St. Bill the Wanderer

Out of curiosity, I make myself listen to the insipid message.

As we know, it is largely a question of what my plans are for her. Where she stands. If I want her in my life.

Loaded questions all. I don’t think a child should have to answer that at any age. I don’t think a parent should ever think those thoughts. But maybe that is just how I believe parents should be.

Moving on to the next topic, she notes that she is extremely happy for me and Scott and our family. (Though it would be tricky to discern her happiness from her crankiness.) She wants me to think back to all the times she was on my side.

Shouldn’t she have been? And not for anything, Ma, but I’ve defended you for decades. And that wasn’t always an easy thing. The difference is, I am not expecting a payback.

She wants to remind me that Bill has ALWAYS been generous – and here is the point where I decide she must have gone mad – “not only with money, but with his time.”

Is she talking about the same Bill? We-don’t-have-a-prenup-your-brother-isn’t-getting-anything-from-me-that-money-is-all-mine-I’ll-take-it-with-me-to-Hell-itself Bill?

I can’t remember even a single instance where money has passed from Bill to me, even through Mom’s hands…unless of course you are talking about $20 to take myself out to lunch on my birthday or something like that. Money has never played a starring role in our relationship. It isn’t even a walk-on extra.

And time? She must be delusional. My most stinging recollection of a moment of clarity about Bill was when I realized that he left town when I visited.

A few years ago, when Hil and Pat were daycare ages, I worked part time. Every other week, I had Wednesday and Thursday off from work. Mom had moved for the second time by then and was living in a cute university town on a river about 2 hours away. I would routinely pack a bag for me and the kids, schlep some of their gear to the car, prepare snacks for the road, and after work on Tuesday, I’d trek down the highway with the kids to visit for a few days. Breeze home in time for dinner on Thursday. Spend the interim doing fun things with Mom and the kids.

And then I noticed a pattern. Bill would be in bed when I got there – and he’d be gone in the morning before I rose. Mom would tell me his friend was doing this or that and he was going to join him for a few days, or another friend was visiting a nearby place and Bill was going to take him fishing, or some other pressing thing was taking him somewhere else, conveniently for the two very days I was visiting.

For nearly 18 months this went on. I would visit, he would scram. The only time he didn’t was when I brought Lars with me for Easter. He even did it when I visited the next house they bought. And I only went there once. And let's not even pretend that last year's visit to the cottage was to see me and the kids. That was simply a convenient place to sleep while they were house hunting, and the trip was conveniently and abruptly cut short in favor of hunting elsewhere.

Blood a-boil again, I click the “end’ button to save the rest of the message for when I am not so likely to throw up at my desk.

My Oprah Aha Moment

Eventually Charlotte and Mom connect. Charlotte texts me an update.

Of course Mom railed against my bad behavior. I did behave badly. Blame me! There is no one who's innocent here. Just as Mom used to say, "If someone hits you, hit him back."

I had not listened to the whole message Mom had left even yet. Evidently she had gone on about needing to know where she stands with me.

Is she kidding with this nonsense? Isn't THAT a revealing question to have asked!

She needs to know where she stands. How very rich. That is a question you might ask a boyfriend you want to date exclusively and wonder if he might feel that way, too. That might be something you discuss with a supervisor when you are not sure your job performance is viewed favorably. It might be a topic of discussion when you are reconciling with a spouse and you are uncertain about his or her feelings about how things are going since you decided to patch things up one more time for the kids' sake. That is not a question you ask of your children.

Ever.

There is never a need.

I am not saying families don't fall apart. I am not suggesting that families don't have rifts and take sides. Every family does. Tensions. Hurt feelings. Someone getting left out of a will. Sides taken in divorces. But children are forever.

