I use the logic that if there is no one to tell stories to, no one will tell stories. I make up a ruse so my daughter and I can leave the porch to busy ourselves in the kitchen. Perhaps assembling 100 or so cheese and cracker combinations artfully on a platter is excuse enough.
I am torn between competing impulses:
Call my sister and beg her to join us and thusly offset the cosmic imbalance of the universe.
Grab my children, J., the plate of canapés, and what remains of the bottle of wine and run for cover at my brother-in-laws brother’s nearby house. There is comfort in not having to explain my family there.
Breathe into a paper bag.
Instead, I sneak a peak in the direction of the Harris cottage.
Mrs. Harris appears to have resumed breathing without the Heimlich, and I am trying to convince myself that it was late enough for Bill’s voice to have been disembodied by darkness and that Mrs. Harris will not know it was my sister’s evil relatives that unleashed the rude comment. No dice. I can see her and she me.
Shame is such a heinous emotion. Why did my sister and I get the shame gene and everyone else in the clan did not?
To fan the flames even more violently, when I return to the porch with the platter bearing no fewer than a gross of hors d’oeuvres, I discover that while my logic about storytelling held water it does not apply to bickering.
The Lockhorns are locking horns over their second favorite topic. Second only to politics as defined by Fox News’ slant on them.
Taxes.
Sales tax.
Property tax.
Personal property tax.
Estate taxes.
And for them, the conversation naturally veers precariously off to a topic that makes its home in a location just this side of Hell.
WHO EXACTLY WILL GET WHAT EXACTLY WHEN BILL BITES THE DUST?
And I stand there with a platter of Ritz Crackers and Jarlsberg Swiss willing myself to die at that very instant.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
Pinot and Porter and Jack, Oh My!
After I show Mom around the house and she marvels at every room as though they hold the secrets of the Pyramids of Egypt, we decide to join Bill on the porch. Bill has been marveling at the bar selection with the same sense of wonder and excitement.
Mom is nearly manic in her joy at finally being here. The kids, the place, the nearness of the achievement of her goal to lure Bill north for the remainder of their natural lives.
She decides to give my daughter her birthday gift a few days early. Money. How thoughtful to have put so much effort into the careful selection of a perfect gift for the granddaughter you see twice a year.
I try not to read too much into the early gift. I am skeptical about the timing though. Estelle and Bill are supposed to stay with us through the actual birthday. Does this mean they are leaving early?
Since Mom’s birthday is a few weeks away, I decide to give her the gifts she’d prefer I keep in exchange for an invitation to Christmas for my brother. No way. She is getting the birthday gift – or at least the ones I have with me at the moment.
The first is a set of drink holders – the long-stemmed spikes that you poke into the ground, the tops of which spiral around to form a cylinder – perfectly shaped for holding a highball. How practical.
And because she has always loved country music, and the artists she likes are all dead and are not producing anything new – a CD of the only quasi-country artist I actually enjoy and think she will, too – Raul Malo and the Mavericks. We put on the CD (Mom pours herself the first of several pints of wine) and we take seats outside on the porch with Bill and his pal Jack Daniels.
Mom and Bill regale us with stories which are coherent and entertaining albeit loud and of iffy subject matter at this point in the evening. The sun has begun to sink low in the evening sky and folks have begun to come out onto their porches to enjoy the waning hours of a beautiful day.
And suddenly Mom is on her feet inviting my daughter to dance to “Here Comes My Baby.” And just a few Texas Two-Steps into an otherwise joyful scene, Bill bellows to my daughter, “Watch yourself, sweetheart. Grandmom isn’t wearing a bra!”
Oh good. Mrs. Harris is choking on her 5 pm martini across the way.
Exactly one hour into the visit and we have our first social blunder. Probably not a record, but darn close.
Mom is nearly manic in her joy at finally being here. The kids, the place, the nearness of the achievement of her goal to lure Bill north for the remainder of their natural lives.
