, price of gas, mile-marker, times of departure and estimated arrival, and traffic situation reports, but no unsolicited lunatic ramblings about the pickle my brother is in thanks again to his shrew wife.

She is set to arrive at Charlotte's at about 2:30. I expect to be there at 3. Maybe a few minutes early to derail any pregame lunacy that will likely be the result of my brother’s situation looming and a pre-Charlotte visit to Bill’s son’s widow who was as on The Outs as I was last year. An encounter fraught with the potential for disaster for sure. And bloodshed. And arrest warrants. Happy fucking holidays. Your bail is set at 1 million dollars.

Scott and his younger daughter arrive in time to help Hil straighten her hair, and Pat to pick a suitable ensemble, and to calm my nerves, which are shredded and frayed like a much abused cat toy.

After carefully packing the cars, we head in the direction of Charlotte’s and Jack’s and I am coaching the children on the way, hoping that they only minimally insult Estelle and Bill with their unedited comments. I educate them on the beauty of gift receipts and explain the long term value of graciousness. Admit that I am not entirely sure what is going on with Grandmomstella’s hair and no, I don’t understand much of what Pop Pop Bill says, either. It is a lot to absorb in a 15 minute car ride.

We get there and Charlotte greets me at the door. Taking my tray of cookies and Maple Walnut spread from my hands, she leans in for a kiss and tells me, “They are already at it. Already rehashed the visit to you at the cottage two summers ago and are currently arguing about what to do about Joe.” Yay. Is it too late to turn around?

I introduce Scott to my mother and Bill. Scott remembers her from her appearance at school in her nightgown and rusted out car (who wouldn’t?). She doesn’t remember him (senility). Then she reintroduces Bill to Scott, as though I’d forgotten to.

No, I did introduce them. It was a quick cover for being completely grossed out the door that Bill had tried to kiss me on the lips.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwww.

My brother does that. It completely grosses Charlotte and me out. My father did not kiss my lips. Why should my brother and step-father think it is OK? I don’t even want Pat to develop that habit. Only one man kisses my lips. And that is Scott. As it should be. A kiss on the cheek offends no one. A kiss on the mouth is another story altogether.

And this story is off to a rocky start.

To Be Continued

And so like a real live grown up myself, I call Charlotte.

Truth is, I am kind of a wreck. I barely listened to enough of the message to identify its purpose and my nerves were in shreds. God only knows what little grenades were left when she got all the pistons firing.

Charlotte can not believe I won't listen to the whole thing. Swears it would make great blog copy. Of course it would. Most lunatic rantings are hilarious with enough distance and time passed. However I do not have the benefit of either of those things. Only seconds have passed and I can't gain any distance from the situation. I am the situation. I may as well be trying to avoid my own skin.

But I promise Charlotte I will give it a try. Later, the benefit of a chardonnay under my belt, I log into my annoying phone system again and after listening to all the inane messages still waiting there, am afforded the opportunity to listen to messages I've saved, like Mom's. Saved for reasons that escape me even now.

The 3 or 4 other saved messages give me time to change my mind. But I don't. Or at least I don't at first. And then when I have listened to the one from the school regarding 6th graders wearing perfume, and the one from my state representative about the new recycling routine in the neighborhood, and the one from my daughter's friend that is too confusing to figure out on my own, I hear the familiar searing greeting.

I nod to myself through the Mad as Hell part and the It's All in Your Head part, and the next part where she says she is not manipulating anything. (I would venture to guess that most people who manipulate anything are not willing to admit that they have a dark, self-serving agenda. That would mean that they are wicked and, well, self-serving. Not a good color on most of us.)

She then begins an unbelievable (No really. Not believable.) soap opera quality, feigned crying jag that I can just tell is not accompanied by real tears. It is the fakey, shaky-voice, quivery lip, I'm-so-upset-I-can-barely-choke-out-more-than-one-syllable-at-a-time boo-hoo-for-me act I have come to recognize even as the words are spoken into her low-budget pre-paid no-frills cell phone outside in the wind.

