War! What is it Good For?

And so, I am coming to terms with a life without Mom.

It has been a very long time coming and I am finding peace in the idea that it is finally all on the table, whether consumed or not.

I feel badly that Charlotte - and to some extent Joe - occupy the dangerous DMZ of this battle. I don't know what to expect exactly, but I know how Charlotte feels and will understand what she feels she has to do to try to support me in my position without compromising her relationship with Mom, however tenuous. She will likely maintain her own tentative relationship with Mom, but carefully rebuff any criticism of me, and insist on a detour around such discussions. Bring on the weather.

Joe is a different story. I have no desire to place anyone in the middle of a battle that isn't theirs to fight, and will not engage in any further banter with Joe if I can't be sure I trust him. And I don't routinely trust him. My experience has been, that if Joe feels like you have crossed the boundary into Trusting Him And Expecting Adult Mature Behavior, he panics and has to take immediate action to make you retreat from those thoughts and cast him off once again as an idiot in grown up sized clothes. The minute he feels you have placed some life-sized burden in his lap and asked him to share it, he places his dunce cap squarely on his head and resumes his role as Village Idiot. If I were to share any of my thoughts or feelings with him about this situation, he would step back, consider which side of his bread is more thickly buttered and by whom, and take the side that will benefit him personally most handsomely. And frankly, I know the result of that evaluation even from a distance. He needs my mother's guidance, support and money more than he needs anything he gets from me, and therefore, even if she were suggesting that we bring back slavery and repeal the right for women to vote, he'd take her side. He has more to gain in supporting her than in attempting to disagree with any success.

And I can truly live with all of this.

The truth of the matter is, my mother has been training us for years. Pushing us, insisting really, that we get accustomed to a life without her. She left our home when we needed her most. She dumped considerable baggage on my Dad, who really needed a partner to tackle the issues. She would opine from a distance, and pressure us to conform to her thinking by threatening more permanent abandonment if we didn't comply. She would give advice from a distance and insist that we take it, again with threats and insults about our own capabilities, only so she could stay safely in her own world, far removed from our own, and convince herself that she had Done Her Job as a parent. Met her obligations. Checked all the boxes.

When really, what screamed the loudest above the din my mother always created, was that she had checked out, did not appreciate being sucked back in, and would provide what minimal support she had to to convince herself and others that she had acted as a mother should.

It was vacant. She was absent. The pretending was infuriating.

And now after all of these years of minimal commitment, vague involvement, superficial parenting and thinly masked disinterest, she is getting what she's been pushing for all along.

My mother has been coaching us to accept a life with no need for or dependence upon her. Like my brother, she panics under the pressure. Does not want the responsibility. This finality has really been what she's sought in a distant relationship with her children all along. She does not want the pressure of traditional parental roles.

And so now that I have decided that a life that doesn't include her and her disappointments is just fine with me, she is a little unnerved.

Not by the result, mind you. But that her bluff has been called. She's pissed that she's been busted for faking it all along.

Games People Play

Of course, I am not going to respond. There is absolutely nothing to gain from it. My brother is a blooming idiot and will never appreciate the complexities of the situation. The relationship. The psychology. Forest Gump had better intuition. And considerably more charm, I might add.

But to be truthful, the five-year-old in me would really like to. In some way.

Maybe to just play her game and reply, "What ever do you mean? Nothing is going on. What are you talking about?"

Wouldn't that get the tongues wagging up and down the coast? Mom's Big Calamity not even registering on my Top 10 List of Things for Which I Wish I Could Get a Do-Over. He'd have to obediently report back that I had absolutely nothing unusual or of import to mention. And Mom, incensed, would screech, shooting the messenger as she always does, "Text her back, whatever that is, that she knows damn well blah-dee-blah-dee-blah-dee-blah-yakkety-yakkety-yakkety..." all in a voice that could peel paint.

Or maybe it would be more sporting to send back a third-party insult. Something blistering that would effectively impale its recipient the moment Joe figured out how to use the "forward" function on his pre-paid flip phone. Perhaps something that began with the words, "Our mother is an unstable lunatic that is becoming increasingly more dangerous to herself and others and really needs to be institutionalized at once. Please retrieve all of the registered and unregistered weapons from her home. I have filed for a restraining order and she and her equally unstable husband should check with the local authorities before entering the county in which I reside. Which is the county where you reside. You can thank me later."

Or, pretending to confide in him, I could lay it all out. The gossiping to Charlotte about me. About him. The insane complaint about my not kissing Bill on the mouth. Bill's implied intention to leave Mom penniless and alone and his statements about ensuring that Joe will never see a penny of THEIR money because it's all HIS money. And then once Joe's loyalty is on the fence, I can tear into Mom's lifetime of drama and bullshit and the fact that she has only herself to blame if she feels her children's loyalty waning. She can couch it anyway she pleases, but the truth is, she has been walking away from us and expecting us the obediently follow at a distance for decades. Dumped us and all our ensuing baggage solely in Dad's lap so she could go have fun. Has been trading our interests for those of the men she's ensnared all along. We haven't ranked in the top three for years and she's just pissed that we've gotten wise to her. That's what's going on, my gullible friend.

Those are the things I'd love to relate by my unwitting carrier pigeon brother.

But I won't. Because he's guaranteed to inadvertently botch the mission. And really, it just has no value. I don't care enough to engage in this game.

Phone-y Baloney

All that said, there is a part of me that wants to call Mom on all the trash talk and misinformation she is buzzing about in her corner of the universe. I want to also set her straight. And call her on her less than flattering conduct over the years. Maybe send another letter. (as if it would meet with a different fate than the one she'd sent to me...)

But I won't do any of that because truthfully, there is some relief for me in the notion of decisiveness and finality. I feel as though I've spent half of my waking life dealing with Mom.Or her nonsense. Or her social drama. Or something else she's cooked up and served on a platter for those around her to be force fed like future fois gras geese.

There is so much that I'd love to enlighten Mom about. Share my opinion. Correct the impression. Things that I'd like to remind her about that she remembers a little less clearly.

But it is a waste of time. And energy. And a drag on my soul.

And it no longer is important enough to warrant these sacrifices. I genuinely don't care.

Mom and Charlotte touch base a few days later. Charlotte reports that there was no mud slinging about my response to The Insipid Letter.

There are a few possible reasons:

1 - She knows Charlotte will repeat every last nasty word and wants to come off as The Fairest of Them All.

2 - She wants Charlotte to be able to tell me "Mom doesn't give one good S*** about what you did. She didn't even mention it. Talked about the weather."

3 - She really doesn't care. I am dead to her.

It could be all three. But she must be flapping to someone.

Joe.

A few days later I am at my desk enjoying the relative peace of having finally dealt with Mom when I get a text from Joe.

"What's going on with you and Mom?!"