She decides to give my daughter her birthday gift a few days early. Money. How thoughtful to have put so much effort into the careful selection of a perfect gift for the granddaughter you see twice a year.
I try not to read too much into the early gift. I am skeptical about the timing though. Estelle and Bill are supposed to stay with us through the actual birthday. Does this mean they are leaving early?
Since Mom’s birthday is a few weeks away, I decide to give her the gifts she’d prefer I keep in exchange for an invitation to Christmas for my brother. No way. She is getting the birthday gift – or at least the ones I have with me at the moment.
The first is a set of drink holders – the long-stemmed spikes that you poke into the ground, the tops of which spiral around to form a cylinder – perfectly shaped for holding a highball. How practical.
And because she has always loved country music, and the artists she likes are all dead and are not producing anything new – a CD of the only quasi-country artist I actually enjoy and think she will, too – Raul Malo and the Mavericks. We put on the CD (Mom pours herself the first of several pints of wine) and we take seats outside on the porch with Bill and his pal Jack Daniels.
Mom and Bill regale us with stories which are coherent and entertaining albeit loud and of iffy subject matter at this point in the evening. The sun has begun to sink low in the evening sky and folks have begun to come out onto their porches to enjoy the waning hours of a beautiful day.
And suddenly Mom is on her feet inviting my daughter to dance to “Here Comes My Baby.” And just a few Texas Two-Steps into an otherwise joyful scene, Bill bellows to my daughter, “Watch yourself, sweetheart. Grandmom isn’t wearing a bra!”
Oh good. Mrs. Harris is choking on her 5 pm martini across the way.
Exactly one hour into the visit and we have our first social blunder. Probably not a record, but darn close.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Welcome to Walton's Mountain
The kids and I arrive and unpack. It is peaceful and uneventful except for one thing.
I forgot my suitcase.
I call J. We’d laughed earlier because last year I was 35 minutes into the 75 minute drive when I realized I’d left the suitcase at the foot of the stairs. The kids had harassed me all day about it today and stood like sentries to make sure I’d placed it in the car this year. The only difference was, they are bigger this year and have bigger things. I’d had to pack a separate suitcase for me. And had left that one – where else? – at the foot of the stairs. (Things like this happen to me. When I was a child, I left one shoe in a hotel or rental home on every family vacation.)
Thankfully, we are staying at my sister’s and she has a spare pair of PJs I can wear. J. offers to move his Tuesday visit to the following morning so I do not have to make an irrational panic-fueled trip to the local outlets for things I have an abundance of at home. I love to shop, but pressured bathing suit shopping with my pre-teens in tow hardly sounds like fun.
He’ll be here by 8 am – in time to help me meditate myself to peaceful acceptance of the End of the World.
The next morning, J. calls me from my house. The suitcase is in the car, he’d retrieved my camera, and he’d offered to pick up a couple of things the kids might want but had left behind. And within 90 minutes, we are toasting bagels and brewing coffee and frying freshly sliced bacon and swinging in hammocks and hammock swings enjoying the beauty of lakeside mountain living.
We spend the day at the lake – swimming in the cool fresh water, going off of the trapeze swing, swimming out to the mid-lake decks to hang with the other pre-teens testing the limits of their independence.
And suddenly, hours earlier than anticipated, I see Estelle and Bill squinting from the snack bar deck and waving wildly at us. The kids rush to greet them. We are about ready to pack it in anyway and need to let them into the house. I leave the serenity of the beach to guide Estelle and Bill to the cottage like the victims leading their predators right to their doors.
Bill hound dogs his way through the house and discovers within minutes the precise locations of the beer on tap, the stash of wine and the liquor supply. As I helped my mother carry in their luggage (and boxes of things like Bill’s French Roast, his Vidalia onion, a bottle of special order creamy Caesar dressing, a half a pack of his preferred brand of hot dogs, etc.) I can hear icecubes clinking into glasses.