"I stay with the Lushes....sniff sniff...because I don't want to be a burden to anyone!"

OH PUH-LEASE! Cry me a river, Estelle!

Mark your calendars, folks, today is the day I have finally heard IT ALL.

It is a well known and observable fact that Mother does not give so much as one good God damn about burdening anyone.

I have managed to get through about one sentence more on this read through than I did on the first attempt and have reached my threshold again.

I re-save the message for a braver, less hormonally unpredictable day, and call Charlotte back.

Mission aborted.

Please Leave a Message at the Sound of the Beep

Days go by.

No phone calls to me. No phone calls to Charlotte.

Clearly Mom has boarded the broom and is bombing her way North for the Final Conflict – Damien Thorn/Omen-style. I can almost hear the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

And then just when I am convinced that maybe I made my point, touched a nerve in a way that evoked reflection and some kind of Ebenezer Scrooge Ghost of Christmas Past kind of reversal I realize that there will be no such luck.

No.
Such.
Luck.

If it weren’t so bizarre, it might be funny. David Sedaris Holidays on Ice funny.

I check my messages one night – or rather – my record of missed calls – to see if they are all solicitation calls and the usual inane messages from my children’s fellow middle schoolers. More importantly to see if there is any compelling reason to actually log in and retrieve any messages from my uncommonly annoying voice mail system.

Oh there is.

I can see that there is a missed call from Mom’s cell.

Knowing Mom, she would have been concealing this particularly nasty little conflict from Bill. She probably had to step outside and light a cigarette and use her cell to be able to get her full on Beyotch mojo cooking.

The message began with:

“I am making this call when I know you are not there because I want to leave a message.”

Loosely translated: "I am calling when I know I can be guaranteed an opportunity to leave my totally rehearsed pissy little personal attack and will be able to get it all out with out being interrupted with some little pearl of superiority from you.”

Who does this?

She continues in a voice that could split an atom.

“I am mad as Hell at the things you said!”

Really? I would never have guessed from your demeanor, Mom.

“But this letter!” she continues. “Who sends a letter like this to someone?”

Well Mom, you do. Please recall the little letter bomb you enclosed in Bill’s daughter-in-law’s Easter card in the Spring.

And to launch into the rant proper, “First of all, it’s all in your head!"

And with that “there you go imagining things again” accusation that really should be reserved for use with 5 year olds, I click over to the next message and the sound of the beep.

Bring the Torch Jeanette Isabella

Since it is abundantly clear that there will be no calm cool collected conversing now that the gates of Hell have been thrown wide open and all manner of ugliness is swarming about us, I decide to compose a letter.


The letter focuses on the current problem. The one that broke my camel's back to begin with. Christmas and the inevitable corner she so artfully backs Charlotte and me into on alternating years. And the insult that it is to know that she thinks we are so stupid that her little game has gone undetected.


I am not one to relish someone else's squirming, but in this case I can maintain steely-eyed focus. It is so insulting and so offensive in so many ways. And she so casually chalks it off as one more personal win.


Not any more.


I begin the letter with fair warning. It is not going to be something she enjoys reading but it is a letter chock full of things she needs to understand.


I acknowledge that she probably does a lot of accommodating on her part also. Bill is a bit of a pill, as I believe we've already established, and can fuss his way out of anything he does not want to do, placing Mom in a position to a) find a way to do it anyway, and b) make an excuse for why Bill is not ultimately along for the ride, or c) cajole him into going along with it against his will. I am sure she feels like she should be accommodated too, darn it.


But the facts are, she comes up once a year, unless a death or a graduation or a selfish motivation forces a second visit. And the visits last exactly 60 hours. And in spite of being invited to spend that time at my house or at Charlotte's as a home base from which to visit or be visited, she and Bill stay with the Lushes. Does she realize how hard that is to explain to family and friends? She lives 9 hours away, comes once a year, and sees us for maybe 3 hours? What if I drove my family all the way to the Carolinas to see her and then spent every waking hour hanging out doing beer bongs with my college roommate?

