So, on Sunday, I let the kids walk ahead to the coffee and doughnut reception for new (unsuspecting) members of the parish and I wait for Father G. who was glad handing at the church doors.
Though we've not met formally, he knows who I am instantly. And smiling all the while, he says the strangest thing. He says he understands I've had some concerns. He's read my letter. And now that I've sent the letter, he hopes I won't "feel funny about coming to Mass at Our Lady of Condemnation."
Well, geez, I should hope not.
Should I?
I chose to ignore the notion and all that it suggests. Soon enough the congregation chased him to some heinous parish in another part of the diocese. Chased out the new Monsignor, too. They were not worried about little old me and my one voice. They had bigger fishes and loaves to fry.
But nonetheless, the general unwillingness to accept parishioners who reject the school remains palpable. And since Sr. Francis Charles has left her post as Director of RES, one of the congregation has been tapped to assume the role in her stead. It is like a misogynist taking over WOAR.
And so now we worship along side those who are not compelled to even attempt to hide their disdain for "the publics." It is clear that they think we are uncultured, idol-worshipping pagans masquerading as Catholics as we sit beside them on Sunday Masses and the Holy Days. As we get our Ashes at the dawn of Lent. As we get our throats blessed through he power of St. Blaise. And we endure our unofficial Holy Days: The Feast of the Immaculate Condescension. Insinuation Thursday. The Feast Day of St. Facetious.
After 7 years of smiling through the friendly little attempts to humiliate, I have reached a breaking point. I am like Michael Douglas in Falling Down (without the baseball bat...).
I rev up my laptop and log into my e-mail account. I am at my wordsmithing best.
Uh-oh.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
And I'm Never Going Back to My Old School
I sit at my computer and think about my approach. Maybe a Facebook post a la the First Bra Debacle.
No, maybe not. I don't need to be hissed at during Mass by the blindly loyal faithful of the parish. They are like lobbyists. I'd be asked to worship outside a 10 mile radius of holiness.
I remember vividly my descent into a pit of turmoil with the parish school. It was when my son entered Kindergarten.
This maiden voyage ended much like the Titanic's.
Full day Kindergarten, BTW, involved a half day of academics and a half day of coloring. With a coloring book and crayons that I had to provide. (Since the "good" moms were obviously home coloring all afternoon in their sweatpants with their kids) Double the tuition of the half day Kindergarten. Where I come from this is called "babysitting."
Now fewer than 27 students hoping to have their basic needs met by a teacher and an aide. (By comparison, when he eventually went over the wall to find asylum in the public school, he was the 17th student to enter the class - having lots of additional needs met by a teacher and an aide. You do the math.)
Nasty notes from the frustrated parish school teacher about such things as how to properly form a lower case "g."
What?
Bite marks and brush burns and facial bruises the origins of which the teacher could not begin to explain. (I am still unclear about whether she ever entered the classroom.)
Meetings with Sr. Mary Mental Case where she insisted my son was lying about things like being pushed down the steps to the "pit" (translation: playground) in spite of bruising and a convincing demonstration and my son picking the culprit out of a lineup (and, incidentally, fingering him as the kid who also bit him on the torso and left marks still visible a week later) because his injuries were not serious enough.
Incidents that warranted a phone call that never came. Incidents of such minor import that a note would have sufficed where they insisted upon a meeting. Consent forms that were not honored. It was like the Elmer Fudd School of Readin' Ritin' and 'Rithmetic.
By Halloween I had grave doubts. By Thanksgiving I was in a panic. By Christmas he was enrolled at the local public school where a former favorite teacher of mine had become principal and could offer me assurances that the hare-brained stories I'd tearfully related could quite effortlessly be avoided, and that I would not have any further Stepford Wives experiences with administrators.
I had to fight for the return of a portion of my tuition. They kept the crayons and coloring book.
I wrote a scathing letter to the Home and School Association highlighting the myriad demonstrations of ineptness I'd experienced at Our Lady of Condemnation hoping to save other children and parents from disasters that would surely come to pass.
I got a nice note from the parish priest asking me to see him after Mass.