Happy hour has arrived. And there is nothing happy about it.
I forgot my suitcase.
I call J. We’d laughed earlier because last year I was 35 minutes into the 75 minute drive when I realized I’d left the suitcase at the foot of the stairs. The kids had harassed me all day about it today and stood like sentries to make sure I’d placed it in the car this year. The only difference was, they are bigger this year and have bigger things. I’d had to pack a separate suitcase for me. And had left that one – where else? – at the foot of the stairs. (Things like this happen to me. When I was a child, I left one shoe in a hotel or rental home on every family vacation.)
Thankfully, we are staying at my sister’s and she has a spare pair of PJs I can wear. J. offers to move his Tuesday visit to the following morning so I do not have to make an irrational panic-fueled trip to the local outlets for things I have an abundance of at home. I love to shop, but pressured bathing suit shopping with my pre-teens in tow hardly sounds like fun.
He’ll be here by 8 am – in time to help me meditate myself to peaceful acceptance of the End of the World.
The next morning, J. calls me from my house. The suitcase is in the car, he’d retrieved my camera, and he’d offered to pick up a couple of things the kids might want but had left behind. And within 90 minutes, we are toasting bagels and brewing coffee and frying freshly sliced bacon and swinging in hammocks and hammock swings enjoying the beauty of lakeside mountain living.
We spend the day at the lake – swimming in the cool fresh water, going off of the trapeze swing, swimming out to the mid-lake decks to hang with the other pre-teens testing the limits of their independence.
And suddenly, hours earlier than anticipated, I see Estelle and Bill squinting from the snack bar deck and waving wildly at us. The kids rush to greet them. We are about ready to pack it in anyway and need to let them into the house. I leave the serenity of the beach to guide Estelle and Bill to the cottage like the victims leading their predators right to their doors.
Bill hound dogs his way through the house and discovers within minutes the precise locations of the beer on tap, the stash of wine and the liquor supply. As I helped my mother carry in their luggage (and boxes of things like Bill’s French Roast, his Vidalia onion, a bottle of special order creamy Caesar dressing, a half a pack of his preferred brand of hot dogs, etc.) I can hear icecubes clinking into glasses.
Happy hour has arrived. And there is nothing happy about it.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
On the Road Again
We are on our way.
Following a frenzied day of appointments (my periodontist is trying to get my gums to retrace their steps) and responding to last minute work crises (there are sooooo many life and death recruiting situations...bloodshed, thankfully, has been avoided) we pile an astonishing amount of stuff into the deceptively small interior of my very large SUV, and cruised
out of the neighborhood...stopping twice --- once to get the topical itch lotion for my daughter's bug bites, since she is the dietary preference for all manner of vermin ----and another time to pick up a disposable camera to replace the digital one I left charging on the kitchen counter.
It is a gorgeous afternoon and we'll be in our lush, green, dewy destination before nightfall, just in time to see the twinkling lights come on in all of the quaint little cottages as we meander through town.
The record breaking heat wave that has choked and parched all the plants and lawns across the northern US has finally broken. My yard is withered and brown, yet the weeds continue to thrive, growing rampantly between the cracks of my patio pavers despite gallons of weed killer.
But leaving that behind, we head out into a cloudless, sun-lit warm day with no humidity and a light breeze. Gorgeous.
And as if on cue, Mom rings my cell phone. Little rain clouds form in my head.
"Hi, Mom," I say. She is baffled that I know it is her. It is not the ring tone of doom that gives it away. I do have her name programmed into my phone. A little warning and a deep breath go a long way in situations like this.
We chat brightly for a moment and she, as always, brings up the weather. I tell her about the wonderful day we're having and how thrilled I am that the weekend is anticipated to be magnificent.
And then, in my joyful anticipation, I forget my audience and say the following:
"So the Clintons must be thrilled. If it is this beautiful here, it must be a picture perfect scene in New York. Chelsea is getting a dream weekend for her wedding in spite of the heat wave." Talk of the former First Daughter's wedding has dominated the news these last few days.
