It is remarkable how liberating sending that email was.
Joe responded, ALL CAPS, denying having said anything to Mom. A weak disavowing, just like his one to Mom about complaints about her.
But who cares, really?
I can not for my own sense of sanity get roped into the nonsense Estelle is so famous for churning up at all the most convenient moments.
The adolescent in me wants to defiantly go toe-to-toe with her. Play her game. Tell tales out of school. Recall in vivid, mind boggling detail, for all the people in her life, all the missteps she's made (in my estimation only and subject to my imagination and embellishment, just like her stories had been). Maybe she'd like to hear from her friends and family how little I thought of her at different times and what a huge disappointment she has been?
Let's be honest. The tales I could recall with very little intellectual effort would read like an Amy Winehouse memoir. Imagine what I could cough up if I asked around! Charlotte and my college roommate could fill volumes 3 and 4 without taking a breath.
But I decided it was not worth it. I had Christmas to look forward to and plans to make. Gifts to wrap and menus to plan. And I had Charlotte and her family. Love and Joy come to me.
Charlotte, though sitting ringside in the blood and sweat seats was holding her ground. Being the Peacemaker simply by being peaceful.
Mom was altering her plans. Funny how all the years of asking her to alter her plans could not accomplish that. Charlotte was open to some flexibility - so long as she could be at my house to participate in my family's little ahead-of-schedule Christmas on Christmas Eve as planned. Mom could bend to what was planned. My issues were not Charlotte's. This was not between Mom and Charlotte. It was an important distinction to make. Like the one I make about Charlotte's issue with the Open Door/XBox/Cat Poop debacle. I don't approve of Joe's conduct but it is not my home he is banished from (yet).
I had already arranged for the 3rd party delivery of my gifts to Mom and Bill and to Joe's kids. They'd been hand delivered to Joe's house a few days earlier. I had to assume that Mom would find a way to still see her ally Joe. And that between now and then Joe would make sure his youngest child did not tear open and attempt to destroy all of the gifts like she had in years gone by. Big assumption, but I was not about to waste a brain synapse on worrying about it.
Things, remarkably, were looking up. I was going to have a holly, jolly Christmas in spite of it all.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Moscow Rule 3 - Everyone is Potentially Under Opposition Control
And Joe certainly was now.
I am taking an educated guess here, but it would make sense to me that Joe, always on the brink of disaster, saw an opportunity in among all of Mom's rants to him. (She had not singled out Charlotte for the sheer pleasure of the experience. She'd told Joe a few stories around the campfire as well.) Joe, seeing a chink in my armor, took an opportunity to twist the knife a little more, so as to level the playing field a little. Improve his position by worsening mine. Typical sib rivalry. Typical Joe.
So on one of her subsequent rage fueled rants to Charlotte, which I am sure Charlotte prepared for with a Valium and a vodka chaser, Mom spun a little ditty about my charity work from the Summer of the Lawnmower.
Joe, clueless about all his transgressions and abuses of hospitality, seems to only focus on his recollection that I did not always pay him. That there were one or two times when I did not pay him at all. Complained to my mother about it. Nearly 4 years later. Nice.
Now, I know these things to be true:
1 - Mom often called me to say she'd "speak to Joe about doing my lawn once or twice for free," and that I would tell her that she did not need to do that. A deal is a deal, no matter how ill advised.
2 - That If I had not paid Joe on the spot, I'd paid him shortly thereafter. And if I'd failed to pay him in some way, I'd have been happy to make up for it had he mentioned it. And he would mention it; he asks for everything else - things from your home, food for his kids, $10 compensation when his kid attempted and failed to start my mower a couple of years back when Spring sprang early.
3 - He ate and drank and destroyed his way through more than $80 worth of food and drink and shrubbery without so much as a moment of guilt.
How dare he?
I ranted to Charlotte for 20 minutes or so and made matters worse by failing to refrain from shooting the messenger. And again, she was a very good sport.