Uh-oh.
No, maybe not. I don't need to be hissed at during Mass by the blindly loyal faithful of the parish. They are like lobbyists. I'd be asked to worship outside a 10 mile radius of holiness.
I remember vividly my descent into a pit of turmoil with the parish school. It was when my son entered Kindergarten.
This maiden voyage ended much like the Titanic's.
Full day Kindergarten, BTW, involved a half day of academics and a half day of coloring. With a coloring book and crayons that I had to provide. (Since the "good" moms were obviously home coloring all afternoon in their sweatpants with their kids) Double the tuition of the half day Kindergarten. Where I come from this is called "babysitting."
Now fewer than 27 students hoping to have their basic needs met by a teacher and an aide. (By comparison, when he eventually went over the wall to find asylum in the public school, he was the 17th student to enter the class - having lots of additional needs met by a teacher and an aide. You do the math.)
Nasty notes from the frustrated parish school teacher about such things as how to properly form a lower case "g."
What?
Bite marks and brush burns and facial bruises the origins of which the teacher could not begin to explain. (I am still unclear about whether she ever entered the classroom.)
Meetings with Sr. Mary Mental Case where she insisted my son was lying about things like being pushed down the steps to the "pit" (translation: playground) in spite of bruising and a convincing demonstration and my son picking the culprit out of a lineup (and, incidentally, fingering him as the kid who also bit him on the torso and left marks still visible a week later) because his injuries were not serious enough.
Incidents that warranted a phone call that never came. Incidents of such minor import that a note would have sufficed where they insisted upon a meeting. Consent forms that were not honored. It was like the Elmer Fudd School of Readin' Ritin' and 'Rithmetic.
By Halloween I had grave doubts. By Thanksgiving I was in a panic. By Christmas he was enrolled at the local public school where a former favorite teacher of mine had become principal and could offer me assurances that the hare-brained stories I'd tearfully related could quite effortlessly be avoided, and that I would not have any further Stepford Wives experiences with administrators.
I had to fight for the return of a portion of my tuition. They kept the crayons and coloring book.
I wrote a scathing letter to the Home and School Association highlighting the myriad demonstrations of ineptness I'd experienced at Our Lady of Condemnation hoping to save other children and parents from disasters that would surely come to pass.
I got a nice note from the parish priest asking me to see him after Mass.
Uh-oh.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Glory Glory Hallelujah! Teacher Hit Me With a Ruler!
Of course it welcomes us back warmly.
Warmly and with an obligatory “special Mass” on the Sunday before the first night of class.
A special Mass – so we have two RES obligations that week.
And a special Mass that is at 1 pm.
A special Mass in addition to the Masses offered at 5 pm on Saturday and 6:30 am and 8 am and 9:30 am and 11:30 am on Sunday. A special Mass that obligates all of the families that would normally spread their attendance out among the other 5 Masses or not attend at all, to come together at once, pack the church beyond capacity and leave us looking for parking spaces all over the neighborhood.
A special Mass scheduled at such an inconvenient hour that it will effectively derail any other plans we might have had for the day.
And for what? To bring us together as the RES “community?” It’s not like we can talk and get to know each other. And hello, if we wanted to talk and get to know eachother, we would have by now. And not in Church.
No, this Mass is designed to make sure we go at least this one time. So Father can implore us in his Homily to attend regularly. Which of course, he assumes that we don’t.
And just to make extra sure that we do not skip this first of two obligations…instead of enclosing the children's classroom assignments in the letter, we are informed that we will receive our classroom assignments at the end of the special Mass. (Can you imagine the mayhem?) Don’t attend and your child will be lost and humiliated the following night. How nice.
There is another similar Mass scheduled for some nonsense reason during Advent. Probably to encourage us to attend Mass on Christmas Day. Assuming again that the attraction of gifts under the tree will derail flimsier plans to attend.
On the back of this insulting little letter is a schedule of classes. Special events, field trips, days when there is no class due to a national holiday. And sprinkled in among those class days are little italicized reminders of the holy days of obligation.
