Summertime and the Living is Busy

It's a busy time of year, and not just because of my kitchen renovation.

True, it has been daunting to remove nearly 20 years of hoarded items from a kitchen the size of a change purse.  I actually had to reach into the recesses of one poorly designed cabinet the other day to retrieve what turned out to be a nifty little highchair attachment.

A highchair attachment. My children are in Middle School. They've been slopping food all over the placemats at the Grown Up table for a decade. 

And what is up with my vast collection of coffee mugs?  Not only do I have the puny sized set that came with my casual china, I have at least 50 others.  The Hanukkah one (?) Pat got me at the Secret Santa shop in elementary school with the broken handle that I use as often as possible because of the sweetness of the gift.  The dribble-inducing cup from the little hamlet where Charlotte and Jack let us use their cottage for sweet Summer escape vacations. The ones that were hand painted with our names by a friend in Lars' camp commemorating some occasion in one of their children's lives.  And dozens of others with no apparent story. I could easily serve coffee to 60 people. I should think about doing that. Maybe after I get my enormous oven and can bake a bunch of coffee cakes to go with all the coffee I'd be serving.

And how many wine openers does a household with one adult need?  And for that matter, how many cutting boards, beer coozies, and gadgets that perform exactly one function can a person actually use?

But, kitchen renovation aside, I have a pretty full schedule for the next few weeks. All the field trips, year end ceremonies, concerts, school parties, scout traditions etc. My iPhone is buzzing to remind me of something nearly every hour.

But looming large are the graduations.  There are quite a few I will recognize this year.  I don't know where all the little kids went, but I am speechless watching them turn into young men and women and seemingly seconds later, turn away and sashay out the door into their new lives.

It is bittersweet for me. I have friends to support as their oldest children move their tassels to the side and embark on college experiences their parents are selling their souls to provide.  I have friends who are watching their children graduate from college and wringing their hands as they take a bolder, longer stride on the road to a life of independence. I have Scott, whose oldest daughter and her boyfriend are graduating together and headed off to the same college with as many hopes and dreams for their future as a couple as they do for their careers. 

And I have Charlotte and Jack, who are beaming with pride that their middle son, my Godson, is graduating from a prestigious prep school with honors, and spending the summer at the beach before packing his things to spend four years at an equally prestigious college. 

But first, there is The Party.

The Really Big Show

Hil is in the chorus at school. It is the end of the school year and we will have an All-Middle School concert for all the parents' entertainment pleasure.

I am secretly thrilled that the school has caught on to the fact that the chorus groups and the band and orchestra groups should have separate concerts. Each will be under two hours instead of one long evening of entertainment that lasts nearly to midnight and involves costume changes.

I am not so sure the parents of kids who participate in both activities are as jazzed. They get to make multiple trips to the school and get multiple babysitters or shoosh younger sibs through multiple shows that appeal to a narrow crowd that generally does not include toddlers.

I am not sure why the PTO doesn't have a cash bar at these things.  I don't know a single parent who wouldn't gladly down a pre-curtain blender drink and a double at intermission. We'd never have to sell another roll of wrapping paper to relatives again. It would be a cash cow.

The night of the show arrives and Hil is in a panic.  Kids she knows and likes will be there. She has to churn out the hype. Fabulous gleaming, poker straight locks. Impeccable makeup with several coats of mascara so the eyes pop from the stage. The perfect jewelry.  Shoes that make her legs look gorgeous (what?) and that she will not topple off of the risers with.

Once the nerves are calmed, the car is parked and Hil is convinced she is not late for the opening curtain, I enter the High School auditorium for The Big Show. 

The High School. The one I attended. The one Scott attended. The one Pat will attend next year. It brings back quite a few memories. This is the auditorium where I transformed myself into Roseann Rosannadanna and realized how fun it is to make people laugh. Where I razzed Scott from the stage as he sat in the orchestra pit, chiding him as Roseann because he had "dropped me like a hot pah-taytuh." The seats from which I watched, enamored of Scott, as he played his silver trumpet in the Jazz Band in his vintage looking tuxedo. Somehow nothing has changed.