The Trappings

Eventually, when Dad was too sick to stay in Assisted Living because he needed more assistance to live than they were prepared to provide, all the contents of his apartment came home to my house. We'd decided on a Nursing Home and had gotten him placed. But the timing was such that we'd have to clear out his apartment the next day or pay for another month, which was not exactly cheap.

Lars and his friend rented a U-Haul after work and took everything they could carry out and stuff into the truck. There were several big pieces of furniture that we donated to residents who might have need. And there was Dad's enormous TV. Lars had gone back to the store, which was owned by one of Dad's long time customers, and had explained Dad's situation. The man graciously let Lars return the big TV in favor of a smaller one that could go with Dad to the nursing home. Lars is by no means a saint, but this was a Big Deal at the time.

And that is how those now fabled sentimental pieces came to be in my possession. My husband saved the family thousands in a good will gesture and an effort my brother refused to make. I took in all the furniture, all the papers, all the clothes, shoes, boxes, into my home. Everything. The good. The bad. The ugly.

And when I asked my siblings to help sort through it and clear it all out, only Charlotte came to the rescue. Took 50 years of pay stubs and tax records and other such stuff and sorted through it. Burning what could be discarded and filing the rest.

I again sorted through all the items and assembled a box for each child...Charlotte's godfather is pictured here, she should get that. This is a photo of Joe's godparents on their wedding day. He should have that. This treasure should be Joe's. This treasure is special to me. Charlotte might want to keep that. Tons. Of. Stuff.

I had no burning desire to fill my basement and attic with the contents of my childhood home, but I did. And eventually, piece by piece, got rid of a lot. And welcomed my siblings help with disposing of things. Charlotte was a sport. Joe was an absentee.

It mattered less and less. I made room in my living space for the desk Dad had made in Wood Shop. Not because it was beautiful. Because it was special. I gave my hutch to the young family who had just moved in across the street. I polished and buffed the one Mom and Dad had had made and moved it into my dining room. Again, only because it is special. Dad and I had taken a special trip to the furniture maker together. A day off from school spent exclusively with Dad when I was in the fourth grade. To me it was not just furniture. I found a spot for the little chair that my grandmother always chose when she came to Dad's house.

And now, all these years later, Mom is trying to cast it all in a most unfavorable light. It is her special gift. She can turn a diamond to a turd in a matter of sentences.

And why on Earth do I care? I know the truth.

I suppose what shreds my nerve endings is that anyone could have such hateful thoughts about their own child. And worse, that she could go on a smear campaign in an attempt to undermine that same child. Recall and recount every last thing I'd ever done that frosted her cakes, whether she remembers it correctly or not.

To what end, Mom? What do you hope to gain?

I have no idea how she'd answer those questions, but I do know what she risks losing. And frankly, it's already lost.

A Pack of Lies

There is a whole bunch of other crap in the voice mail too, and then there are musings my mother has shared with Charlotte as bonus tracks. Most notably, she thinks I took things from my Dad's house when we were cleaning it out to sell it.

I don't know how she sleeps at night.

A dozen or so years ago, Charlotte and I had the daunting task of getting my Dad's house ready to sell when he was moving into an Assisted Living facility. (Having taken a header down the steps one to many times for any of us to be able to ignore, even my brother, who pretends nothing is ever happening.)

I say it was Charlotte and me because Charlotte took charge, and I did whatever she thought was best to do, and Joe did nothing (unless forced, and even then, he brought his monstrous children along to be underfoot and on our nerves and spent most of the time asking about when we'd be ordering lunch.) He was so lame, that Mom actually covertly took a ride north one weekend to help, because the house was sold and still looked like a museum. I'd ordered a dumpster and we needed to fill it fast.

But for quite a long time, Charlotte did the planning and she and I executed the plan together. She spent hours at the house while the kids were at school. I would make calls to the township for pick ups, and make arrangements for donations. Order the dumpster and it's eventual hauling away. Spend chunks of weekend time cleaning and disposing of things. Return on weeknights to put out ever growing loads of trash or charity donations to be hauled away the next day. There was quite a lot to do. It was an understatement to say that the house "had gotten away from" Dad. It wasn't quite Grey Gardens, but it was headed in that direction, minus the raccoons and feral cats and trees growing through the roof.

Charlotte had figured out what furniture Dad needed in his apartment and what additional items would fit to make it as much like home as possible. The rest had to go.

Nothing had been thrown out in years---since before my mother sashayed out the door to "find herself." Charlotte and I were like the cast of Clean House. We started small. We made piles: A pile of each child's personal stuff that had never left the nest (sports trophies and swimming medals and yearbooks and diplomas). Sentimental favorites that should be kept in the family (like the bench my parents got when they were first married or the desk Dad made in woodshop in high school and the golf clubs that he held in his hands every Saturday for years). Things that could be donated (such as dishes and linens and pots and pans and small appliances. Who needs a blender in an Assisted Living facility?) Stuff for a yard sale (power tools, a snow blower, cook books, patio furniture.)

It all needed to leave the house. Bell, book and candle by plane, train or automobile. It was all up for grabs in a sense. At any point, any one of us could have laid claim to anything. (Except evidently Lars. My mother charged him $40 for a hedge trimmer that broke after one use. We were still years away from the first divorce conversation. I never did understand that.)

I took my personal pile. I took the bench. At the time, no one had anywhere in their homes to display it, but it needed to be cared for, so I took it home to store. That was about all I could see taking. Dad would be enjoying my most favorite sentimental pieces for a long time in his apartment, I'd hoped. I didn't really want to scavenge. But I did take those little pine incense things.

My brother took Dad's golf clubs (both sets) and the wooden delivery wagon used by paperboys at the newspaper where Dad had worked (It is awesome, and probably a collector's item) and the ceramic Nativity set my parents had gotten for themselves as a Christmas present one year (which I learned later remained in the trunk of his car for a number of months thereafter.)

Charlotte took a few holiday items my mother had made in a ceramics class and a little wooden desk that had been her bedside table. I still love seeing it at the cottage each summer.

The rest went to charity, the dumpster the yard sale or with Dad. (or to Joe's mother in law, who, while cleaning the refrigerator because Joe could never get to it like he promised, helped herself to some bedroom furniture).

There was one item that could not legally be sold or donated that my mother helped herself too. It makes me uneasy in a way, but should come as no surprise to anyone that the one thing she could not resist was...

(Drum roll, please)... Dad's hunting rifle.

So Long, Farewell, auf Wiedersehen, I Do?

That Friday after six-and-a-half days of glorious remote and unplugged relaxation, we pack up our memories and head for home.

We’ve shopped (obviously), we’ve visited and left pennies and blown bubbles in the magical Fairy Garden, we’ve stuffed our faces with ice cream sundaes and French pastry, we’ve run amok in and amusement park and water park, we’ve napped in hammocks, assembled puzzles, played board games, canoed, hiked, beached and walked all about the place pointing to darling cottages with twinkling lights and saying “That’s the one I’d buy.” We’ve all enjoyed ourselves immensely, including Miss Kitty who could not take her big golden eyes off of the smorgasbord of birdies and bugs just outside Charlotte and Jack’s windows.