Again, assuming that since we are not likely to be going to Mass, we might just miss the fact that Ash Wednesday is about to kick off the Lenten season. Yes, Lent often sneaks up and bites you on the fanny since Mardi Gras and all those ashes smeared on foreheads so often go unnoticed. Easter? Already????
But my favorite piece of helpful information is the reminder that takes the form of a verbatim passage from the school handbook. It is a statement that when in church we are in the presence of all things holy and we should dress modestly – and do similarly when we represent the parish on field trips.
Again, meant to be a thinly veiled, if veiled at all, acknowledgment that it is assumed that we do not attend Mass, and therefore must never have picked up on the habits and customs of regular church-goers. Thank goodness for the reminder! Otherwise I might have just stepped on out to Mass wearing my tube top and Daisy Dukes!
I am in a foul mood to begin with. The RES Director is going to get a very unpleasant, very direct, very confrontational piece of my mind via e-mail.
My inner Estelle is cranking to life.
Warmly and with an obligatory “special Mass” on the Sunday before the first night of class.
A special Mass – so we have two RES obligations that week.
And a special Mass that is at 1 pm.
A special Mass in addition to the Masses offered at 5 pm on Saturday and 6:30 am and 8 am and 9:30 am and 11:30 am on Sunday. A special Mass that obligates all of the families that would normally spread their attendance out among the other 5 Masses or not attend at all, to come together at once, pack the church beyond capacity and leave us looking for parking spaces all over the neighborhood.
A special Mass scheduled at such an inconvenient hour that it will effectively derail any other plans we might have had for the day.
And for what? To bring us together as the RES “community?” It’s not like we can talk and get to know each other. And hello, if we wanted to talk and get to know eachother, we would have by now. And not in Church.
No, this Mass is designed to make sure we go at least this one time. So Father can implore us in his Homily to attend regularly. Which of course, he assumes that we don’t.
And just to make extra sure that we do not skip this first of two obligations…instead of enclosing the children's classroom assignments in the letter, we are informed that we will receive our classroom assignments at the end of the special Mass. (Can you imagine the mayhem?) Don’t attend and your child will be lost and humiliated the following night. How nice.
There is another similar Mass scheduled for some nonsense reason during Advent. Probably to encourage us to attend Mass on Christmas Day. Assuming again that the attraction of gifts under the tree will derail flimsier plans to attend.
On the back of this insulting little letter is a schedule of classes. Special events, field trips, days when there is no class due to a national holiday. And sprinkled in among those class days are little italicized reminders of the holy days of obligation.
Again, assuming that since we are not likely to be going to Mass, we might just miss the fact that Ash Wednesday is about to kick off the Lenten season. Yes, Lent often sneaks up and bites you on the fanny since Mardi Gras and all those ashes smeared on foreheads so often go unnoticed. Easter? Already????
But my favorite piece of helpful information is the reminder that takes the form of a verbatim passage from the school handbook. It is a statement that when in church we are in the presence of all things holy and we should dress modestly – and do similarly when we represent the parish on field trips.
Again, meant to be a thinly veiled, if veiled at all, acknowledgment that it is assumed that we do not attend Mass, and therefore must never have picked up on the habits and customs of regular church-goers. Thank goodness for the reminder! Otherwise I might have just stepped on out to Mass wearing my tube top and Daisy Dukes!
I am in a foul mood to begin with. The RES Director is going to get a very unpleasant, very direct, very confrontational piece of my mind via e-mail.
My inner Estelle is cranking to life.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Back in the Habit
It is back to school time. The long reprieve from backpacks stuffed with notices, and permission slips, and physical forms, and warnings about head lice is coming to a close.
And in our little Catholic family, so is the reprieve from the oppression of religious education.
We grew up calling it CCD. I never knew what the letters stood for. Someone must have changed the name to RES because my generation can’t say “CCD” without grimacing. And let’s face it, our kids are going to grimace on their own eventually. Let’s not rush to judgment.
And to ruin what few blissful unencumbered weeks we have left, the saccharine sweet, never speaks above a church whisper, utterly without humor, always the picture of piety and reverence and full of blessings for all she meets RES Director has mailed us our 2010-2011 sentencing information.