I enlighten her as to how transparent her excuses are, and say the things she will not say --- that she will not voluntarily go to Joe's house, unless perhaps he is bedridden, because his wife will make it miserable for her. And Bill will not join her because he can't stand Joe OR his wife OR their children and that his love for my mother pales in comparison to his need to avoid that. And since Joe lives in some heinous remote neighborhood and it is kind of far from the Lush compound, she'd like to meet at a more conveniently geographic location...like my house. And she'd like to meet at a time that is convenient for her, whether or not it is convenient for me, because, she has an agenda to keep and darn it, if the Lushes are having drinks at 4 and dinner at 6 then the visiting will have to conclude by 3 pm.

Whether I am home to receive guests at the appointed hour or not. Why would I be bothered by that???

So her burgeoning social schedule will have to take precedence over all else - the demands of jobs, the pressure of in laws, the court ordered custody schedule...

I suggest that if she simply stayed a day or two longer, she could quite handily see each of us. It might even be enjoyable.

I ask why she comes at all. There are no memories made. Her eyes are on the clock the entire time. Quick! Open gifts! Serve dinner! Clean up! All so she can casually walk out the door at the predetermined hour to go join the Lushes in a blender full of Margaritas, and pretend that that was not the plan all along.

The first draft is pretty darn insulting. I am not kind in my description of the Lushes or Mom's (flawed and hard to understand) relationship with Bill.

I let her know how manipulated I feel. I state that I am pretty sure I am speaking for my siblings as well. (Joe said as much to her earlier that week. She had bitched to me about it!) I assert that this year I am not going to be manipulated into meeting her demands at the expense of my children's Christmas.

I will celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve. My guests are welcome at 1. She is welcome to join us.

I will not be hosting lunch for Joe and his family. Perhaps if Mrs. Lush is her best good friend she'd be amenable to entertaining my brother's family as guests at her table.

I let my sister edit. She lets her husband take a red pen to it, too. I do a rewrite striking all of the most vicious and snarky comments. And then, since my mother does not have a computer and therefore still deprives herself of the joy of e-mail (which is probably a blessing where World Peace is concerned.) I sign it, fold it, jam it into an envelope and place it into the mail where it will ooze venom from here to the Carolinas.

I am prepared to hold my ground regardless of her reaction.

Our First Ammendment Rights at Their Finest

The trick is with Mom, if you don't want to get pummeled in an argument you have to behave against your intuition. Where the normal adult person you generally are would like to have a rational, tame, informative yet heartfelt discussion about something that troubles you, Mom figuratively pokes you in the chest, waves her finger in your face, lords over you, encroaches, intimidates, insults and otherwise has you staggering backwards on your heels to safety. Or off a cliff, more often than not.

I have known this for decades. And for decades have employed some age appropriate escape route.
Run outside where she wouldn't dare chase me as a child.
Slam and lock the door and sulk in my room as a preteen.
Scramble out the window onto the porch roof and down the branches of the pear tree to trek across town to a friend's house as teen.
Not come home from college.
Find a roommate as a young adult with my shiny new paycheck.
Avoid avoid avoid whenever possible.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Nothing confronted, nothing resolved.

We have run in place as parent and child for decades past the expiration date of that relationship. Hard as Charlotte and I have tried, there is no transforming this parent-child relationship to and adult-adult relationship. So there is constant conflict. We approach things adult to adult. Mom approaches parent to child. So quite literally the lines of communication conflict. I have the book I'm OK You're OK by Thomas A. Harris MD to thank for my understanding of this. And Mrs. Harrison at Allgates for making me read it. A debt of gratitude to both fine folks. God knows my head would have been in an oven long before now. (Note: Joe is just fine with this. He has no notions about being an adult under any circumstances.)

Anyway, so tonight, maybe it was the bliss of Christmas shopping accomplishment, the magic of wine, or the pumped up feeling that football tends to give me, or perhaps the silver bullet combination of the three, but I had no intention of being backed into a corner by Devil in a Blue Dress.

After shrieking the words "SHUT UP" in a shrill voice that was clearly not my own, I went on a tirade of my invention, barely stopping to catch a breath and in a full bodied bellow that clearly indicated that it would be ill advised to try to interrupt me.