Mom connects the 3 degrees of separation (there could have been 2 dozen degrees of separation, she still would have synaptically connected all the dots) and bites on an opportunity to rail against the Progressives. In her opinion, turning the country into a Socialist state, spreading everyone's hard earned money around, taking from the rich and giving it to the lazy, blah blah blah.
And since I do have to devote at least one brain hemisphere to driving, I think I have missed some critical piece of conversation and ask what we are talking about.
"Those ridiculous Progressives!" she barks.
"Oh. I was talking about Chelsea Clinton's wedding."
"Well, he's one of them too!"
"Who? Mezvinsky?"
"No! Clinton! He wants to take everyone's money and spread it around!"
I am still confused.
"Mom, the public isn't paying for Chelsea's wedding. The Clintons are. It is a private affair. He's not taking anyone's money and spreading it around. (To whom? The caterer? Vera Wang? I am totally baffled how anyone's wedding, no matter how big and elegant, can be a political movement.)
"I know," she says. "I am just saying that that is what he is all about."
I anticipate that for the next week, all casual conversation will lead to a political rant. Whether it is a comment about the weather, frustration with the 1000 piece puzzle we are completing, talk of an anticipated trip to an amusement park, or the question to grill or not to grill, all roads will lead to Perdition.
I interrupt my mother's ongoing diatribe about the President.
"Mom?" I say, to get her attention. "I am making a rule. No politics this week. None. Not a word."
She acquiesces.
But something about the tone of her agreement is reluctant enough to make me think she's plotting a workaround.
Following a frenzied day of appointments (my periodontist is trying to get my gums to retrace their steps) and responding to last minute work crises (there are sooooo many life and death recruiting situations...bloodshed, thankfully, has been avoided) we pile an astonishing amount of stuff into the deceptively small interior of my very large SUV, and cruised
out of the neighborhood...stopping twice --- once to get the topical itch lotion for my daughter's bug bites, since she is the dietary preference for all manner of vermin ----and another time to pick up a disposable camera to replace the digital one I left charging on the kitchen counter.
It is a gorgeous afternoon and we'll be in our lush, green, dewy destination before nightfall, just in time to see the twinkling lights come on in all of the quaint little cottages as we meander through town.
The record breaking heat wave that has choked and parched all the plants and lawns across the northern US has finally broken. My yard is withered and brown, yet the weeds continue to thrive, growing rampantly between the cracks of my patio pavers despite gallons of weed killer.
But leaving that behind, we head out into a cloudless, sun-lit warm day with no humidity and a light breeze. Gorgeous.
And as if on cue, Mom rings my cell phone. Little rain clouds form in my head.
"Hi, Mom," I say. She is baffled that I know it is her. It is not the ring tone of doom that gives it away. I do have her name programmed into my phone. A little warning and a deep breath go a long way in situations like this.
We chat brightly for a moment and she, as always, brings up the weather. I tell her about the wonderful day we're having and how thrilled I am that the weekend is anticipated to be magnificent.
And then, in my joyful anticipation, I forget my audience and say the following:
"So the Clintons must be thrilled. If it is this beautiful here, it must be a picture perfect scene in New York. Chelsea is getting a dream weekend for her wedding in spite of the heat wave." Talk of the former First Daughter's wedding has dominated the news these last few days.
Mom connects the 3 degrees of separation (there could have been 2 dozen degrees of separation, she still would have synaptically connected all the dots) and bites on an opportunity to rail against the Progressives. In her opinion, turning the country into a Socialist state, spreading everyone's hard earned money around, taking from the rich and giving it to the lazy, blah blah blah.
And since I do have to devote at least one brain hemisphere to driving, I think I have missed some critical piece of conversation and ask what we are talking about.
"Those ridiculous Progressives!" she barks.
