Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

What happens next is a horrifying combination of shame, blame and unnecessary roughness.

Mom verbally slaps Charlotte around. Slam dunks the the insults. Drop kicks the logic. Commits fouls and generally unsportsmanlike.

Because she has to win. So a little cheating is justified, right?

Mom wails that no one visits her 9 hours away. (Because that is such and appealing vacation plan!)

Charlotte attempts to make a logical argument. Mentions that all of Mom's children are parents. And all eight grandchildren go to school, and have activities and obligations and commitments that tether us to home most of the time and certainly on weekends.

Mom comments that she (ever the saint) makes the trip at Christmas.  (OK, we've been over that uniquely painful experience.) Charlotte mentions that Mom is retired...she can visit us any time she cares to. But only comes at Christmas.

Mom makes some kind of half hearted whiny lament that she is out of our lives.

Charlotte will not take the bait. She reminds Mom that she chose to move so far away just as her children were starting their families. All of my children and two of Joe's were born after she left. Charlotte's youngest was only a year old.

Ever the warrior, Mom retorts that she was not the only one to move away.  Hint hint hint.

True, Charlotte and Jack did move to Atlanta when they were first married.  Jack had gotten a wonderful promotion that would start him on a career path that they'd have been fools to let pass him by. They stayed 3 or 4 years and moved back, just as Charlotte had hoped, when they were expecting their first child.

It's what young people do. They launch. It is what parents hope happens. But not Mom. She has to turn it into something dirty. She has to deflect and draw a similarity between the reasonable thing Charlotte did and the sleazy thing that she did, in the hope that Charlotte won't keep arguing the point. But the truth is this: Mom and Bill moved when they did to escape.

Escape us.
Escape Bill's children.
Escape jobs.
Escape adversarial neighbors.
Escape law suits.
Escape familial burdens.
Escape the past.
Escape the ties that bind.
Escape responsibility - especially those that come from having a family.

They packed up and moved when Mom was in her late 50s for no compelling reason at all. Just walked away claiming it was their dream to move to North Carolina (I'd never once heard that) They moved and then just a few short years later, moved again. To Maryland. Had a house built. And then they decided that the house was all wrong (WTF?) and moved again. To a waterfront town also in Maryland and into an historic house. Stayed 9 months and moved again. This time back to North Carolina. And then very shortly thereafter, bought something in South Carolina that they've never moved into and are trying to sell even now. They are ready to load up the truck and move to Beverly at any moment. When the going gets tough, Bill and Estelle's bags are already packed.

So it wasn't the life long dream of a home in North Carolina that drew them away. They were running. And not one of their children believes otherwise.

A Dance With The Devil

Charlotte has too much self respect to mine to the depths of meanness to which our mother will often travel.  She won't lash out. She retains a sense of reason. She won't resort to swearing like a sailor.  She maintains her decorum.  She rigorously holds on to normal, generally accepted conventions of conversation.

Mom does no such thing.

Charlotte listens as Mom turns the argument into a pity party for herself.  Claims to have so much to worry about (like this damn election????) that she is losing her hair. (No, Mom. I believe 70 years of home Frost & Tip-ing, and Aqua Net and backcombing and teasing are to blame. Though Lars would probably say it is her evilness oozing out of her head for lack of space...again, he had a way with words) But anyway, Bill has some ailment or ache or pain in his ass or his elbow.  This doctor is an idiot and that one won't listen to her. Bill does nothing but clear his throat incessantly and is deaf as a doornail so she has to resort to shouting. (He is conveniently hard of hearing and she would shout anyway.) Her real estate agent is a ninny and no one is maintaining their property in another state properly. The whole country is in chaos because of this President and people are going to take matters into her own hands. Bill is going to vote in both states again this year to do his civic duty in making sure Obama does not get re-elected. (Like it worked last time...)

Charlotte explains some of the moving parts of her balancing act as well, as if to say, "Mom, we are both very busy. It is easy to forget what other people are going through sometimes."  Her college senior moving back from his NY internship and then immediately heading off to his apartment at school - for which he is on the lease, and which is filthy. (Enter the White Tornado) Her college freshman moving home from his Animal House shore rental, where he, too, was on the lease, and which is similarly filthy. He also is off to school in a matter of days to a campus too many miles away. A flooded basement, and ongoing renovation, a new business and the usual hoopla generated by house and home and a rising high school senior.