I get it. If you choose to educate your children in a school not affiliated with the church, AND you want them to enjoy a life of participation in their faith, then RES is a necessary, dare I say it? Evil.
I went. I went enough. Enough to embrace my faith and realize its value in my life. There were plenty of Sundays when my Dad dropped me off at CCD, went to Mass, kept going toward the door upon returning from Communion, and came to my classroom to tap the glass on the door and beckon me so we could head toward the stadium for a day of hot dogs and hot chocolate and pro football.
But still I learned what I needed to learn and eventually built my own solid foundation of faith from what I gained in CCD and what I learned from experiences in my home and in my life.
I practice my faith. I came to it on my own terms. I am hopeful that my children will do the same and I encourage them learn the value of their faith. I will not force it. Forcing rarely works. So we go to Mass as a family. We say Grace. I encourage them to pray. I talk about what it means to be Catholic. I hope they find peace in knowing their faith will sustain them when they need to be sustained.
I dipped my toe into the Catholic School pool. It was the most abysmal experience I have ever had with my child. We stayed until Christmas break and went screaming to public school. So my choice was purposeful and not at all haphazard or based on what value I place on religion.
But the RES Director can not help but to telegraph her not so high opinion of me and of folks who have made a similar choice for whatever reasons.
Her letter may as well start out like this:
“Dear Lazy, Irreverent, Catholics of Convenience,
What follows is an insulting array of obligations and suggestions designed to offend you and shame you into complying with practices that the more pious of the parish already embrace…”
And in our little Catholic family, so is the reprieve from the oppression of religious education.
We grew up calling it CCD. I never knew what the letters stood for. Someone must have changed the name to RES because my generation can’t say “CCD” without grimacing. And let’s face it, our kids are going to grimace on their own eventually. Let’s not rush to judgment.
And to ruin what few blissful unencumbered weeks we have left, the saccharine sweet, never speaks above a church whisper, utterly without humor, always the picture of piety and reverence and full of blessings for all she meets RES Director has mailed us our 2010-2011 sentencing information.
I get it. If you choose to educate your children in a school not affiliated with the church, AND you want them to enjoy a life of participation in their faith, then RES is a necessary, dare I say it? Evil.
I went. I went enough. Enough to embrace my faith and realize its value in my life. There were plenty of Sundays when my Dad dropped me off at CCD, went to Mass, kept going toward the door upon returning from Communion, and came to my classroom to tap the glass on the door and beckon me so we could head toward the stadium for a day of hot dogs and hot chocolate and pro football.
But still I learned what I needed to learn and eventually built my own solid foundation of faith from what I gained in CCD and what I learned from experiences in my home and in my life.
I practice my faith. I came to it on my own terms. I am hopeful that my children will do the same and I encourage them learn the value of their faith. I will not force it. Forcing rarely works. So we go to Mass as a family. We say Grace. I encourage them to pray. I talk about what it means to be Catholic. I hope they find peace in knowing their faith will sustain them when they need to be sustained.
I dipped my toe into the Catholic School pool. It was the most abysmal experience I have ever had with my child. We stayed until Christmas break and went screaming to public school. So my choice was purposeful and not at all haphazard or based on what value I place on religion.
But the RES Director can not help but to telegraph her not so high opinion of me and of folks who have made a similar choice for whatever reasons.
Her letter may as well start out like this:
“Dear Lazy, Irreverent, Catholics of Convenience,
What follows is an insulting array of obligations and suggestions designed to offend you and shame you into complying with practices that the more pious of the parish already embrace…”
Friday, September 3, 2010
The Best Defense is a Strong Offense, Or Something Like That
So Joe, who is not really capable of multitasking, especially while driving, even more so if he intends not to be a public safety hazard, would clearly have to pull off to the side of the road to answer. Particularly if anything other than word fragments are going to be used.
So he pulls over into a warm and friendly familiar place, and once engulfed in the inspiring aromas wafting from the neighborhood Krispy Kreme, gets his 'tude on, and answers on the 11th ring.
"Yo!"