"Oh. I was talking about Chelsea Clinton's wedding."
"Well, he's one of them too!"
"Who? Mezvinsky?"
"No! Clinton! He wants to take everyone's money and spread it around!"
I am still confused.
"Mom, the public isn't paying for Chelsea's wedding. The Clintons are. It is a private affair. He's not taking anyone's money and spreading it around. (To whom? The caterer? Vera Wang? I am totally baffled how anyone's wedding, no matter how big and elegant, can be a political movement.)
"I know," she says. "I am just saying that that is what he is all about."
I anticipate that for the next week, all casual conversation will lead to a political rant. Whether it is a comment about the weather, frustration with the 1000 piece puzzle we are completing, talk of an anticipated trip to an amusement park, or the question to grill or not to grill, all roads will lead to Perdition.
I interrupt my mother's ongoing diatribe about the President.
"Mom?" I say, to get her attention. "I am making a rule. No politics this week. None. Not a word."
She acquiesces.
But something about the tone of her agreement is reluctant enough to make me think she's plotting a workaround.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Can You Tie 'em in a Knot, Can You Tie 'em in a Bow
I hyperventilated through my last week at work.
Wrapped up a few projects. Put a few on ice. Assigned a few people to babysit others. Marvelled once again at all manner of human nature on parade through my working life.
In every job I've ever held, there has been at least one person that I've worked with - okay, not exactly worked with. (Worked around? Cooperated with? Tolerated?) who, every time I see her, is so distracting with her personal qualities that I completely lose focus and want to Google Clinton and Stacy for an intervention. Invariably the woman can neither control her rantings nor dress herself. The little thought bubble above my head constantly flashes "She will make a great crazy old lady some day." I envision green patent leather slip-ons, red lipstick smeared all around her mouth and a bra on the outside of the blouse. Marlboros and highly opinionated public rantings.
And thoughts of her lead quite naturally to my own mother. Still a fashion standout, but becoming one that stands out for the peculiarity of the whole package.
Open-toed sandals in the dead of winter.
Penelope Pitstop Pink metallic toe nail polish. Always.
Hair whipped and teased and backcombed into a meringue and sprayed deftly into place with a giant, environmentally unfriendly can of Aqua Net. (Which she calls "Ack-wa Net." Sends my sister sailing over the edge every time.)
And the piece de resistance.
No bra. Or as an alternative, a bra that appears to have been purchased at the Dollar Store, so that it gives the cumulative effect of not wearing a bra.
On her last invasion, ummmm, visit, my sister took her shopping. It may have been for birthday gifts or some such thing she needed specific direction to accomplish - but they were fortifying the economy together for a few hours one day last year.
And after watching the "girls" compete for space and evidently, attention, for an hour, and after numerous unsuccessful attempts at stearing her toward the bra and panty department where one might find a dazzling yet supportive item that would appeal to my mother's fashion sensibilities, my sister took control of the situation and drove directly to Bra-lelujah.
There they were met by a seasoned salesperson-slash-fitter who unwittingly lured my mother into a fitting room where she tried on a variety of high-end garments. Mom was impressed with the fit and the support for sure. Not so fond of the "outrageous" prices.
Mom, some bras actually work for a living. We will happily compensate them to do so. And besides, you are not being asked to pay for this so-called luxury. It is a gift. Please accept the gifts of lift and separation with grace and humility.
My sister and the salesperson negotiated as though a hostage's life hung in the balance.
But in the end Mom not-so-flatly refused, and marched out the door to blacken eyes and stop traffic for another day.
Wrapped up a few projects. Put a few on ice. Assigned a few people to babysit others. Marvelled once again at all manner of human nature on parade through my working life.