A parent loves - or at least so I thought - unconditionally. I will love my children, bags and baggage, foul mouths, insolence, tattoos, arrest records, suspensions for streaking at basketball games, misappropriation of my vehicle, broken curfews, poorly chosen mates, bad fashion statements, crimes against humanity and all. No matter what. I may not like them. I may not appreciate their actions. I may not approve of all they do. I may not agree with their beliefs at all times. But I will always, without question, love them, sacrifice for them, adore them, want the best for them, and pray for them, fervently. I will never wonder where I stand with them. It will always be immaterial to me whether or not they return any of what I give them from my heart. Because there is never even the whiff - not a threat - not a notion - that my love for them or willingness to extend myself to them or for them - depends upon that same love being returned.

But evidently, Mom does not subscribe to that thinking. And knowing that, I have a little more clarity on her conduct throughout our lives. Conduct that has often been baffling.

And oddly, I am not upset or moved to tears. I am not even angry. I suppose this is not news. I have known this on some level all along. A relationship with Mom was always tenuous. It could snap like a thread at any moment, for any reason, great or small.

And strangely, I have comfort in having evidence to substantiate that idea. Not that I ever thought about wondering, but I guess I know where I stand.

A Three Ring Circus

Eventually, I connect with Charlotte. She has missed two calls from Mom. Hello, Mom, we are all working and really can't make your meltdown a priority at the moment.

Charlotte, dutiful as ever, believes she will have to return the call. It is never clear to me whether she does this out of a sense of duty or a need to avoid further wrath for not doing so. We are different this way. I don't feel a sense of obligation and don't really care about the wrath. Call, write, get in your car and drive to my house from the Sunny South. Your hissy fit doesn't mean I have to have one.

She asks me if I feel differently now about her sharing all of Bill's nasty comments with Mom. And actually, I do. Mom wants to take me to task for a "cold reception" when a) it was not cold, it was cordial. If she were looking for tears of joy she needs to get to know her kids better, and b) if it was cold, perhaps it was warranted, based on the level of love and affection I evidently enjoy from their camp. Am I supposed to kiss the ass that dumps all over me when I am not there? (I really didn't intend to conjure up that visual image, sorry.)

And during this conversation Charlotte reveals one more little tidbit.(which makes me think there are dozens more that she has spared me from having to deal with) And of course it has to do with the flippin' shelves.

She says that Bill told her that he really didn't want to give me any of the G-D shelves, and that Estelle made him but do it, but he can't bring himself to do it so he asked Charlotte to pick out two for Mom to give to me.

And he was complaining about the level of enthusiasm in my expression of gratitude?

I tell her that if she feels it will make a difference, she has the green light to spill all the beans she sees fit to spill. But I caution her. Mom has made a lifetime of bad choices when it came to men with whom to share her life. Over and over, she chose men, perhaps my Dad included, who could take care of her financially, or from whom she could get what she needed - a roof over her head, a car, club memebership, whatever - but who were not necessarily good to her or for her in other ways. The hand-in-glove relationship would be solidified by the fact that she would look presentable on their arms, or dote on them and take care of them. Keep a nice home. Participate in their stupid hobbies. Indulge them. They would come to need each other.

And for that reason, Mom will not believe what Charlotte says about Bill because she'd have to confront him. And that places her very livelihood at risk. So to make it all make sense, she will have to turn the tables on Charlotte. Make her out to be a liar. A troublemaker. In cahoots with her wicked sister.

She still has the green light, but with a caution flag. I don't want her to place herself in peril without knowing the full weight of the risk.

Achey Breaky Eardrum

I believe that at the moment I heard my mother's sing songy voice (when moments ago she would like me to believe she'd been moved to tears) was the precise moment that I parted company with my sense of sanity.

My reply to the melodious "Hello" was a barking command. "First of all, don't call me at work with these ridiculous boo hooing messages. I am too busy for that crap!"

Not my finest moment of diplomacy, for sure.

But Mom's response confirmed everything. The crying was fake. The sentiment was fake. The sweet "hello" was fake. She went from sing-songy to gnashing in a split second. Not that I blame her. I sort of set her up for that. But what is hilarious is the fact that she switched gears on the dime. It was where she expected to be. Perhaps where she'd been all along. She'd expected a fight and had trained for it. But so had I. 40 plus years of dealing with Mom is the best boot camp money can buy.