Charlotte wonders if she's inadvertently dialed Rocky Balboa.
Without needing to rehearse, she launches in to her carefully measured delivery. She hits all the highlights...the outrageous violation that launched the whole episode, his bungled management of the situation from the start, and perhaps most importantly, his inability to see his responsibility for the turmoil that has unfolded. Right to this very day. She enlightens him to the fact that despite his belief to the contrary, he does not have any support for his indefensible position, and rather than beating his head against the wall trying to rally some form of support, he should grow up, grow a pair and realize that the only person he really needs to approach about this mess is her. The issue involves just them. She and he.
And that is when he makes his tragic misstep (Ok, another tragic misstep in a long series of missteps). He mentions that he mentioned to our mother that she raised "one self-righteous B****" and that she had whole heartedly agreed.
And Charlotte, twisting the knife just a wee bit more, retorts that his story is easy enough to verify. She'll simply call our mother and ask her directly.
Remember directness? It is a long forgotten family quality. Gone the way of the dinosaur. So seldomly used that it shriveled up and fell off. Useless as an appendix.
She ends the call with a persona non grata type of statement and sets about calling Estelle. If Joe's hands were not shaking too badly and he managed to successfully re-dial Charlotte to try to work things out, he'd find her line engaged. Engaged in a confrontational "these words were attributed to you, can you confirm or deny having said them" call to our mother.
He'll need a few Krispy Kremes to raise his blood sugar sufficiently to drive.
So he pulls over into a warm and friendly familiar place, and once engulfed in the inspiring aromas wafting from the neighborhood Krispy Kreme, gets his 'tude on, and answers on the 11th ring.
"Yo!"
Charlotte wonders if she's inadvertently dialed Rocky Balboa.
Without needing to rehearse, she launches in to her carefully measured delivery. She hits all the highlights...the outrageous violation that launched the whole episode, his bungled management of the situation from the start, and perhaps most importantly, his inability to see his responsibility for the turmoil that has unfolded. Right to this very day. She enlightens him to the fact that despite his belief to the contrary, he does not have any support for his indefensible position, and rather than beating his head against the wall trying to rally some form of support, he should grow up, grow a pair and realize that the only person he really needs to approach about this mess is her. The issue involves just them. She and he.
And that is when he makes his tragic misstep (Ok, another tragic misstep in a long series of missteps). He mentions that he mentioned to our mother that she raised "one self-righteous B****" and that she had whole heartedly agreed.
And Charlotte, twisting the knife just a wee bit more, retorts that his story is easy enough to verify. She'll simply call our mother and ask her directly.
Remember directness? It is a long forgotten family quality. Gone the way of the dinosaur. So seldomly used that it shriveled up and fell off. Useless as an appendix.
She ends the call with a persona non grata type of statement and sets about calling Estelle. If Joe's hands were not shaking too badly and he managed to successfully re-dial Charlotte to try to work things out, he'd find her line engaged. Engaged in a confrontational "these words were attributed to you, can you confirm or deny having said them" call to our mother.
He'll need a few Krispy Kremes to raise his blood sugar sufficiently to drive.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Have I Reached the Party to Whom I Am Speaking?
Time to multi-task. I am on a deadline. Can't be late to a party! But there is news to be shared...so I do what any gal would do.
I use my shoulder to balance the phone against my face and proceed to converse as I lather up one leg at a time to shave before the shower. Then, as the shaving cream begins to harden to stone on my legs (which are now bleeding in two places each) I affix toothpaste to my toothbrush and angle the phone receiver mouthpiece toward my forehead so that I can listen to Charlotte's return rant without her having to hear (so much) the sounds of my brushing, spitting and rinsing. Then I put the phone on speaker so I can take a Ped Egg to my going-to-get-a-pedi-but-not-until-next week feet (and wish I had a belt sander), and can continue to yak with my sister and get the tootsies sandal -ready at the same time without sacrificing any of the much needed investment in grooming.
This gives us enough time to cover the following:
Joe retains the crown for being the worst guest to have ever crossed another person's threshold.
Joe can not take a hint and you practically have to collar him and walk him on his tippy-toes to his car and start it for him to get him to realize that the time to leave was hours ago.