I touched on a lifelong accumulation of ever festering topics of agitation.

The constant bitching and haranguing.
The manipulation.
The splitting.
The insane political rants.
The craziness at the holidays.
The craziness in general.
The overarching Grand Dame of Bitchiness attitude.

She hung up on me.

She called back. Probably organized some completely denigrating comments and cocked the gun before dialing.

I didn't answer.

She left a message telling me never to call her again followed by a bunch of ragged sounding grousing about why she'd never want to hear from me which I deleted at once without reviewing.

I called her back immediately and left her a message that told her something like "Don't go betting the homestead that I'll be calling anytime soon to engage in more of this uniquely inane harassment from her. " Added that if she chose to have a rational conversation I'd be game but until such Mother Theresa type miracle came to pass, I'd not be holding my breath either.

I hung up and warned my sister that the triangular relationship would be rearing its pointed little head for sure.

Stop Telephonin' Me-e-e-e-e!

I have a fabulous day of shopping. Make a killing. Lots of great stuff. Bargains galore. I have assembled a lovely pile of gifts for each child. It is a very satisfying feeling.

I go home and begin to artfully wrap gifts. Coordinating tissue paper and wrapping paper. Each child having their own ensemble of wrap and ribbons. Gift receipts for all in case I've gotten it wrong.

I pour wine, I light a balsam candle, I unfold a woolly blanket across my legs, put my feet up and tune in to Sunday Night Football. All is right with the world.

And then the peace and joy of the season is shattered by the wrecking ball that is my mother.

I should preface this next part by saying that I have no way of knowing whether my mother was drinking but it was after dinner and she was hair-trigger ill-tempered. You be the judge.

"Hello," I say.

And we are off to the races. "You never called anyone back!"

"I know Mom. I got no fewer than 7 calls in 10 minutes while I was busy doing something else. I got what I needed from your message so there was no reason."

"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO CALL YOUR BROTHER BACK!"

"WELL MOM, IF HE HAD HALF A BRAIN IN HIS HEAD, WHEN HE REALIZED HOW BUSY I WAS, HE COULD HAVE SIMPLY LEFT THE SIZES IN A MESSAGE DURING ONE OF THE UMTEEN CALLS HE MADE!"

"YOUR VOICE MAIL ISN'T SET UP!"

Curses. The new cell phone. "My house phone voicemail is in fine working order, Mom. He called that at least a time or two. He couldn't have left the message there? You both called over and over again for 10 solid minutes like a pair of lunatics until I finally stopped the treadmill and had to answer so he would stop the insanity!"

"THE POINT IS, YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO CALL HIM BACK! I'M BEGINNING TO THINK THAT YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT ANYBODY ANYMORE! I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENED TO, YOU BUT I DON'T LIKE IT ONE BIT...!!!""""

She went on for a bit more in the voice that could peel paint and a tone that could be used by the Department of Defense to scramble enemy brain waves. But I don't really know what she said. At that point, what was left of the rational side of my brain had popped like an overloaded circuit and with a whiff of ozone, whichever brain hemisphere controls reason began to turn to the consistency of burnt toast. And from there I came completely untethered from reality and went spinning off so far into space that no one could possibly reach my mouth to clamp their hand over it.

My next sentence began with the words, "Shut up!"

Stop Calling! Stop Calling! I Don't Want to Talk Anymore!

The phone call has jarred me from a place of peace and has given me the Need Caffeine Antsies. I painfully extricate my somehow still fatigued person from the sheets and schlepp to the kitchen to get the coffee brewing. I hold my enormous mug under the basket to capture the first few gloriously strong ounces that will leave my eyeballs spinning. It's my only real vice. I don't salt my food. I don't smoke. And drinking is not a vice. It is a survival tool. Please don't argue with me.

After the first few scalding sips my thoughts turn to the run at the state park. Still holding my vase of coffee, I walk to the back door of the house to see if the weather is cooperative enough to venture out in. I kick off my slipper and stick my toe-mometer out the crack of the door. Freezing. No way is the state park getting a visit from me.