She screeches, in a voice that could peel paint, that I am nothing but a cold hearted bitch, and while she tries to continue you, I snark in an equally loud but more sarcastic than caustic voice,"Why???? Because I didn't kiss your weirdo husband on the mouth?"

I am not sure she heard me over all of her outrageous ranting but it felt good to say it. And while she continued to name call and scream in a frequency that doesn't transmit well on a cell phone, I yelled, "Don't ever call me about this again, I don't care what you think," and promptly disconnected the call, again, without the satisfaction of slamming. (Note to self: Develop and sell ringtones that one can buy to note that a call has been disconnected. Possible "tones" shall include breaking glass, flying bowling pins, car crashes, air horns, and blunt force impact noises of all kinds, e.g. clunking human heads.)

I am shaking. I text Charlotte. "just had words with mom"
I am too shaky to bother with capitalization or punctuation.

My phone buzzes to life, ringing in my hand. I think it is Charlotte.

Incredulously, it is my mother calling back.

I pick up and immediately she is ranting. I do not comprehend a single syllable, and instead yell, hopefully over the voice that causes seismic shifts deep in the Earth's crust, "ARE YOU LOOKING FOR ANOTHER LETTER??????!!!!!!" and promptly hang up.

And with that, I grab my notebook and stride out the door for some fresh air - hoping to clear my head en route to my next meeting.

Slamma Lamma Ding Dong

It starts out normally. Well, at least the first three words. Normal greeting. Normal tone of voice. The same intonation I've heard thousands of times before.

"Liza, it's Mom."

And that is precisely the point at which it went spinning off in the general direction of Hell, like so many other conversations I've had with equally crazy people.

First, the normal tone of voice devolves into the fake crying I've come to recognize from past manipulative phone calls and messages. It is infuriating. My blood boils from the very first syllable.

"You know, I was looking through some of my memory boxes today... sniff sniff...."

Gag me. Memory boxes? Mom, you have thrown away more things in more moves than a homeless man with his world in a shopping cart, and you expect me to believe you kept the ashtray I made from a seashell in Brownie Camp when you've pitched entire rooms full of furniture? Please.

She continues through the fake tears of sentimentality as she launches into the real reason for her call...a carefully planned, if not scripted segue. She sounds as though she might be reading the whole speech. I am pacing the office now, mashing down the carpet pile.

"You used to write such lovely things to me. And I am so hurt about - what I felt - Bill and I both - a very cold reception from you at Christmas..."

And with that I boil over like an abandoned pot of pasta.

I click the "end" button on the touch screen on my iPhone. Very unsatisfying. Slamming would have felt more appropriate.

I walk across the room trying not to sound like I am Fee-Fi-Fo-Fumming as I do. I take great care not to slam my door (difficult when I haven't had the satisfaction of slamming the phone into the cradle.)

As is my habit when I am about to chew someone's face off, I walk to my window to face the sun through the glass as I hit "Call Back."

Mom answers on one ring, the tears having dissipated, and sounding as happy and chipper as a blue bird in spring.

That lasts until I speak my first words.

Phoney Baloney

Life plods on. Another day, another dollar. Another salad, another weigh in. I try on clothes, I suck in my gut, I pack my suitcase with what I can stand to look at myself wearing.

It's a brand new year, and I am on my game at work. Updating policies. Improving processes. Proposing solutions. Finishing projects. Taking on new work. Peeking at job boards just because I can.

Things are chugging right along one day - I am buzzing through a mandatory on line Confidentiality and Privacy training class. Zzzzzzzzzzz. The point, click, read, select and answer, click "next" monotony suddenly broken by the familiar nerve-jangling ring tone of my cell phone.

Mom.