He still does not accept responsibility for the Open door/XBox/Cat Poop debacle and remains unconvinced that he did anything even remotely offensive, in spite of all evidence and argument to the contrary.
One family member at a time, he will try to lobby support for his position as the Falsely Accused Innocent. We are short on family members so he has to bark up the same two trees pretty loudly.
At least one member of the family is maintaining the position that:
A - He was wrong.
B - It does not concern her, beyond the point of involvement in investigating the XBox use.
That would be me.
The other family member, no doubt even more beleaguered by my brother's haranguing about his raw deal, has altered her position, perhaps since she's reasonably convinced that she can convince Bill to move North with her. My mother has taken the position that:
A - Whether he's wrong or not, she is waffling, if only to get him to shut up about it.
B - She has telegraphed her vote, whether she's bluffing or not, and made a statement that has now been repeated so as to suggest that she shares a none too flattering opinion of my sister.
And this my friends, is a juicy little morsel that can not sit in the frying pan too long before losing its flavor.
So, as I step into the shower at last, Charlotte is dialing the rarely dialed cell phone that is no doubt now jumping out of my brother's pocket and causing him to break out into a flop sweat.
I use my shoulder to balance the phone against my face and proceed to converse as I lather up one leg at a time to shave before the shower. Then, as the shaving cream begins to harden to stone on my legs (which are now bleeding in two places each) I affix toothpaste to my toothbrush and angle the phone receiver mouthpiece toward my forehead so that I can listen to Charlotte's return rant without her having to hear (so much) the sounds of my brushing, spitting and rinsing. Then I put the phone on speaker so I can take a Ped Egg to my going-to-get-a-pedi-but-not-until-next week feet (and wish I had a belt sander), and can continue to yak with my sister and get the tootsies sandal -ready at the same time without sacrificing any of the much needed investment in grooming.
This gives us enough time to cover the following:
Joe retains the crown for being the worst guest to have ever crossed another person's threshold.
Joe can not take a hint and you practically have to collar him and walk him on his tippy-toes to his car and start it for him to get him to realize that the time to leave was hours ago.
He still does not accept responsibility for the Open door/XBox/Cat Poop debacle and remains unconvinced that he did anything even remotely offensive, in spite of all evidence and argument to the contrary.
One family member at a time, he will try to lobby support for his position as the Falsely Accused Innocent. We are short on family members so he has to bark up the same two trees pretty loudly.
At least one member of the family is maintaining the position that:
A - He was wrong.
B - It does not concern her, beyond the point of involvement in investigating the XBox use.
That would be me.
The other family member, no doubt even more beleaguered by my brother's haranguing about his raw deal, has altered her position, perhaps since she's reasonably convinced that she can convince Bill to move North with her. My mother has taken the position that:
A - Whether he's wrong or not, she is waffling, if only to get him to shut up about it.
B - She has telegraphed her vote, whether she's bluffing or not, and made a statement that has now been repeated so as to suggest that she shares a none too flattering opinion of my sister.
And this my friends, is a juicy little morsel that can not sit in the frying pan too long before losing its flavor.
So, as I step into the shower at last, Charlotte is dialing the rarely dialed cell phone that is no doubt now jumping out of my brother's pocket and causing him to break out into a flop sweat.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
We Are All Just Prisoners Here, Of Our Own Design
He is seated at my dining table, reading and re-reading the poison pen letter Charlotte sent weeks ago and hoping to stir up my curiosity. Little does he know that despite being an extraordinarily curious person, I have no curiosity about this letter. There is a reason for that. I read the draft!
So I am dropping hints like, “Geez, look at the time, I’d better shake a tail feather to get out of here on time…and I still have to shower!”
Nothing. He’s the worst guest. I am shocked he hasn’t asked for a beer.
My cell rings. It’s Charlotte. I let it go to voicemail. She texts. I respond. “joeishere.oy”
She offers a rescue. I decline. I’ll let this play out. It would be comical if it were not so darn annoying that I am trying to accomplish quite a lot and he is so demanding of my attention.