I decide to take to the treadmill to offload a little of the Mom-induced stress. I bring my cell, my house phone and a quart of water. I'm going to be a while. Mom has really put a whammy on me.

I rev up the iPod, jam in the earbuds and crank up the belt on the treadmill. I am off to a great start and a very satisfying sweat.

Over the din of the Bangles, I sense a nagging, non-musical buzz. My home phone.

Let it go to voicemail. It is probably Mom confirming that she reached Joe - she can leave the sizes on the machine. I don't have anything to write them down with now anyway.

Another buzz. My cell. My new cell. It is an unfamiliar jingle. Mom again. I let it go. I am huffing like a 3 pack a day smoker.

My cell again. Joe. Good grief. I let that go too. I am flying and really don't see the value in stopping. If he needs to leave the sizes on the voice mail he can. If he has a question about my kids' sizes, he can leave that too.

My house phone jingle jangle jingles. Joe again. Umm hello, if I can't answer one phone what makes you think I am in a position to answer the other?

My cell. Mother again.

My cell again. Joe.

WTF?

My house phone blares another time and I am incensed. It is Joe. I hop off the tread without turning off the motor and, to be truthful, YELL into the receiver, "WHAT, JOE! WHAT IS THE EMERGENCY? I AM ON THE TREADMILL!!!!!! WHAT IS WITH ALL THE CALLS!"

Completely oblivious to the yelling and the tone and the obvious rage, he says, "Heyhowyadoin?"
I continue to yell. "I'M ON THE TREADMILL, JOE. I'LL HAVE TO GET THE SIZES FROM YOU ANOTHER WAY!"

"OK, call me back," he says cheerfully.

Xanax for breakfast, Joe?

Six barely scraping the surface miles of tension-relieving running, I wobble off the treadmill and guzzle what remains of my quart of water.

Six out of seven calls went unanswered. I am hopeful that someone left sizes in one of their messages. I hold my phone an inch or so from my sweaty, sea-hag inspired hair and listen - hang up upon hang up. And then finally, a message containing some guesses about sizes from my mother.

I know what Joe's MO was. He did not want to leave a message. He wants to talk to me. Engage me in conversation. A conversation that leads to "Hey, what's up for Christmas?"

I would sooner gouge my own eyes out with a melon baller than entertain that conversation. I scrawl down my mother's suggestions, and hop into the shower to begin to prepare for a day of shopping.

Oy to the World

My mother offers to help get the sizes I need today, so I can use my 30% coupon at a local department store and buy more for Joe’s kids. My own personal mission to see that they aren’t completely dressed head to toe in Disney characters like their mother.

But in return for the convenience, Estelle wants her palms greased a little too. Greased with the goo that is deception among family members. A devil’s bargain.

I may forgo the run and open the gin.

I will be waking on Christmas morning with my children and opening presents like it is Christmas morning itself.

This might have posed a problem a few years ago, but since Lars chose to inform the children at the time of our divorce that there is no Santa Claus, we don’t have that to contend with. Yes, every 6 and 7 year old needs that little bubble to be burst as well in the saddest year of their life, all so Daddy can claim credit for the neat-o presents instead of the fat guy in the red suit. (The fat guy with the red rimmed eyes needs to be impaled with a reindeer antler)

But since we all know that Mom buys the loot, the good the bad and the ugly, ill-fitting, wrong color, wrong version, etc – we all play along and enjoy the day in a fog of make believe.

My sister and her family, and my mother and Bill, and other invited friends are welcome at my house any time after 1 pm – and are welcome to stay and imbibe and enjoy until 6 pm or so when I take one for the team and see to it that my children attend Christmas Mass, since their father will not make it a priority.

During the scant few hours in between, my mother, scheming as usual, would like me to invite my brother and his family for lunch.

She suggests 10:30.

That’s lunch?

And then she says, that she would like me to tell him that he has to leave by 1 pm ( Hell yes!) so I can go to my boss’s Christmas party.