I find a seat in the center of the crowd where Hil says the acoustics are best. (?)  I am seated right next to Cindy, my best friend from 6th grade. We'd graduated high school together but had flown off on different flight plans.  I knew her sisters and brother. Her mother had been our school secretary.  I knew the whole family, but we'd not stayed in touch.  But then, when Pat needed surgery as a baby, I bumped into her at the hospital. Not only did she work there, but she'd had a daughter that year and she was getting tubes in her ears the same day. Her daughter would be Hil's age.  Years later, we realized we lived close by one another. Our girls went to school together. Attended Brownie Scouts together. Cindy, still a nurse in that same hospital, recommended a surgeon for Hil's surgery a few years later. Scheduled herself as her PACU nurse. Would be the first face she saw when she awoke from anesthesia.  Some friendships lapse, but never, ever go away.

She and I are immediately off to the races. Commenting on ill-advised outfit choices. Laughing about memories churned up by the environment. Remarking on the stained ceiling tiles that look remarkably like the same ones that were there when we were students. WOndering out loud about certain tweenism we are having a hard time adjusting to. Embarassing our children alternately by calling their names and waving like dorks.

Down in front of the stage, a woman that I don't recognize rises from the piano. At least it is supposed to be a woman. But really, all I can think is, "Who is the man in the dress and wig?" 

As this thought passes through my head, Cindy leans in unexpectedly and says, "Let's play 'Is It A Man Or A Woman?"

I nearly choke on my forbidden bubble gum. 

The more things change, the more they stay the same. 

The lights dim. Our daughters take the stage. And things are different. All the times I'd been here before it was all about me.

As I look at my beautiful daughter singing her heart out under the stage lights, smiling beautifully and focused on her director intently, I am overwhelmed with pride.

My memories and impressions of this stage and theater are immaterial. It is all about her. As it should be.

Goodbye to You

As the holiday weekend approaches I am usually filled with memories. The radio stations seem to want to send you (provided you are in their target demographic) back to the days of your youth, particularly, those happy, free-wheeling, untroubled days of youth. They fill the airwaves with top ten songs from the summer I turned 10. And the summer I graduated high school. And the summer of my first love. And the summer I graduated college and had to think about things like P&L statements, and business attire, and reliable transportation from that point forward. I hear, in no particular order, The Night Chicago Died, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, Goodbye Stranger, and West End Girls. Each one makes me want to call someone who would recognize the special meaning of the song. The opening bars of The Night Chicago Died usually has me speed dialing Charlotte so she can hear it with me.

The work day ends early and I head to Kate's for a BBQ and the company of old friends. Kate is a gracious hostess. Loads of food, tons of beer and wine in coolers strategically placed all over the property, artfully decorated tables and socially convenient seating.

But as each of the gals arrives, she has a hushed story to tell.

Priscilla is getting divorced. Sshhhh.

Priscilla, her sister. Our frequent travel mate. A Girls Weekend steady-ender.

Priscilla and Mick have been together for at least 20 years. They were married before I was and it would have been 20 years for me and Lars...umm...the day before yesterday. (See how that went by unnoticed?)I can't pretend to know what happens in anyone's marriage (I barely knew what was happening in my own) but I assume it is the classic stuff. Grown apart. Never talk any more. Don't have anything in common. Spend most of their time apart and doing separate things. Would find bursting into flame more pleasant than actual sex with one another.

Kate does provide one glimpse into Priscilla's nightmare, though. Mick at some point found Jesus. Like some people find stray dogs. Invited Jesus to come live with him and gave him the spare bedroom. Swears that all their problems would be resolved if they all just prayed a little harder.

Now, I love the Lord as much as the next guy, but as a practical matter, you should have a Plan B, no matter how much you believe in the power of prayer. Especially if you have financial or marital or employment woes. And who doesn't?

So presumably as a result of these things, and a few more we'll never know anything about, they are calling it a marriage.

So I pledge to Pay It Forward. In my two year ordeal of Divorcing the AntiChrist, I did quite a lot of boo-hooing to my friends. Whining about the minutia of my marital disentanglement at all hours of the day and night, at all manner of settings, during all types of social engagements - parties, baby showers, Chrstenings, graduations, birthday bashes, sporting events. You name it, I took Lars' name in vain at it, railing against his particularly humiliating brand of ass-holery whenever a bitter little memory was triggered by something.

I owe Priscilla that. As optimistic as she is, and as cordial as the parting may seem to be at this point, at another point, in the not-to-distant future, she will want to scream. And I want to tell her, as Dr. Frazier Crane would say, "I'm listening."

Thing Hog

In the meantime, I have jumped into the kitchen renovation with both feet.

It is a complete nightmare.