In doing so, she hints that our lives are decidedly separate. We all live 5 states apart from one another. There are going to be some black holes. Some disconnection can be expected.

It is a rational statement to assert. But this is not a rational audience.

Dial H for Hateful

Charlotte tells me about how, in her own defense, she competently and maturely explains to Mom that she does not want to discuss politics with her. They don't agree across the board and Charlotte is still making up her mind and would like to make the decision on her own.  She just wants to have  a conversation, not a fight. And it always turns into one.

And Mom begins yelling, natch.

Yelling about conspiracy theories.
Yelling about socialism.
Yelling about a czar or a tyrant of an imperial wizard or some such all-powerful fairytale word she's assigned to the President. (Mom must have missed the Checks and Balances./Three branches of government lecture in Civics class.)

And while she is yelling, she also begins insulting.

Charlotte has no idea what she is talking about.
Charlotte is poorly informed.
Charlotte needs some advice.
Charlotte should vote for Romney because he is the candidate that is most like her husband. (I think this is when Charlotte actually reached a rolling boil.)

Now in hindsight, what Charlotte might have said, if her head weren't spinning, would have been something akin to "Mom, we obviously don't agree on everything even though we often vote the same way.  I respect your opinion and I'd like you to respect mine, however different from your own. I am going to get off the phone now so you can take whatever pill it is you take to morph back into a rational adult human. I will call you once the election is over."

She tries. Honestly she does. I give her credit for that. In my last few conversations with Mom I have resorted to firing a few parting insults of my own, peppered with colorful swear words, and hanging up.  (And then waiting for the letter...)

But Mom can't just step back and recognize Charlotte (or any of her children for that matter) as a fully matured, educated, successful woman with a purposeful life and high moral standards of her own.  No, she has to break her opponent. Belittle and insult you until you are feeling puny and worthless and then maybe you will question your convictions and take her word on the election (or whatever other decision of import she feels she needs to intrude upon because Mother Knows Best.)

No, she takes the Ugly Train down the tracks a few more stops. Holds Charlotte up and judges her unfavorably against other people. People who can't even compare with Charlotte.  "I have nieces who will discuss politics with me!"

Good, Mom. Call them. Keep calling them until you discover the one departure in philosophy that renders them unworthy and decide to put them through the rigors of this uniquely horrifying little exercise.  Then they too will stop picking up the phone.

And she digs. Digs deep. Pulls out bitter reminders of every disagreement and disappointment she feels Charlotte is guilty of since the dawn of mankind.

And the conversation is just getting started.

Silence is Golden

The call was destined for disaster. Actually, they all are, so this outcome should surprise no one.

But somehow we all gamely and naively pick up the phone and optimistically hope for the best with every Mom encounter.

The best is not to be.

I ask Charlotte questions so she can have a starting point. Conversations with Mom have  tornado quality to them.  Loud with debris flying in all directions. They are hard to repeat.

"OK - Tel me. What precipitated this call?"

"I called her," Charlotte sniffs.  "I felt bad. I hadn't called her in a while."

I haven't called her in a year. Clearly Charlotte and I have different ideas about what constitutes negligence.

"You're going to have to stop doing that," I say.

"I know. But I knew something was happening in her life. I just couldn't remember the details. Cataract surgery? Something with Bill? I don't know. Something."

Really?  Flesh-eating virus?  Adopted an Indian midget? I'd been blissfully unaware.

"Well, and I've had a lot on my plate, " Charlotte says. "With the boys headed to school and all the nonsense at Gray's house at the shore. I have had a lot of competing priorities."

With all of Mom's transgressions a delayed phone call is going to have you flogging yourself with guilt? I'd let you off the hook with manslaughter.

"So anyway, I called her and she started. She and Bill had just been to see '2016.'"

Oh, good. The documentary putting fear into the hearts and minds of the bigoted and uniformed all across the nation hoping to deter them for voting for Obama in 2012.  Why couldn't she just go see The Dark Knight Rises like all the other lunatics?

"So I let her talk. I will not have a political discussion with her, so I just let her go on and on."