He tries once again to rally support. This time the rally is not in support of his handling of the Open-Door/Xbox/Cat-Poop debacle but for Charlotte’s “way out of line” reaction to it.
Like I am any more amenable to that.
I am putting up a pretty convincing demonstration of neutrality, feigned though it may be. I nod, and uh-huh, and you-don’t-say through his meandering re-telling of things. He’s still baffled as to how Estelle got involved and I am not giving up the tapes.
I try one more time.
“Joe, you really need to work this out with Charlotte. It only involves the two of you.”
He tells me that since our father died, Christmas is not the same. (It is usually celebrated at my sister’s home.)
I offer that it never could be. It is changed forever because Dad is not there with us. Like the 4th of July without the fireworks.
He states that when Christmas comes, he’d rather be out of town. (Now we're talking!)
And while he is unsuccessfully pontificating, he mentions that he told all of this to our mother and had remarked to her that Mom “had raised one self-rigteous B****” And according to his recollection, Estelle had whole-heartedly agreed.
Like a tournament winning poker player (Bill and Estelle would be so proud!) I faked a non-response with an “Oh-for-heaven-sakes” over my shoulder as I put the icecream sandwich cake into the freezer.
At that point, I am going to be 30 minutes late to the party even if I break the land speed record getting there. I call to my kids to help Uncle Joe to the car with all the stuff my daughter has assembled for his daughter and kiss Joe goodbye with an insincere “Thanks for coming by, gotta scoot, let me know about the furniture!” Hint, hint. Hint.
I trot upstairs and close my door, peel off my clothes to shower and get out the outfit I intend to wear.
I hear Joe making his way out to his car and giving my kids childish little goodbye noogies.
On the edge of my bed in my towel, I dial my sister.
She is expecting my call.
“Oh, do tell!” she begins.
So I am dropping hints like, “Geez, look at the time, I’d better shake a tail feather to get out of here on time…and I still have to shower!”
Nothing. He’s the worst guest. I am shocked he hasn’t asked for a beer.
My cell rings. It’s Charlotte. I let it go to voicemail. She texts. I respond. “joeishere.oy”
She offers a rescue. I decline. I’ll let this play out. It would be comical if it were not so darn annoying that I am trying to accomplish quite a lot and he is so demanding of my attention.
He tries once again to rally support. This time the rally is not in support of his handling of the Open-Door/Xbox/Cat-Poop debacle but for Charlotte’s “way out of line” reaction to it.
Like I am any more amenable to that.
I am putting up a pretty convincing demonstration of neutrality, feigned though it may be. I nod, and uh-huh, and you-don’t-say through his meandering re-telling of things. He’s still baffled as to how Estelle got involved and I am not giving up the tapes.
I try one more time.
“Joe, you really need to work this out with Charlotte. It only involves the two of you.”
He tells me that since our father died, Christmas is not the same. (It is usually celebrated at my sister’s home.)
I offer that it never could be. It is changed forever because Dad is not there with us. Like the 4th of July without the fireworks.
He states that when Christmas comes, he’d rather be out of town. (Now we're talking!)
And while he is unsuccessfully pontificating, he mentions that he told all of this to our mother and had remarked to her that Mom “had raised one self-rigteous B****” And according to his recollection, Estelle had whole-heartedly agreed.
Like a tournament winning poker player (Bill and Estelle would be so proud!) I faked a non-response with an “Oh-for-heaven-sakes” over my shoulder as I put the icecream sandwich cake into the freezer.
At that point, I am going to be 30 minutes late to the party even if I break the land speed record getting there. I call to my kids to help Uncle Joe to the car with all the stuff my daughter has assembled for his daughter and kiss Joe goodbye with an insincere “Thanks for coming by, gotta scoot, let me know about the furniture!” Hint, hint. Hint.
I trot upstairs and close my door, peel off my clothes to shower and get out the outfit I intend to wear.
I hear Joe making his way out to his car and giving my kids childish little goodbye noogies.
On the edge of my bed in my towel, I dial my sister.
She is expecting my call.
“Oh, do tell!” she begins.
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