I get my sister's contractor, Wally, and after explaining to him that I do not have my sister's budget or her fastidiousness about cleaning (as in NOT the White Tornado) he assures me that he's done smaller renovations than mine (but probably not smaller kitchens) and has been in much worse a pig sty.  Yay.

I have a vision. Wally will work with me, however twisted the vision. He has the good sense not to laugh out loud at my ideas. He listens well, and as he makes suggestions, and I explain what I want instead, he is figuring me out.  Now he is not only a magician, he's a mind reader, too. He seems enthusiastic about my idea of painting the ceiling plum. He is not daunted by the fact that the space was designed over 80 years ago before refrigeration and microwaves became standard issue.

But still, I am in a panic.  He's measured and examined and opened doors and looked under the hoods of things and has sketched some plans.  He can wedge this in here, that in there. Create more visual space by doing this, create more actual space if we think about doing this versus that. What am I missing? I am sure I've forgotten to mention something. Watch, he'll be done and the dishwasher will be sitting in the middle of the room without a home.

I have picked out tile. Grout. Chosen dimensions of the much coveted subway tile with which I am so anxious to cover the backsplash. We've discussed millwork, lazy Susan's fixtures, garbage disposal, dead space, paint colors, appliances, venting, and finally....dates to start the work.

This is where I begin to breath heavily into a paper bag. 

All that money. In all those big chunks!  So much for the fat cat feeling of a big tax return.

And the notion of taking every last item, dish, glass, utensil, gadget, crumb, twisty tie, piece of mail, art project, cleaning product, and frivolous serving piece out of my kitchen to live somewhere else while the work gets done. While I am buying a new range I should also have a fainting couch delivered.

But I write the first check so the cabinets can be ordered and the permit issued.  And suddenly I am calm and in control.

I have a signed contract and I have a good idea about what the end result will be. I've even settled on countertop material and the perfect oven. In 3 short weeks, demolition will take place. On the last week of school while the kids are in Lars' torture chamber.  It's time to systematically relieve the kitchen of its contents.

Oh.
My.
Gawd!

I am nothing short of astonished at what I have stashed for decades in a space you could not park a Mini Cooper in. 

And I am convinced I could star in a Sweeps Week episode of Hoarders.

Letter? What Letter?

My mother thinks she will win at this. There would be no other reason for her to waste a stamp.

She knows that it will not escape my attention that she has contacted my children covertly. And her lame attempt at reaching them on a personal level by telling that charming, nostalgic little story about riding the Wild Mouse with my father (Eeeewwww. That sounded even worse than it was.) misfired. They'd heard the story a hundred times. Once for every time we've ridden the damn ride ourselves. It is why we get the astonishly expensive picture printed in the first place. Because I've told them how she went on the ride with my Dad when they were dating despite being scared to death. (And how he ran down the dark, unlit boardwalk without her after getting out of the midnight showing of Psycho.) My Dad, the prankster. It amazes me she didn't scratch out at least one eye while they were still dating.

But Mom thinks she's got me beat. She'll show me! Two can play this game. She will have a forced relationship with my children without me, darn it! And their cat, too!

She's obviously made more of this than anyone else in the supposed pissing contest. Pat ended up using the letter as a coaster and Hil wrapped her gum in the return address part of the envelope. And it isn't like anyone asked for a piece of stationary so they could write a lovely return note and strike up a pen pal relationship with Estelle or Bill. It was really a non-event. One more tiny, imperceptible gesture from someone who has never bothered to be present in their lives before and who can't make up for lost time now. Especially with all the space and time in between.

And why would they bother to be open hearted? She blows in for a few days a year, doesn't make them a priority, acts like a two-year old when there is a conflict and yells at them for things she thinks it will help me to yell at them for. She has no idea who they are, their friends names, their interests, their very personalities. She's like a loud, intrusive, obnoxious exchange student who makes their mother swear under her breath and drink wine from Big Gulp cups.

But let Estelle think she's gotten to me this time. I could not be bothered to even raise an eyebrow over this. She has two more opportunities to put on a show between now and her birthday which I will creatively underacknowledge. First is Pat's birthday, and then Hil's. The expectations for Hil's 13th are high...It will be interesting to see how much hype Estelle feels she has to churn out to buy my children's hearts. Frankly, it's sad that she thinks it can be done.

It Says Here, In Fine Print

I gather the Letter Bomb and place it with the other junk mail on the dining room table. It is not imminently important. I greet the kids and whilst smothering each with millions of kisses, I mention the mail from Grandmomstella...and the fact that backpacks need to be put away, shoes need to find homes, I need sandwich containers and thermoses from lunch, and dinner is in 20 minutes, so wrap up the XBox contest and shower now if you want to be done before dinner.