"Fair enough," I say.  "I usually tell her that I will not have a conversation about "fill in the blank." - Politics, our brother, his shrew wife, real estate, gas prices, reverse parking, the NFL draft, Eli and Peyton Manning, or any other number of dicey topics that I would gladly discuss with almost anyone else."

"Yeah, well, I can't get away with that, " Charlotte laments. "And soon enough, Mom notices (remarkably) that I am not saying anything back. That she is doing all the talking. And she calls me on it."

And that is when things got mean. The venom reserved for our sitting President is at once oozing all over Charlotte.

Another Day, Another Location, Another Drama

I get home with Trinket and she is still acting weird. I hesitate to leave her, but maybe a little solitude in her own house with her familiar things will help her shake the willies. I can't blame her for having them. The entire time we were at Charlotte's I kept looking for bats clinging to nooks and crannies in high places.

I feed her and change her kitty litter. I freshen her water and give her some treats. I fill her food bowls and fill her little plush mouse with fresh catnip.  She just sits under the dining room table with her legs compactly curled under her and stares at me.  Maybe she's waiting for me to leave so she can have her friends over for a party.

I call Scott to tell him I am leaving and will be there soon and to ask about traffic. He tells me the puppy is adorable (aren't they all?) and that she would fit in a coffee cup (a cow would fit in MY coffee cup) and that I should snack on something on the way. There is nary a crumb in the fridge at his house. If I arrive hungry, I'll be in a coma shortly thereafter.

I drive there. There is none of the usual hoopla on the road. People are where they'll be for the weekend and I am alone on the road. I could be driving naked and get away with it. 

I make it it Scott's in record time. He's not kidding. The fridge is so empty there is an echo. And all I was looking for was a bottle of water.

"Scott," I say. "What have you got going on this afternoon?" 

"Nothing special," he says.  "What do you feel like doing? I was going to grout the tile. That will take an hour or so. We can do something afterwards?  Is there anything you need to do?  Your blog, maybe?"

"How about I shop for you?  Get some stuff in your cupboards. School starts this week. You should have something to eat in the house." And frankly, Mama has low blood sugar.

I take to my recipe app on my phone. Pick out some crowd pleasers. I go through cabinets. I make lists. I go through the coupons sitting on the counter. I leave for Acme with my lists and coupons and Scott's debit card.

And hour later, I have shopped to my little heart's desire and gotten all the things Scott needs for a week full of dinners, lunches for himself and for his high schooler, and a few extra goodies for fun. I call him from the parking lot. We are making chili and corn bread for dinner. It's going to be a cool night.

"I spent a lot of money, " I say. "But I saved a fortune and the good news is you are all set for the week. I will plan your menus."

"Awesome. And I don't care about the money.  I am really happy you did that for me."

"Well you know it's love if I volunteered to set foot in the grocery store for you. I'd even call it love if I drove on the same block. I get hives just walking across the parking lot."

"I know, I was just thinking that. It's why you get your stuff delivered. I really appreciate the gesture. Really, I do, sweetie."

I know he does, and he knows I love him. It makes the torture of the grocery store and the uniquely horrifying people in it bearable.  It is like the Walmartians have come here because Walmart ran out of TV dinners and Count Chocula.

I get in my car and before I can buckle my seat belt my phone begins to ring.  I assume it is Scott calling back to catch me before I leave the parking lot because someone needs one more thing. I am thinking puppy chow, to be truthful.

No, it is Charlotte. I answer brightly but as soon as I do I realize she's crying.

"Char, what's wrong?"  I am thinking the worst. Or maybe that she's upset that her nest is emptier than ever and she misses her two college boys.

No.

She's just spent an hour on the phone with Mom. Say no more.

The Morning After

The next morning, after having slept the sleep of the dead, I am awakened, thankfully not by a bat, but by a text from Scott.

"Is there coffee?"

I tiptoe from bed hoping not to disturb Kate. She was such a good sport the night before. The least I can do is let her sleep in later than she gets to at home.  I creep into the bathroom and brush my teeth. I wash and moisturize my face and make it moderately presentable. I tame the hair with an industrial strength hair tie and some finishing creme, lest I look like Diana Ross from her Eaten Alive photo shoot. 

Trinket is hiding under the bed looking like she is still on high alert. This troubles me momentarily, but then I have to take into account that her brain is the size of a chickpea and she can't possibly understand that the beast is dead and rotting in Charlotte's garage trash can which is sealed with a lid in case of any miraculous resurrections from the dead.