I am always blue on the way home. I’ve enjoyed vacation for obvious reasons but further, the uninterrupted time with Hil and Pat is so enjoyable and passes too quickly. The fact that my time with them is half of what it should be strikes a tender spot deep in my heart. I always feel like I am failing them by having to return them to the lair of the beast. Their lightness weighed down with worry and concern.

Soon enough we are in front of our house. The kids are happy to be home, not so happy to have to unpack. Trinket is having trouble adjusting and is retreating to the rafters of the basement again. And I am a wreck knowing that Lars will be beeping from the curb all too soon, summoning the children to get in his car and leave the week and me behind. And the children will go all Patty Hearst-Stockholm Syndrome and comply.

My one consolation is that upon their departure, I can fill the kitty litter, freshen the water and food bowls, and get on the road to Scott’s. We have a whole weekend together ahead and it will give me some comfort to have reasons to smile and laugh and be hopeful.

Not long into the weekend, I call the kids. Hil’s phone is dead (against type) and Pat’s is not with him. (Who are these children who let their phones out of their sight?) It is evidently at home with Hil while he is out with Lars. I call Lars since no one is answering. He lets Pat answer. (WTF?)

I chat with Pat and then ask him to text Hil to have her call me. I want to see how she’s doing, and I am shopping with Scott and his girls and have come across a great sale. I think I can take a stab at her new style but not her sizes. I need her help.

Two minutes later my phone rings and I see that it is not Hil but Lars.

I answer thinking it is really Pat. (Again, WTF?)

But it is Lars. The man who does everything via email has called. Must have butt dialed. But no. He meant to call me.

“Umm, yea, hi. I just wanted to let you know. I got engaged this weekend.”

Retail Therapy

Hil and I pile into the dressing room having accumulated an astonishing amount of garments in record time. Hil perches on the bench while I designate hooks – These are things I haven’t tried on, this hook is for the Maybes, this is for the No Way On God’s Green Earth, and this will be the “You’re Coming Home with Mama” stuff. Hil will do the hanging while I keep the wardrobe changes coming.

It is not long before I realize Banana has been living under the misguided illusion that women everywhere have 13 inch waists, no boobs, and no concern about visible bra straps. The No Way hook is about to detach from the wall with the weight of the clothes and leave an unsightly yaw. Pretty. We divert some of the No Way Jose stuff to the Maybe Baby hook, since it is empty.

When I get to a few almost acceptable pieces that might just be perfect in another size or color, Hil is a willing gopher. She is overjoyed to be helping me, when really, I am hoping I am teaching her some small points about clothes. When I point out what is wrong with each piece, I hope she’s absorbing:

“This looks great from this angle, but when I turn this way, I look like a mobile home.”

“Oooh. The beads stop at the seam and don’t go all the way around to the back. The hallmark of a cheap blouse. Next!”

“These pants grab at the crotch. Let’s not draw the eye THERE, thank you.”

"I’d need quite a contraption to keep the boobs in check and the bra straps concealed As They Should Be."

"Not even fashion tape can fix a gap like THIS.”

"I like the shape but the color makes me look like a squash.”

And then finally, a fabulous dress is next on the Try On hook. A gorgeous orange. Impeccable, intricate details all around the neck. The perfect body skimming constructed shape. An ideal hem length. Lined. Fabulosity.

I ask Hil for a thumbs up or a thumbs down. I get two enthusiastic thumbs, way up.

And then I get a set of gold bangles.

And I get cosmically sucked into Kenneth Cole where I pounce on a fabulous pair of cork wedge brushed gold sandals to put a complete Girls Weekend ensemble together. I am so giddy I make a donation to Haiti because Kenneth Cole wants me to.

And for good measure, and a matter of practicality, I buy the fabulous shoulder bag to carry home my empty wallet.

The Style Council

With all the running around from Nike to Reebok to Zumiez to Gap to Aero, I have passed the Kenneth Cole outlet 7 or 8 times. It is hard not to be magnetically drawn to the open door, but so far, I’ve resisted. But there is a magnificent shoulder bag in the window and it is calling to me. Like the Sirens.

I am praying I don't cave.

Pat goes off, new shoes in hand, in an effort to placate me by at least looking at and trying on a few shirts with snarky cartoons and slogans on them. Cheaper by the dozen at 40% at the Gap. I am convinced that if he gives it a try, he’ll find something that appeals to his finicky taste, and maybe even armloads of things, which will alleviate the need for painful hours of shopping just before school starts and the deadline looms.

Hil, still riding the crest of her retail high, wants to accompany me to Banana Republic where I am sure to try on 1,000 articles of clothing like last year. (Inclusive of the shirt I wore to the ill-fated Girls Weekend, which I was wearing in my replacement FB profile pic – the one to replace the one that was nefariously tattooed onto J.’s thigh, which was later discovered by Scott – the new pic not the tattooed one. I also bought the fabulous pants, the ones that I naively wore on my also ill-fated date with Casey, aka Death Breath, the ones that also made my butt look extraordinary, a topic which has also been covered in this blog, filed under Casey’s Rude Preoccupation with Making Comments about My Butt.)

This year, much like last, Hil wants to be my stylist.

And I am suddenly reminded of her earliest days as my stylist. I knew I could trust her opinion when I’d take 3 dresses into a fitting room and ask her opinion and she’d actually ask to see one of them on me again before deciding. And she never ever steered me wrong.

Once, I had been working at a prestigious law firm for a few months when I’d been invited to the Chairman’s party. It was a Firm ritual. The Summer Associates social event. The Chairman would host a party in his home, invite the Summers, their mentors, and a select few partners and administrators of his choosing. An elite guest list, for sure. I was thrilled and petrified to have been included.

I did my homework. Relied on a few trusted girlfriends who’d attended before to help me navigate. I desperately did not want to misstep handling the delicate issue of who was “in” and who was “out.” And I would die if I didn’t nail the wardrobe.

The invitation read “casual.” I know better. I would need an outfit change. I wanted to look effortless but absolutely flawlessly pulled together in something interesting and noticeable, in the right ways. Don’t want to blend, don’t want to make a spectacle. Why can’t the invitation just say, “Noticeably fabulous but not overdressed?”

I shopped and got a smart fun casual dress and had it tailored to perfection. Bought shoes and a purse to coordinate. Found interesting pieces of jewelry to make the statement stick.

Two nights before the event, I put it all on. Shoes, bag, jewels and dress. If it missed the mark, I still had time to shop for adjustments. I liked the look but needed an unbridled, objective second opinion (and Lars would have been useless even then). I turned to 6 year old Hil for an assessment.