In every job I've ever held, there has been at least one person that I've worked with - okay, not exactly worked with. (Worked around? Cooperated with? Tolerated?) who, every time I see her, is so distracting with her personal qualities that I completely lose focus and want to Google Clinton and Stacy for an intervention. Invariably the woman can neither control her rantings nor dress herself. The little thought bubble above my head constantly flashes "She will make a great crazy old lady some day." I envision green patent leather slip-ons, red lipstick smeared all around her mouth and a bra on the outside of the blouse. Marlboros and highly opinionated public rantings.
And thoughts of her lead quite naturally to my own mother. Still a fashion standout, but becoming one that stands out for the peculiarity of the whole package.
Open-toed sandals in the dead of winter.
Penelope Pitstop Pink metallic toe nail polish. Always.
Hair whipped and teased and backcombed into a meringue and sprayed deftly into place with a giant, environmentally unfriendly can of Aqua Net. (Which she calls "Ack-wa Net." Sends my sister sailing over the edge every time.)
And the piece de resistance.
No bra. Or as an alternative, a bra that appears to have been purchased at the Dollar Store, so that it gives the cumulative effect of not wearing a bra.
On her last invasion, ummmm, visit, my sister took her shopping. It may have been for birthday gifts or some such thing she needed specific direction to accomplish - but they were fortifying the economy together for a few hours one day last year.
And after watching the "girls" compete for space and evidently, attention, for an hour, and after numerous unsuccessful attempts at stearing her toward the bra and panty department where one might find a dazzling yet supportive item that would appeal to my mother's fashion sensibilities, my sister took control of the situation and drove directly to Bra-lelujah.
There they were met by a seasoned salesperson-slash-fitter who unwittingly lured my mother into a fitting room where she tried on a variety of high-end garments. Mom was impressed with the fit and the support for sure. Not so fond of the "outrageous" prices.
Mom, some bras actually work for a living. We will happily compensate them to do so. And besides, you are not being asked to pay for this so-called luxury. It is a gift. Please accept the gifts of lift and separation with grace and humility.
My sister and the salesperson negotiated as though a hostage's life hung in the balance.
But in the end Mom not-so-flatly refused, and marched out the door to blacken eyes and stop traffic for another day.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Throw Mama from the Train
I have a few days of runway before leaving on vacation...and Estelle has started to send up flairs.
The Lockhorns are coming! The Lockhorns are coming! One if by land. Two if by sea. Three if by broom.
Like a beacon in the Old North Church, Estelle has warned us all. Clear a path. Make no attempt at resistance. You are powerless to deter, defend, disagree, dissuade.
The first warning shots hint at things to come. Small things. Warm up bummers. Subtle little reminders of the nuances that were the first to fade once you started breathing (and drinking) again after they left the last time.
Am I bringing any coffee? Is it flavored coffee because Bill will absolutely not drink flavored coffee.
It's my vacation. If I want to drink coffee that tastes like otter pee then I will. I'm not really sure I can quicken my pulse over Bill's coffee fussiness. And please. Let's not pretend that the smoking hasn't killed off his few remaining taste buds. I am tempted to slip him a mickey and serve him the wildly outrageous hazelnut bean I bought. Like he'd notice.
"Now, you know Bill has to have a salad with dinner." (How would I know that? They live 5 states away. I would not know if he was on life support much less his dietary hang ups.) Truth be told, I did buy quite a lot of salad ingredients. Because I like them. And my kids like them. Not out of deference to Bob's issues with irregularity. Estelle offers that she will bring a bottle of whatever obscure salad dressing Bill insists upon because it is not likely to be found at Ma and Pa Haussenpfeffer's Plain and Fancy Commissary. Good thinking, Estelle!
And because she is powerless to stop herself, because she has fallen under some mind-altering spell...a whammy she inadvertently subjected herself to by staring mindlessly for many too many post-retirement hours at the television...she reminds us that she will not curtail her inane political rantings. Even on vacation.
Insanity evidently, does not take a vacation.