I tiptoe downstairs and make coffee. I return to the bedroom to make myself look accidentally fabulous.  Like I just rolled out of bed and look fresh as a daisy and neat as a pin and smell wonderful to boot.  I am sure Scott knows I am human and get morning breath and pillow creases on my face and have bags under my eyes and bed head, I just don't need to remind him that he'll be waking up next to them every morning for the rest of his life.

I text him to park behind me in the lower drive (Charlotte and Jack have two). The one at the top of the steep drive is occupied by Kate's car...only he won't know that until he's gunned his car up the hill and makes the sharp turn.  I go down to my car and back it closer to the garage door to give him room. 

And just walking by the garage door knowing that the bat is in there gives me the willies.  What if it was just playing dead like it had when Trinket had snared it in mid air?  What if, in its little pea brain, it was thinking, "Jesus, these two morons in the goggles are going to keep pelting me with these stingy little things unless I act fast and drop to the ground like they've killed me.  And what is with the green light?  And who's yelling? Oh hell, let me just pretend to drop dead and get it over with. I'll never find an open door on my own if that cat has anything to say about it. May as well let the two idiots have their victory dance and have them carry me out of here in a tea towel."

I go upstairs and wait for the car to pull up, and drink half the pot of coffee in the meantime.

Scott and the kids arrive. I tell them my tale of woe. Kate elects to stay in bed while we go out for breakfast.  Later she joins us for a stroll or two around the neighborhood, falling as in love with it as I have.
And afternoon spent at the gun shop, the Harley dealership, and roaming the hamlet later, we are enjoying dinner and settling in for the night.

The next day Scott will take the kids to buy their new Yorkie puppy and I will pile into the car with Trinket and head for home.  Later we'll meet at Scott's house at the shore and a more traditional Labor Day Weekend. To date, there has been nothing traditional about it.

Exit, Stage Left

The beer is gone. The hummus is gone. My patience is gone.

I worked all week. I drove 80 miles to get here. I encountered a predatory, dive-bombing bat and had to call in reinforcements. I am pooped. The reinforcements have to go.

Bo is talking about Shakespeare and high-minded, esoteric movies and obscure books. Karl is flirting shamelessly with Kate. He'd started to flirt with me, but I can frost a room full of unwelcome suitors better than most. That lasted a minute and a half. (It's my gift.) Kate is much more easygoing, however married. She's a natural flirt but never forgets her boundaries. It's hilarious to watch. And frankly, she is the only girl I know who can look like a blond bombshell in a ripped Packers t-shirt, shorts and flipflops.  J-Lo would have less luck. She is charming and funny and actually making fun of Karl in a way that he doesn't know, but I do.

But my patience is razor thin and my eyelids are heavy and I am having trouble maintaining a remotely hospitable demeanor.  It starting waning as the keg sputtered dry, natch.

So as Karl flirts his face off with the unattainable Kate, and Bo prattles on and on passionately about MacBeth, and I think "Out out damn spot and damn bat and damn men and damn lights" I go around locking the doors I'd dashed through running from the bat, and blow out candles, and fold towels from the drier, and turn off the porch lights that seemed so inviting. True, I'd left the light on for them, and now, I've turned it off. I want to scream, "Thanks for your heroism, friends. It's been lovely, but now Mama needs her beauty sleep or her fabulous boyfriend Scott will think she's a hag in the morning, so please see yourselves out, and don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya." 

Or as Lars would have said, "Don't let the doorknob get stuck in your asshole."  He really had a way with words.

I begin to load the dishwasher. I audibly lock my car door with the remote. I yawn loudly enough that the cat seems startled.  I sit at the table and look at my watch. I smile a tight lipped fake smile at Bo, who seems to have picked up on the smoke signal. He makes a yeoman's attempt to pry Karl from his end-stage cling-fest with Kate.  Eventually, Karl caves and follows Bo out the door where I am sure they will fall down the steps. I hope they have cell phones. I am not calling 911 and prolonging things for one more minute.

Kate and I pile into our beds.  We are laughing still about our adventure. Truly, if I had to have a close encounter with a bat and act like a two year old and have to invite strange men into the house to help me, there is no better friend on the planet to have along for the ride.