“Hil, I need your opinion. I am thinking of wearing this outfit to a very important party. What do you think?”

She turned, put her hands to her face, drew in her breath and gasped, “Oh! Can I have your autograph?”

I knew I had a winning outfit, and a great little story to tell about a great little girl with a fashion sense way beyond her years.

I am in good hands as I cross the threshold into Banana.

The Art of Shopping

Banana Republic. Coach. Gap. Calvin Klein. Aeropostale to Zumiez and every name in between.

I leave a little trail of change throughout the complex. My children relieve me of the burden material wealth with each and every threshold we cross.

Pat tries on and refuses at least two dozen pair of sneakers even after first ascertaining that they meet a specific set of criteria. High tops. One of four acceptable brands. Not white. It is harder than you'd think.

Out of sheer frustration, I leave him to his own devices with a cell phone and go to see what damage Hil is scheming to inflict on my financial security. Pat can call me when he's found the goose that lays the golden egg. He can text me pictures if he is unsure.

Hil has expertly rifled through dozens of shelves and racks and piles and has assembled a new fall wardrobe of her own design. I can't argue. It's a new year, she needs new sizes and new styles. And at least she has picked out the clothes herself. I won't find them under the bed with no hope of circulating into the weekly wardrobe. Afterall, 7th grade is a big year. No one wants to admit their mother approved of, much less picked out, their clothes.

I examine each article and cautiously approve after seeing her try on a pair of pants and a least one shirt. I want to see how everything looks on her actual body. I want to make sure we are taking home only the things that don't make a spectacle of her prepubescent body parts. You'd think half of these stores are owned an operated by Trollops R Us. Who needs to have their absorption of algebraic principles interfered with by someone's exposed hip bones?

As I fork over pounds of cash, my phone buzzes and buzzes again. Pat with two pairs of shoes by camera phone. Both cool. Both expensive but not to the point of needing to refinance my mortgage.

Hil and I schlep to meet Pat and I am wondering how I can bribe them to let me spend some time trying on a little fabulous for myself.

The Power Shop

One day while we are at the cottage, we awake to light rain and a dismal forecast.

Scott had taken his daughter home to the beach so that she could go to work as scheduled. Your first year at the boardwalk amusement park is a pivotal one. If you don't demonstrate reliability and punctuality (not to mention the will power to refrain from using your cell to talk or text for an entire shift) in your first year, you aren't likely to be hired the second. And it is a primo job. Cute uniforms, boys galore and all the free rides for family and friends you like. It's your first taste of power. Don't screw up.

So Hil and Pat and I lazed around a bit in the morning and once lunch had been prepared and eaten, I broached the mixed-review subject of Back-to-School shopping at the Outlet Mall.

Hil is immediately in. Hand raised, jumped in with both feet. I swear she'd volunteer to do the driving if she could. Her mother's child. Every cell.

Pat has conditions, natch. If we go to the outlet mall we went to last year, and if the Nike outlet is still open, and if I will let him get sneakers for school, and if I will stop trying to get him to buy white sneakers, he will go with us and cooperate by not objecting and by holding ever increasing armloads of bags as Hil and I shop ourselves to the point of needing IV fluids.

Hil runs to change into a dressing room ready, frequent wardrobe change friendly outfit designed to maximize opportunistic shopping with streamlined efficiency.

Pat puts on socks with his sneaks. Done.

I say a silent novena that I manage to retain some small portion of my net worth.

We take to the car. My GPS, dubbed Betty, or rather Scott's GPS, donated generously to me due to my being directionally undertalented, does not recognize the street address of the outlet mall of choice.

I try a "points of interest" search.

There are several outlet malls you could swing a cat and hit, and all sound inviting, but none of them are the one we seek (as part of the devils bargain with Pat). Our trip appears to be doomed. Pat has his hand on the handle of the door to my car. Ready to throw in the towel.

I click the locks to keep him in.

Wait one more minute. I have an idea. In the reviews of our intended mall, some disgruntled cheapskate whined that the real deals are actually 2 blocks away at another outlet mall.

I search on Betty for the neighboring outlet mall and bingo! I have a route. I head in that general direction and confidently assume that I will be able to follow the scent of smoldering bargains to the mall we want.

Let the fleecing begin.

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

I have just returned from a wonderful week at Charlotte and Jack’s cottage. I am not at all hopeful about re-entry into the workplace, but am thrilled that vacation was fun, relaxing and edifying. Allow me to share.

Things I learned at the cottage:

Coffee tastes better on the porch in a hammock swing. Even better when the other half of the hammock swing is occupied by your adorable boyfriend who looks very handsome when he’s just woken up. And has no shirt on. (Sorry, if this offended your sensibilities in any way, Mrs. Miller.)

Darkness is a relative term. When I walk around my house at home and turn off the lights to go to bed I would say that it is dark. In a mountainside hamlet with no street lights and a lovely lush canopy of 200 year old trees, “dark” means “black as ink.”

It is a good idea to refrain from the Chardonnay until after the sheets have all been placed on the top bunks.

Vacation is way better when your boyfriend is a lot of fun and has a sense of humor and you can stand the sight of him for days in a row, as opposed to a pathetic tired out drag with a jealousy problem who appears to age exponentially faster than everyone around you.

Daddy Long Legs spiders are not dangerous to humans but a 12 year old girl with a bug phobia can not be convinced of that.

The same Daddy Long Legs spider can not occupy a canoe, however large and spacious, with that same 12 year old girl. For any length of time. One of them will have to go. The girl will go more willingly. Even in the middle of the lake.

Speaking of lakes, the term “man-made lake” does not mean that things that are not man-made don’t live it it. And those things are not necessarily shy.

Some people can make anything fun.

A regular old hot dog is gourmet quality when it is cooked on a grill and followed by a warm slice of homemade apple pie with extra cinnamon and a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

A 1000 piece, Rock-N- Roll themed puzzle can turn into an obsession. And Frank Zappa, Jimi Hendrix, and Jim Morrison’s hair can be hard to tell apart from one another.

When you are at an amusement park, they can charge you $11 for a hamburger and you will not hesitate to buy 5 of them.

There are people everywhere whose parents never taught them manners.

I will happily ride an amusement ride that goes 80 miles an hour, upside down and in reverse, and smile and laugh and want to do it again, but will put my hands over my face and say Hail Mary’s when my boyfriend backs into a parking space.

Some people can clog any toilet.

All the nooks and crannie’s of someone else’s rustic garage/crawl space can be fascinating to an indoor cat who has managed to escape.

Even with endless peace and quiet and ability to concentrate, I still can’t think of a dignified word for “boyfriend” when he’s not 20 anymore.

Geography matters. Being an hour away from home can feel like another galaxy when you don’t have to answer your phone, open your email or pay your utility bills.