My daughter shares a birthday with the sitting President (and Billy Bob Thornton, and the Queen Mum, and a wildly entertaining friend of mine, who sadly left this life far, far too soon) She draws a little bit of 11 year old pride from that. (I totally understand that. I shared a birthday with Pope John Paul II - it makes you think that you share some of the same magical cosmic fairy dust.) And since this birthday is on the horizon, my daughter is beaming.
And because my mother has no ability to filter, and because she can not understand an 11 year old's reverence for the first President she will actually have real memories of, and because she is Hell bent on removing him from office by any means necessary, she makes a comment.
"Geez, I hope you don't turn out much like him."
And my daughter wilts.
And I want to knock my mother from her broomstick and beat her senseless with it.
The Lockhorns are coming! The Lockhorns are coming! One if by land. Two if by sea. Three if by broom.
Like a beacon in the Old North Church, Estelle has warned us all. Clear a path. Make no attempt at resistance. You are powerless to deter, defend, disagree, dissuade.
The first warning shots hint at things to come. Small things. Warm up bummers. Subtle little reminders of the nuances that were the first to fade once you started breathing (and drinking) again after they left the last time.
Am I bringing any coffee? Is it flavored coffee because Bill will absolutely not drink flavored coffee.
It's my vacation. If I want to drink coffee that tastes like otter pee then I will. I'm not really sure I can quicken my pulse over Bill's coffee fussiness. And please. Let's not pretend that the smoking hasn't killed off his few remaining taste buds. I am tempted to slip him a mickey and serve him the wildly outrageous hazelnut bean I bought. Like he'd notice.
"Now, you know Bill has to have a salad with dinner." (How would I know that? They live 5 states away. I would not know if he was on life support much less his dietary hang ups.) Truth be told, I did buy quite a lot of salad ingredients. Because I like them. And my kids like them. Not out of deference to Bob's issues with irregularity. Estelle offers that she will bring a bottle of whatever obscure salad dressing Bill insists upon because it is not likely to be found at Ma and Pa Haussenpfeffer's Plain and Fancy Commissary. Good thinking, Estelle!
And because she is powerless to stop herself, because she has fallen under some mind-altering spell...a whammy she inadvertently subjected herself to by staring mindlessly for many too many post-retirement hours at the television...she reminds us that she will not curtail her inane political rantings. Even on vacation.
Insanity evidently, does not take a vacation.
My daughter shares a birthday with the sitting President (and Billy Bob Thornton, and the Queen Mum, and a wildly entertaining friend of mine, who sadly left this life far, far too soon) She draws a little bit of 11 year old pride from that. (I totally understand that. I shared a birthday with Pope John Paul II - it makes you think that you share some of the same magical cosmic fairy dust.) And since this birthday is on the horizon, my daughter is beaming.
And because my mother has no ability to filter, and because she can not understand an 11 year old's reverence for the first President she will actually have real memories of, and because she is Hell bent on removing him from office by any means necessary, she makes a comment.
"Geez, I hope you don't turn out much like him."
And my daughter wilts.
And I want to knock my mother from her broomstick and beat her senseless with it.
Monday, August 2, 2010
King of the Road
I leave on Friday with 2 kids, a car, a cooler, 2 suitcases, 17 floatation devices, 3 novels, a backpack full of middle school summer homework (what?), a 1000 piece puzzle, an undisclosed amount of wine, and a laptop. This is when I am most thankful to not have a dog.
We are driving to a charming little hamlet my sister and her husband hold near and dear, and which I have come to love myself over the years. My kids call it the quietest place on Earth. And it may be. Until they arrive.
And even if I manage to keep their voices down and the pre-pubescent bickering from reaching a fever pitch, I have exactly one day of lush, green, peaceful, dewy, mountainous lakeside existence before the peace is shattered into smithereens by the arrival of Estelle with Bill in tow.
Even if she doesn't make a sound, the very arrival is cataclysmic. She could cut the engine and roll into town, creep in on little cat feet as has been said about the fog, tiptoe silently through the tulips...but even if I were sleeping, somehow on a cellular level (and I don't mean I'd be warned by the villagers by a call to my cell...) I'd know she was there...and my hair would suddenly be on fire, and my brain waves scrambled, and I'd be stripped of my ability to speak.