First, my boss is Jewish and I am pretty sure my kids know that. And secondly, who spends Christmas Eve with their boss?

I begin the first of my many objections with the the logistical problem.

Ten-thirty is too freakin’ early to entertain any guest, especially when the guest is my brother and his awful progeny. Eleven will have to do.

And then I restate what we all know to be true. Joe is late for everything.

Not fashionably late.

Not intriguingly late.

Not a little late so no one notices.

Inconveniently, horribly, God-you-almost-missed-the-whole-thing late. And then will stay his predetermined overly long stay anyway. And expect to be waited on. And say inappropriate things in front of your children.

Mom offers to take responsibility for lunch and for seeing him to his car at the appointed hour. And, I am at liberty to make up a lie of my own invention to tell my children so they believe that they are doing something outside of our house and therefore have to leave at 1 pm and do not spill the beans to my brother or his children that we are having a party and they are not on the invite list.

What?

My next objection begins with the words, “Mom, I am not going to lie to the children – for countless reasons there are not enough hours of daylight left to explain…”

She senses that I am running as fast as I can go in the other direction from her War Room plan.

Rather than risk losing the commitment at this moment, she redirects. I am off the hook for now. She’ll see that my brother calls with sizes.

And with that, the harangue is over. But I have a sense of doom too black and foreboding to ignore. I have not heard the last of this.

No Place Like Home for the Holidays

We are home.

The holidays are upon us.

I am as prepared as you’d be for say, a tidal wave. As in not.

Thankfully my sister absorbed the shock of Thanksgiving.

But now, all these weeks later, it is safe to say that Thanksgiving was the (relative) calm before the storm. For my mother has managed to bitch slap us all, over the river and through the woods, each and every calendar day from Thanksgiving right up until Kwanzaa. A non-denominational-light-the-menorah-grandma-got-run-over-by-a-reindeer-festivus-for-the-rest-of-us-what-surprises-await-us-behind-the-little-doors-of-the-Advent-calendar-foot-on-the-gas-all-the-way-to-Walton’s-mountain-thousand-twinkling-lights smackdown to end all holiday brew-ha-has.

It began simply enough.

I was lying in bed one morning, contemplating whether to jump out from the cocoon of warmth and 500-threadcount sheets to dress in work out gear and run the 5 mile loop a local state park, or remain at home where the unavoidable 8 am phone call from Estelle would surely jar me from my place of inner peace and relative sanity.

Sure I could just not answer. But nothing is ever that simple. And besides, I kind of needed her. I was hoping she could tell me the clothing sizes of my brother's three horrid children so I could shop that afternoon. The advantage being that I could avoid a second grating phone call – the other being to my brother’s home, where no one will answer, and it will be dozens of return phone calls and countless minutes lost in inane conversation before anything gets accomplished with anything resembling competence.

I run head on into the fire and call Mom instead. Maybe I can get the phone call and the harassment out of the way, and then take to the park to run off the stress. A brilliant plan.

Or so one would think.

Mom doesn’t know anyone’s sizes. But she offers to call Joe and find out. Then changes the subject. She is bent on getting her own business accomplished. Have my sister and I decided what we are all doing for Christmas?

Yes, Mom. We decided months ago. I believe we’ve told you. Each of us. A couple of times. Are you drinking? Are you drinking right now?

Since Charlotte will not occupy the same dwelling as Joe – and for many reasons, not just Open Door/Xbox/Cat Poop debacle, I am hosting Christmas Eve.

And not just for that reason. I have a custody agreement that serves to truncate my celebration time with my kids every other year, and if I can, I think I should proportionally curtail the racing from home to home that I would normally otherwise do on Christmas Eve. Let the celebrating come to us. Less drive time. More mistletoe and hot chocolate!

But since Estelle has a very short window – 2 and half days, not a moment more – we have some juggling to do.

But something tells me that since she keeps inquiring about the plan, that she is hoping, even insisting that it be changed to suit some secret agenda.

So it may be more accurate to say that we’ll be manipulating, not juggling. Or being manipulated. It all remains to be seen.