It is hard to lose a friend, worse when she’s young and passes so suddenly. It is an easier thing to heal from when you have nothing to regret. I intend to live the remainder of my life leaving no regrets. So far, it is liberating.

If my theory is true about things absorbing the essence of the people who touch them, then we’ve just left our fingerprints on Charlotte and Jack’s cottage and smudged it with joy and laughter and love and family memories.

Vacation does not happen often enough.

And thus ends my What I Did on My Summer Vacation essay.

Funeral For A Friend

I would like to say that the drive to the cottage was uneventful, but it wasn’t.

On the way to Starbucks, I check my phone at the light. I have a message from my friend Kate. I listen but can not hear her clearly. She is on the beach and the wind made the message hard to hear.

When I am back in the car with a venti iced coffee and two hot chocolates, a breakfast sandwich, a piece of lemon pound cake and the meowing cat, I dial her back. I’d sent her a funny text earlier and I am dying to hear what she had to say about it.

But she is not in her usual zippy mood. She got a note from our friend Jane’s brother in the UK. Jane has died.

I make her repeat it. I simply can not have heard what she seems to have just said. She repeats exactly what she’d said and there is no mistaking it. Jane is gone from us. Suddenly. At the age of 44. And exactly 3 weeks since her wedding day.

I am immeasurably sad. I ask tons of questions, most of which Kate can not answer. But one thing is clear. We feel equally horrible about not having flown to the UK for the glorious occasion that was Jane’s wedding. She’d finally found the love of her life and we could not figure out how to juggle work, kids, finances, partners, custody issues and PTO time to get our fat American arses on a plane to England for what would be the last opportunity we’d have to see Jane.

To tell her how very much we love her.
To tell her she’s a radiant bride.
To tell her how beautiful and special she is to us.
To retell stories and relive old memories.
To toast her happiness.
To share a drink or two or ten.
To dance like we were 20 again.

I know people say these things when someone has died. People say how wonderful a person was. How close they were. How they never had a bad thing to say or thought a bad thought about them. Even when it is not entirely truthful. When someone has died we tend to deify them. Cleanse our memories of things gone wrong. Whether it is a matter of putting things in perspective or just respect, we seem to forget the times when someone borrowed our ladder and didn’t return it for months, or flirted with our boyfriend, or undermined us at work, or spoke harshly to our child. All forgotten and seemingly forgiven.

But with Jane, I have nothing I’d choose to rewrite. She lived with Kate and me for a few months in the year preceding my wedding to Lars and had scrambled back to the UK when an I-9 issue surfaced all of a sudden. She and Kate had been nannies for neighboring families years ago and had become famously good friends. When Jane came to temporarily occupy our absentee roommate’s room in the house we shared, I was momentarily skeptical. But my skepticism turned to elation within a day. I cherished those days.

Jane’s was a colorful, buoyant personality. Witty and outspoken and always game for an adventure. She was an engaging and gifted conversationalist. Charming and quick to see the humor in things. I adored her. She was flawlessly genuine. Genuine in her interest in you as a person. Genuine in her desire for your good fortune. And she could genuinely and robustly laugh at herself as easily as you would laugh at anything.

The world has grown a shade dimmer, its colors less vibrant, with her departure from it. To console myself, I will look to the stars in the Heavens for signs of her illuminating presence there.

Goodbye dear, sweet Jane. And Godspeed.

The Cat's in the Bag

This year represents a new first in vacations.

We are taking Trinket.

And Scott and one of his daughters (the one without the boyfriend that makes staying at home so appealing.)

It’s a whole new ballgame.

First – a cat can not be relied upon to pack its own suitcase.

My kids are by no means capable of deciding what is needed for a long trip either, but can do more than the cat can. Hil would pack 75 pounds of makeup, hair accouterments, and her entire earring collection and fill the remaining space with stuffed animals. We’d arrive and she’d have the clothes on her back and maybe a spare pair of panties. Pat’s suitcase would be brimming with video games, hand held electronic devices, DVDs and a portable TV. And his favorite basketball shorts. Maybe.

So for them I make lists – 2 of this item, 4 of that item, and let’s not forget your X,Y,and Z. I make it their responsibility to see that the entire list is checked off and makes it into the suitcase before it goes into the car. They can bring whatever personal choices they have as well, but they are limited to what can fit into their backpacks.

But the cat is my domain. I am admittedly a novice pet owner. (Read that: “I am sure I have no idea what I am doing.”) I toy briefly with the idea of leaving her at home and asking a neighborhood kid to check on her. One who is responsible enough to make sure that Trinket does not rip down the drapes, does not starve to death, does not have to resort to drinking from the toilet, and does not escape in the wild. But no such kid exists, and there is no paycheck big enough to motivate a parent to make sure that any of it is done.

And besides, she is so new to us. The way she craves attention when I walk through the door at night gives me pangs of guilt that if we left her for a week she’d be heartbroken thinking her People have left her. HER People. Her beloved People. The People that give her deli meat.

Charlotte says it’s okay to bring the cat to her cottage. I admit that I feel like a new mom – bringing everything the cat could possibly want or need for even a millisecond because my mother’s intuition tells me that the minute I get there the cat will desperately need the very thing that I chose to leave behind and it will be a life and death need. And I must go buy a replacement Thing. At once. Forget the beach. We need to find a Pet Smart.

Charlotte tells me that they have a litter box at the cottage already for their Fatty Cat. One less thing to pack, and still I am skeptical. Animals are territorial. What if Trinket knows that it is Fatty Cat’s toily and refuses to do her business in it? Picks a nice spot under the dining room table instead?

As the car fills up with luggage and coolers and beach gear and such, I have to make a sacrifice. Something must stay behind. The newly purchased cat carrier while homey for Trinket is big and bulky for the car and I have to make the choice. I bring the kitty litter but leave the box at home. I will hope for the best.

Against what I’d anticipated, Trinket goes willingly into the carrier at the last minute and is carefully place in the car between Hil and Pat where she begins a 90 minute meowing fest, interrupted only briefly when I dash into Starbucks for Roadies.

Our adventure has begun.

Same Time Next Year

So Disneyland Dad has returned my children to me unharmed and unsnatched. According to the kids, who have probably been sworn to honor a pact, someone named Heather watched them for a while each day, but Dad only went to class for a little while. Lars has walked the tightrope of propriety and ethics again, but at least my children are home in one piece.

And now I get to prepare for my own vacation with the kids. To the little remote hamlet we always venture to. And I can not help but reflect on what a difference the year since our last trip there has made.

A year ago this very same week, this very same trip was pocked with all the hallmarks of a relationship in the horrid throes of death. J. and I were broken up, yet still in a place of relative civility - but clearly only because he had not yet admitted to himself that what he was seeing and experiencing was me walking out the door of his life, taking my ball and going home, leaving the Big Top and plugging my ears to drown out the calliope music. It was still blurred and unclear to him, though precise and crisp and sharp around the edges to me.