This is the power of my mother.
When we were kids, like all little girls, my sister and I would often explore the contents of her dresser drawers. Not the boring ones with clothes in them, the ones with pictures, and scarves and belts and jewelry. It was always an adventure. The dangly baubles. The hilarious cat's eye glasses. The belt made from big square metal links that dangled down toward your thigh. But what struck me were all the watches. Lots of them. All beautiful. All dead.
I asked my mother about them one time. She said that no watch ever lasted on her arm more than a month or so, so she stopped wearing one. She said that someone told her that some people have more "electricity" running through them, and they overpower the watch.
Oddly, she also got shocked every time she used the iron. Any iron. I thought it was just an excuse. (Then it happened to me...)
I do not claim to be an expert (or even a novice really) about Electrophysiology, but in an odd way, what she said makes sense. With all the electrical impulses in our bodies telling body parts what to do, I suppose she could have an overload. She is quite literally a live wire.
And maybe keeping this in mind would be helpful in managing the days that will follow. Somehow it will guide my decisions and reactions when she has been running - and running at the mouth - for such an unfathomable duration, that my nerve endings are jangling and my hair is on end.
Perhaps periodically, I will have to move away from the static electric field that surrounds her, and let the overloaded circuits run off a little energy.
Maybe not. I have no idea really how to deal with this particular natural phenomenon. I do know this though:
If we are caught in a thunderstorm, we will not be standing under Estelle's umbrella.
We are driving to a charming little hamlet my sister and her husband hold near and dear, and which I have come to love myself over the years. My kids call it the quietest place on Earth. And it may be. Until they arrive.
And even if I manage to keep their voices down and the pre-pubescent bickering from reaching a fever pitch, I have exactly one day of lush, green, peaceful, dewy, mountainous lakeside existence before the peace is shattered into smithereens by the arrival of Estelle with Bill in tow.
Even if she doesn't make a sound, the very arrival is cataclysmic. She could cut the engine and roll into town, creep in on little cat feet as has been said about the fog, tiptoe silently through the tulips...but even if I were sleeping, somehow on a cellular level (and I don't mean I'd be warned by the villagers by a call to my cell...) I'd know she was there...and my hair would suddenly be on fire, and my brain waves scrambled, and I'd be stripped of my ability to speak.
This is the power of my mother.
When we were kids, like all little girls, my sister and I would often explore the contents of her dresser drawers. Not the boring ones with clothes in them, the ones with pictures, and scarves and belts and jewelry. It was always an adventure. The dangly baubles. The hilarious cat's eye glasses. The belt made from big square metal links that dangled down toward your thigh. But what struck me were all the watches. Lots of them. All beautiful. All dead.
I asked my mother about them one time. She said that no watch ever lasted on her arm more than a month or so, so she stopped wearing one. She said that someone told her that some people have more "electricity" running through them, and they overpower the watch.
Oddly, she also got shocked every time she used the iron. Any iron. I thought it was just an excuse. (Then it happened to me...)
I do not claim to be an expert (or even a novice really) about Electrophysiology, but in an odd way, what she said makes sense. With all the electrical impulses in our bodies telling body parts what to do, I suppose she could have an overload. She is quite literally a live wire.
And maybe keeping this in mind would be helpful in managing the days that will follow. Somehow it will guide my decisions and reactions when she has been running - and running at the mouth - for such an unfathomable duration, that my nerve endings are jangling and my hair is on end.
Perhaps periodically, I will have to move away from the static electric field that surrounds her, and let the overloaded circuits run off a little energy.
Maybe not. I have no idea really how to deal with this particular natural phenomenon. I do know this though:
If we are caught in a thunderstorm, we will not be standing under Estelle's umbrella.
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