The envelope sits untouched by human hands for several hours. Moved out of the way so Hil can set the table.  Moved again so Trinket can sit in her usual Orange Cat Watching Spot.  Moved again so Hil could dust and earn allowance sufficient to buy the makeup she's been coveting on some new super-reduced-pricing website. 

Finally, when I have done all the chores I had before me, and have paid some bills, and watched Glee with Hil, and listened to her tell the tale of some cute boy that looked at her in some telling way that day, and lamely repeated Spanish phrases about food and common courtesies so Pat might pass his quiz, I ascend the stairs to take a shower and shave my legs so I could even think about wearing a skirt the next day without being mistaken for Sasquatch.

Before I do I place the envelope next to Hil on the end table, anchoring it with a couple of of left over Easter candies she'd decided upon for a treat, and remind her that she's got mail. I am pretty sure I hear her opening it as I turn on the landing.

I return to the living room some time later, shaven and squeaky clean and lotioned to the hilt, and see that the envelope is open. It had contained a letter, not a card, and I can see neat even lines of Estelle's just-this-side-of-crazy handwriting all across the page, nary a space in sight.

I casually ask Hil about the letter. She is nonplussed. "Oh, she says thanks for the card and likes the picture and something about 1959. I don't know. I don't really read cursive. Not Grandmomstella's cursive."

What a riot. Most kids would be thrilled to get mail of any kind (I was thrilled at Hil's age to get my official Smokey the Bear Fan Club letter, for Chrissake) but this letter doesn't rate.

I ask if I can read it. Hil waves me off as if to say, " Read it. Burn it. Line a birdcage. What-ev."

Her synopsis was dead on. Only Estelle is trying very hard in this letter to appeal to my children. Come across as the sweet grandmotherly type. Mentions their beloved grandfather (from whom she was divorced, mind you) in a kindly way.

Call me a conspiracy theorist, but Estelle is up to something.

No She Di-in't

The night before my birthday, I hook up with a few of The Gals at an event sponsored by Skinnygirl Cocktails. I 've invented a few of them myself, but the brand makes it a breeze. We meet after work and it is clearly a ladies night out. 

We meet some perfect strangers who have a birthday girl among their crowd and are instant friends. Taking pictures, swapping numbers, sharing funny stories. This one has a new car she is convinced she has no real control over and it drives itself. That one's son got a two day suspension for school for farting in class. She was so mad she went to see the principal and nearly gave herself a hernia trying to let one rip during the meeting.

And then, bored with the ladies night and jonesing for food that didn't scream "Skinny girl trying to remain skinny" by containing nothing with more than a handful of calories, we jump in a cab (that Kate scams from someone who had clearly been waiting for it...) and head to the latest, greatest beer hall.

Oh. What. Fun.

Long tables like at Oktoberfest. A thousand decent beers on tap and none of them end in the word "lite."  Fire pits. Exposed brick. Trees. Awesome drunken food like potato pancakes and french fries and soft pretzels.  And the socialness of having to sit at long tables with friends you haven't met yet.  We traipse home in the wee hours. I dread the next day.

But the day arrives. I am astonishingly old and feel it.

It is a work day which is a bummer, but I am getting my kiddos back after work, so that is a bonus. 

Scott and the kids and I will be together at Scott's on Saturday, and Charlotte and Jack will be coming over for a drink and a visit after seeing their sons off to prom.  I have a lot to look forward to.

Facebook greetings abound.  Lots of love from lots of familiar places.  Sweet calls and messages from Scott. Texts from my kids. Cards from tons of people.

But not Mom. No card. No call. Nothing.

No. She is going to win this pissing contest and not remember the day I came squeezing out of her womb into the world.  What-ev.

Hil asks if I'd heard from her. Brightly, I say, "No, sweetie. No biggie, so don't worry." She rolls her eyes. What-ev.

A friend at work asks if Estelle extended an olive branch.  I tell her no.  But truly, it is okay. If this is what she wants, I can't say I don't welcome it. A life without her is one that ceases to be fraught with the potential for violent confrontational conflict over tons of nothingness. Who needs it?

And then on Monday, there is a card-sized envelope in the mail with her handwriting crazily scrawled across it. Uh-oh. No she di-in't.

I flip it over. It is addressed to Hil and Pat.

WTF?