And even then, the real drama had not even begun to unfold: His uninvited, unwelcome, completely intrusive and bizarre trespass into the sacred Girls' Weekend. The hacking into my phone records and subsequent Googling and dialing of unfamiliar numbers that I'd called or texted while away from him (like my son's new number and my secretary's cell...hello, boundaries please!) And of course, the piece de resistance, the impromptu unveiling of the dinner-plate-sized, four-color tattoo of my FB profile pic on his barely wide enough, scrawny little thigh. (He'd seriously have to turn a quarter turn for anyone to actually view me from ear to ear...yuck) And so many more violations of trust and respect.

And while I could never have imagined at that time that there was that much drama, that much trouble, that many more police reports yet to file before I'd seen the very last of him, I had no way to predict that at the very same time, my relationship with my mother would unravel like a cheap sweater.

The few days she and Bill had spent with us last year were agitated, and tense, and harrowing, and fraught with the potential for disaster: The bizarre attitudes, the loud political rants, the guns, the alcohol, and the outrageous behavior. Followed by months of triangular conversation which ended in a stand off that threatened to interfere with the only holiday celebration my mother feels is important enough to exert herself to spend with family.

I unenthusiastically extended an olive branch at that time, but Estelle wasn't accepting, and I wasn't going to go waving it around for long. There were plans and backpedaling, more plans and then excuses. And then the biggest fail safe excuse, the threat of bad weather. Estelle and Bill came North and stayed away. Then retreated early.

The holiday was glorious in spite of the distraction I am never sure she didn't cause on purpose. She is a distraction without trying. But she took her bitterness to her friends' house, and ended up leaving there early too, following some terse words over God Only Knows What. Blamed the weather. Snow's coming so we're going. Like J., not seeing how by their own hand they were driving people from their life. And adamantly insisting that the problem lie with the other party.

Months later, I sent an Easter card; I called on Mother's Day. I did my part even though each act lacked genuine warmth. In its place, panic and dread and a sense of duty. There is a truce but no peace.

And even as I pack my bags for this trip I wonder if she knows we are going, and is telling herself that there is nothing unusual about not having been invited. Even though there is.

A few weeks ago, as I drove to a meeting, she called my cell. Not wanting to arrive at the meeting looking rattled in any way, I let the call go to voice mail. As I sat in traffic on the way home that evening, I called her back, wondering even as I dialed how I would dodge the issue if she hinted that she would enjoy seeing us and are we going to get away this summer.

Not to worry, she went on and on instead about politics and the state of the world. Told me she'd just bought a rifle.

I nearly drove right off the bridge.

She went on to volunteer that she'd gotten the gun because according to some closed-minded, right-wing redneck news source, people are upset with the state of things around here, and darn it, there is going to be an uprising, a revolution, looting and rioting - and darn it, she's going to protect what is hers.

I chuckled at the visual image of my mother, hair whipped and teased and back-combed into a meringue, Nefertiti earrings dangling, cowboy boots, pantyhose, Mom jeans and a really good blazer, cocking a gun to fire at someone trying to make off with her Weber grill.

I am secretly relieved at my de facto decision not to have invited Mom and her sidearm to join us on our tranquil vacation this year.

I am sure my children and the neighbors would thank me. If they only knew.

Take the Money and Run

I have changed banks.

For most people this is easy. For me it is like changing skin. And about as painful and scarring and nightmare-inspiring as that would be.

I do this as seldom as possible. Only when forced.

I had to change banks when I got divorced. Lars, in a bizarre but not unprecedented act of freakish paranoia, had insisted, and would have gone to the mattresses over it, that there be language in our agreement that I would close my account that I had in the bank we'd used as a couple, and go find myself another.

And why couldn't he just take his little bag of crinkled up bills and go find a new bank himself? Had he robbed all the others in the neighborhood?

But I agreed. Just walking into the old bank made my stomach churn. It was the account we shared in that bank that he had drained except for a few dollars, without telling me, natch, on the very day I'd been paid, and stashed the money in his name. Then to ice the cake a little more thickly, had canceled my credit card. No money, no credit card, no gas in my car. And as I sat in my car turning into a little sniveling pile of goo, Charlotte rallied, found a bank 3 blocks from my house with evening hours and met me there. Did all the talking while I fretted and wrung my hands. Spotted me enough cash to to survive for weeks on my own and for God's sake hire a lawyer. She very calmly explained to the very empathetic teller, with surprisingly few expletives, what my louse husband had done, and what we'd hoped to accomplish by sundown, if not murder, and answered all the pertinent questions, and then helped me record each piece of treasured jewelry and each important document pertaining to me or the children as I placed them in a safe deposit box.

So really, what remained to be done by the time Lars was on his horse and riding about me leaving the Royal Bank of Whoville, was the settlement of whatever we decided to do with the children's accounts. The accounts for which I was the custodian. Lars insisted, stomped his trollish little feet and held his fetid breath until I agreed to divide the balance of each child's account with him so that we could open separate and distinct accounts for them for which we would be the respective custodians.

And to this day I ask, "Who does that?"

I mean besides a total asswipe?

But in the interest of settling, I took and gave him half of what little money actually had made it into the accounts, since it was Lars's habit to take big checks, like the ones for $1,000 his friend's parents, the Firestones had given the kids when they were born, and pocket them for his own use, however nefarious. I went dutifully, promptly and responsibly to my bank and opened new accounts for each child and assumed he'd done the same at the Royal Bank of Whoville.

Lars, I've learned recently, did no such thing. He claims to have done so, and then to have debited the accounts to buy things the kids have asked for - like clothes and sneakers, and school supplies, and that the accounts, without regular deposits, have simply been depleted and closed. At least that is what he's told the kids.

But I know differently because I know Lars. And can see the hallmarks of one of his lies a mile away. I know that that money never saw the inside of a bank vault. It went directly into his pocket, because he could take it. And because he feels he should be compensated for all that Life has heaped upon him. And because the children would never be the wiser.

But that is where he underestimates them. Because they are smart enough to question when things don't add up. And when he told them the tall tale about the fate of their money - from birthdays and Christmases and visits from the tooth fairy, they asked me about the money in the accounts I'd opened with them. Do I use their money without telling them? Do I reimburse myself from their accounts when I've bought them gym uniforms and ski jackets and Halloween costumes?

I told them honestly. Certain things are my responsibility to buy. Like all the things I've mentioned. Other things, if they really want them, are theirs to buy, like Bobbi Brown makeup and sports memorabilia. And if they really want them, as they have in the past, I will take them to the bank and help them make the withdrawal that they need. I show them their passbooks so they can see the credits and debits..."Here is your birthday money from when you turned 9...and here is where you took out some to buy a pair of hockey skates."