This class is supposed to take 70 minutes. I only have 60 as it is. I don't answer. Some time later, I get the familiar (and dreaded)jingle-jangle-jingle of the "you-have voicemail" notification. Unless there is some cosmic delay imposed on the transmission of hateful messages, this one is a long one, not unlike the last. Oh goody.

I ignore it. I have to finish the class.

And as if some cosmic whammy had been visited upon me, not two minutes later, I run into a problem with the class. The next module will not open.

Under any other circumstances I would be on my knees thanking all the powers that be for the technological intervention. Any other day, I'd be rejoicing the excuse to avoid the obligation to complete the class. The grown up version of the dog eating your homework.

But not today. Today I am looking for an excuse to avoid the message (after having deftly avoided the call, ahem.) I devote myself, heart and soul to diagnosing and fixing the problem with the training class and completing it - on deadline. Better act fast. No time for distractions like personal phone calls.

I call our system administrator. I explain the problem. I attempt what he suggests. It doesn't work. I call back. I tell him what happened this time. I offer to wait on the phone while he calls the vendor on the other line. He comes back. He tells me the solution. I hang up and immediately set about doing what he told me to do. It doesn't work. I swear under my breath. I call back. He puts me on hold. He tells me something different to do. I get off the phone and do it. It doesn't work. I call the system administrator again. He tells me to skip it. He'll get it fixed.

Noooooooo! I have only burned off 20 minutes! I have 20 more until my next meeting (15 if I take the long way) and that leaves me with no excuse not to pick up the voice mail.

I don't know why I do this to myself. I listen to the first 15 seconds of Mom's message and want to throw the phone out the window. And then dive out after it.

A Carboholic Intervention, Please

So I got back on the proverbial bike and spent another two weeks eating weird food, missing all things crunchy and craving dinner rolls. The good news was that there was no moratorium on high fat foods. So long as there were no carbs involved, it was on the Approved list. Cheese. Bacon. Eggs. Pastrami. Just so long as I didn't put any of it between two slices of bread.

And eventually it all paid off. My shiny new scale proved tried and true. I lost the additional phantom 10 pounds. I whittled myself down from a size eight to a size four. And I got into a groove about finding things I could eat from a restaurant menu, on the Boardwalk at the beach and at parties. I could do this for the rest of my life without announcing to everyone that I AM ON A DIET.

The good news was that I felt like a powerhouse. You never know how lousy lots of sugar or other carbs make you feel until you reduce their predominance in your diet. Then when you eat that birthday cake you feel like you spent the day before drinking irresponsible amounts of tequila. Not eating the cakes and the cookies, and the pasta and the soft pretzels and the hoagies is a nice relief from the leaden, bloated, sickening feeling one gets from over indulging. The trade off is I can eat thousands of calories of low carb foods - literally stuff myself with them - and feel like Olive Oyl in the morning. It is the perfect diet for people with no self control or will power.

And you can drink.

OK you can't drink everything. You have to drink low carb beers (So forget those dark chewy delicious Belgians. They are way out of bounds.) But so long as there is no sugary mixer (God bless the inventor of such things as diet tonic, sugar free lemonade, and caffeine free Diet Coke). I can enjoy a no carb Gin and Tonic, a guilt free Lynchburg Lemonade (also known as a Jack Rabbit Slim for those of you up on your Skinny Girl Cocktails) or a Rum and Coke that won't keep me awake until Tuesday. All while remaining on my Very Effective Diet.

It is a perfect perfect thing. The best part of all was that after I slimmed myself down to a fabulous new size and shape, Kate disclosed that the diet she had recommended was not an actual diet. She may have gotten the numbers wrong. Five grams of carbs is a little extreme. I let her live - but only because we both looked fabulous and there is nothing better than both of you looking fabulous.

So why now, when I had once dropped to an alarming size zero with a disturbingly boney appearance during my Marital Discord Diet, and then rebounded to a fabulous size 2, and have remained there despite my gain of 4 pounds of Christmas Cookie Fat, why am I finding it so difficult to stay on strict low carb diet when it is so important to me that I do????