Because it is their money and it is my responsibility to see that it is used responsibly. Some things you need and other things you really want. And some things you have to wait and save for. Clearly a philosophy to which their father does not subscribe. Because he has always been, remains, and will forever be an opportunistic taker, whose selfishness knows no bounds.

It is a sad but important lesson for them to learn. Every kid realizes one day that their parents did not hang the moon. Worse, they are flawed. My kids, sadly, have had to learn that their father is the Grinch, only his heart will not be warmed by Cindy Lou Who, or even his own children.

The 27 Club

Amy Winehouse has died. Love her or hate her, you can not deny that she was captivating.

And now sadly, she has gone on to join a macabre club morbidly referred to as the 27 Club, referring of course to the evidently ever-expanding list of young musical geniuses who die at age of 27.

What strikes me about each of them, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain and Jim Morrison, is how old they seem. Amy and Kurt I might have guessed were younger than their appearances would have suggested. But Hendrix, Joplin and Morrison?…I would have guessed were far, far older. Especially Joplin. Yikes. Girlfriend could have used a few weeks at a spa, in addition to rehab. It must have been all the life they packed into too few years of living.

There is so much to be truly saddened by with Amy Winehouse. She was young. She was beautiful (give or take the beehive) and she was enormously, shockingly gifted. Her voice and style were unique and unmatched, and certainly could have taken her to places others only dream of: wealth, fame, ability to influence the world, a name that lives on in perpetuity. This generation’s Elvis or Michael Jackson.

Pity. That surreal voice that made her rich and famous is silenced like those before her. At 27.

And though that is plenty sad in and of itself, what makes me sad for those that love her is that her tragic, unending downward spiral, unlike the other members of the club, was public in a way that the others were spared.

I don’t think there is anyone who is on the fence about whether Hendrix or Joplin enjoyed their drugs. They certainly did. It is well documented. And even though Joplin’s family denied the producers of the movie “The Rose” the rights to her story, there is not a single person living on this planet who has seen The Divine Miss M come gloriously, completely unraveled in her screen debut and who does not completely understand that disclaimer or not, “The Rose” would be more accurately entitled “The Life and Times of Janis Joplin.”

And please, who has ever uttered the name Jimi Hendrix without also mentioning LSD or some other psychedelic drug? His death, shrouded in mystery and widely speculated about, screams of drug abuse. And cover up of same, natch.

And Morrison. Puh-lease. We have movies, authorized bio-pics, that come right out and tell you he used drugs. (Even if Meg Ryan wasn’t all that convincing as his co-conspirator, Pam, who famously changed her hazy recollection of drug use by herself and Morrison on the eve of his death in the bathtub.) And hello, if that weren’t proof enough, the very name of the band was taken from the title of Aldous Huxley's The Doors of Perception (as in "unlocking" of "doors of perception" through psychedelic drug use). Duh.

These were huge celebrities but none of them was exactly famous for their charity work. They were extremely talented, charismatic, dynamic artists who lived chaotic lives. But in a world that had only limited access to them.

What we know of them, if we weren’t at Monterey or Woodstock personally, is from stories we hear and pictures in magazines, and ancient, grainy amateur film footage.

But Amy. She died right in front of us. On the internet that was in its infancy when Kurt Cobain took his life, and on YouTube, the far reaching, highly accessible tool designed seemingly for little more than laughing at the misfortune of others (Unless you are Justin Bieber.) We watched her rise and fall. Every day. On every media outlet.

Sadly, these images will likely turn out to be what many remember her by. She won’t be remembered like Elvis, in his movies and his military uniform. (Because no one thought to post a picture of him dead on the toilet with the crusts from his peanut butter and bacon sandwich still on his lap) She will be remembered for being booed off stage too drunk to perform. Her haunting voice overshadowed by her shocking decline.

We don’t live forever. Our legacies may. If there is one thing you tell your kids tonight at dinner, make it this: Live your life as you want it remembered. Let your legacy really and truly and honestly speak for you. You may only have 27 years to create it. Make it something extraordinary and something of which you and your family can be eternally proud.

A Mouse Tale/Tail

So weeks go by following the middle of the night capture, torture and maiming incident which I have Pollyanna'ed myself into truly believing was a) an isolated incident (This mouse was clearly a loner. A recluse. No friends, no family. A party of one) and b) an event which culminated in the poor lone mouse's eventual death (which of course took place outside of my house and certainly not inconveniently in between my walls).

So it is this ignorant optimism I have to blame when three weeks later, I am awakened in the twinkling, half lit hours of dawn by the same woeful sounding throaty moan that haunted my sleep for days after Meeces to Pieces, Episode 1.

After realizing the moaning was not actually coming from inside my head where I was enjoying a dream about a big outdoor party, with live entertainment, that, wait a minute, that vocalist sounds like a cat...I sat bolt upright in bed. And yes, in a flop sweat and with a racing pulse.

I look down at Trinket, who is looking up at me from the floor in apparent bewilderment that I am overreacting already.

I expect to see a mouse dangling by its tail from her mouth, but she is licking her chops sans mouse.

But there in the dawn's early light, meant only to illuminate the Star Bangled Banner, and not the gore fest that I am about to deal with, I can see a little roundish dark blob on the light carpet. And the blob is not moving. And it is, even in the hazy lighting, and with my limited ability to see, evidently too small to be the preferred cat toy, the leopard print catnip mouse.

I secure my ponytail, lest it become a distraction or a screening problem in what activities I anticipate, and turn on my bedside light (again, surgical grade lighting). And there on the floor, now being softly chewed on by my darling kitty, is a pathetic, wet, small gray, lifeless mouse. It looks exactly like the one from Episode 1. But what do I know?

All together now: EEEEeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwww!!!!!

I put on the slippers I had schlepped around in the night before and turn on even more lights. Trinket is now prancing around her little dead friend very proudly.

I will never understand animals.

I try a little animal psychology, and choke out feigned praise. "Good girl, Trinket! Mommy is so proud of you! How about a treat?"

And like that, we are down the stairs and in the kitchen where I am immediately heaping pieces of smoked deli turkey into her bowl...enough to keep her purring and distracted for a while.

I need to act fast. Hil and Pat are asleep for only a few minutes longer. I can only imagine the drama. Hil can't share space with a bug. Imagine her reaction to a gruesome little dead thing!

I grab a grocery bag, the plastic environmentally unfriendly kind, and then one more to double it up. I also take a piece of unopened junk mail in a stiff over sized envelope and then race back upstairs as quietly as possible.

I kneel, open the bag as best I can, and then artfully flip the little rigor mortised thing into the bag and tie a double knot.

But on its way into its little plastic coffin, I noticed one thing.

Mr. Mouse has no tail.

And as I run downstairs to put the mouse and the bag in the can that holds the morning trash at the curb, I am skeeving.

Where oh where is the disembodied tail going to turn up???

Hi Ho Silver!

Quiet is not my strong suit but I creep with the stealth that people in horror movies never have when they are trying to outsmart the psycho killer with the hockey mask and the meat cleaver.

But Scott must be distracted because I literally sneak up on him.

Sneak up to find him positioned standing high on the bed where he is poised to wave a towel, lasso-style, presumably to whale on the little critter lest it run up his leg hairs and into his shorts unexpectedly.

He sees me see him and begins whirling the lasso/towel creating a big wind and frankly, a lot of noise. He claims to be intending to use the whirling terrycloth cyclone of doom to scare the cat from beneath the bed. I am not sure if the intention is for the mouse to go with the cat or remain under the bed when the cat runs for cover from The Loan Ranger. Frankly, I am skeptical that that was the purpose of the towel at all.

In any event, the whirling of the towel makes such a racket the Trinket streaks from beneath the bed, out into the hall, whizzing past me at break-neck speed, but slowly enough for me to see that she still has the mouse clasped between her teeth. Poor thing. It is probably hard to breathe like that, much less huff and puff as you run for your life.

I turn on a dime in my daughter's slip on fuzzy slippers, found and commandeered on the landing. (She's sort of a slob, my Hil. Leaves a little trail of debris like breadcrumbs in her wake.)
I hot-foot it down to the landing, spin and take off down the last turn in time to see which room Trinket turns to run in. The dining room. I assume she's under the dining table again. It's military genius. She has a great view and room to maneuver. Drats.

I have a brilliant idea. I suggest to The Lone Ranger, now having joined me on the first floor, towel still unholstered and in hand, that he make it seem really, really dangerous and unappealing to run toward the center hall or living room, while I make it seem like an easy break for Trinket to run into the kitchen. You know, he can wave the towel and jump around like a loon. No one in their right mind would dare go near him, even if your mind is the size of a Licorice Nib like Trinket's.


Then when she falls for it and is trapped in the kitchen, the interior of which is not unlike a walk in closet, with far fewer options for escape, we make it seem like a swell idea for her to run down the basement steps. When she does, I will dash to the landing with her water and close the door for the night. She can spend the night chasing Mr. Mouse and still have the benefit of water and her litter box, but no ability to go traipsing about the manse showing off her kill.

Trinket falls for it hook line and sinker, and Scott and I go off to bed in relative peace, after having jammed a towel under the basement door to prevent so much as a mouse paw to get through uninvited.

The next morning I can not fight my curiosity.

I go to the basement. Trinket is calm and peaceful. I expect to see her prize kill presented center stage in the middle of a hoola hoop or some similarly spectacular showy fashion.

Nothing.

I look around. The mouse isn't anywhere, and furthermore, Trinket is acting as though nothing has happened. (Maybe in that Licorice Nib brain, nothing has.)

I get her some food, freshen her water and continue looking for Mr. Mouse, all the while fearing that I am going to step on something gooey, yet crunchy, any minute.

Nothing.

I convince myself that Trinket chased and batted the little pathetic thing to the point of exhaustion or maiming. And then when it ceased to be any fun at all to play with, ignored it. It is my fervent hope that the heinous little varmint then limped outside to die.

Fingers crossed on that. But based on the way Trinket perches above the heat vent and swishes her tail each night, never giving in to distraction, I am sure I've not seen the last of the Meeces to Pieces.

Divide and Conquer

Scott and I decide to split ranks and cover more ground. He goes upstairs and I enter the darkened living room.

I turn on a lamp and then another and then another. I want everything illuminated so that I can pick up on the slightest motion and spot anything, no matter how small or lifeless, on the patterned rug I am now regretting having laid there.

I stand still, trying to hear any minute movement above the sound of my pounding heart. You’d think I was evading the Boston Strangler.

After standing as motionless as humanly possible, given my visceral response to this particular stress, I decide that Trinket is trying to outsmart me by laying motionless unless the coast is clear. I assume she is under the sofa or one of the chairs. She’d have plenty of concealed room to run and lots of escape routes if she had to make a break for it (assuming I’d found the damn broom, which I hadn’t.)

I have not other choice. I have to get on my hands and knees and look under the furniture.

And this is why big scaredy cats who think there is a mouse about the house stand on chairs, people. Because up on a chair, you have a little distance. The mouse is not going to run across your feet and up your pant leg to parts unknown. And that is actually what we fear.

And here I am. Not only am I not on a chair, I am about to place my face against the rug, and potentially come face to face with The Beast, who will likely run into my massively curly hair where it will remained entangled while I have a full on hissy fit and die of a stroke of my own doing.

As silently as I can, so as not to inspire a mad dash, I get down upon my knees and turn my head to the side, my eyes wildly searching for signs of movement. I place my face against the floor and take in a wide view of the floor. And a deep breath so as not to pass out in that vulnerable a position.

Nothing.

Emboldened, I repeat this activity until I am sure the cat and her mouse are nowhere to be found on the first floor. Sqat-tah.

I call to Scott. “Scott, do you see her? She’s not down here. Neither is the mouse. They must be up there with you.”

I hear nothing from the second floor and ascend the stairs to the first landing and stop to listen.

More nothing.

With the caution of an international spy, I creep up the remaining stairs.

Welcome to the House of Mouse

At the sound of my shriek, Trinket races off to parts unknown leaving me with no choice but to follow her.

OK there is another choice. I could let her run all over my house with the mouse and leave it for me to inadvertently step on and instantly drop dead. Not at all appealing.

So, I take to the stairs to the first floor (as opposed to the attic, which was just wishful thinking, really) and flick on additional lights as I go. No chance Scott will return to REM sleep anytime soon.

I get nearly to the foot of the stairs and find Trinket, mouse in her mouth on the center hall carpet, looking like a fleeing robber with his loot. Bat cat.

From upstairs, I hear Scott. “Liza, is it definitely a mouse? You’re sure.”

No, my mistake. It’s a giraffe. My bad. “Yes, Scott. It’s a mouse.”

“Is it alive or dead?”

Now that I can’t answer.

“I don’t know?” I ask like a buffoon.

And with those words, I see a swish of the mouse’s little damp tail, and let out an involuntary, inhuman yelp.

The noise, since not heard in nature apparently, scares Trinket, and she drops the mouse. Who is evidently very much alive and tries its little heart out to run away.

It gets about a paw length away and with one deft, fluid swoop, is scooped up and place back in Trinket’s mouth where it resumes playing dead. It could win a Tony, honestly.

I descend the remaining steps to the center hall and the floor creaks. It is a 100 year old house, after all. And Trinket is off to the races again. This time she’s ensconced under the dining table, between all the pedestals and chair legs, where she is protecting her kill like an animal in the wild.

Scott joins me on the first floor where I am pitting out in the kitchen trying to find a broom, for what that would be worth.

And Trinket and her mouse are on the run once again.

And I have no idea where she has gone.