I was feeling bilious and rammy. I decided to take action. Joe needs me more than he needs any temporary, fleeting, good will, favored son treatment from Mom. And now, I'd like him to regret his decision to throw me under the bus without hesitation and without merit.
I logged on to my computer and wrote Joe an email:
Joe - Mom seems to be under the impression that 4 years ago, when you were mowing my lawn, I did not properly pay you. I am wondering why she has that impression. To be clear, and I think you will recall:
I paid you $40 every time you mowed my lawn, even though the kid down the street was willing to do it for $25. You were unemployed so I helped you. I do recall there were one or two times when I did not pay you on the very day you mowed it, but I did pay you.
And while you were here, you helped yourself to showers, food, drinks (for yourself and your child(ren) and managed to mow down a tree that I had ordered and planted, and left you a note to avoid mowing over. Your son also helped himself to my son's video games.
And yet our mother seems to think I owe you something. Enlighten me, please. I even gave your kid $10 for attempting to mow my front lawn. This impression Mom has can only have come from you. So until I have an apology from one or both of you for gossiping to Charlotte about this, I don't believe I will be able to help you with your resume. I am not in a position to do any more favors. Good luck.
Send.
I am taking an educated guess here, but it would make sense to me that Joe, always on the brink of disaster, saw an opportunity in among all of Mom's rants to him. (She had not singled out Charlotte for the sheer pleasure of the experience. She'd told Joe a few stories around the campfire as well.) Joe, seeing a chink in my armor, took an opportunity to twist the knife a little more, so as to level the playing field a little. Improve his position by worsening mine. Typical sib rivalry. Typical Joe.
So on one of her subsequent rage fueled rants to Charlotte, which I am sure Charlotte prepared for with a Valium and a vodka chaser, Mom spun a little ditty about my charity work from the Summer of the Lawnmower.
Joe, clueless about all his transgressions and abuses of hospitality, seems to only focus on his recollection that I did not always pay him. That there were one or two times when I did not pay him at all. Complained to my mother about it. Nearly 4 years later. Nice.
Now, I know these things to be true:
1 - Mom often called me to say she'd "speak to Joe about doing my lawn once or twice for free," and that I would tell her that she did not need to do that. A deal is a deal, no matter how ill advised.
2 - That If I had not paid Joe on the spot, I'd paid him shortly thereafter. And if I'd failed to pay him in some way, I'd have been happy to make up for it had he mentioned it. And he would mention it; he asks for everything else - things from your home, food for his kids, $10 compensation when his kid attempted and failed to start my mower a couple of years back when Spring sprang early.
3 - He ate and drank and destroyed his way through more than $80 worth of food and drink and shrubbery without so much as a moment of guilt.
How dare he?
I ranted to Charlotte for 20 minutes or so and made matters worse by failing to refrain from shooting the messenger. And again, she was a very good sport.
I was feeling bilious and rammy. I decided to take action. Joe needs me more than he needs any temporary, fleeting, good will, favored son treatment from Mom. And now, I'd like him to regret his decision to throw me under the bus without hesitation and without merit.
I logged on to my computer and wrote Joe an email:
Joe - Mom seems to be under the impression that 4 years ago, when you were mowing my lawn, I did not properly pay you. I am wondering why she has that impression. To be clear, and I think you will recall:
I paid you $40 every time you mowed my lawn, even though the kid down the street was willing to do it for $25. You were unemployed so I helped you. I do recall there were one or two times when I did not pay you on the very day you mowed it, but I did pay you.
And while you were here, you helped yourself to showers, food, drinks (for yourself and your child(ren) and managed to mow down a tree that I had ordered and planted, and left you a note to avoid mowing over. Your son also helped himself to my son's video games.
And yet our mother seems to think I owe you something. Enlighten me, please. I even gave your kid $10 for attempting to mow my front lawn. This impression Mom has can only have come from you. So until I have an apology from one or both of you for gossiping to Charlotte about this, I don't believe I will be able to help you with your resume. I am not in a position to do any more favors. Good luck.
Send.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Moscow Rule 2 - Never Go Against Your Gut
My gut was in knots.
And like a grown up person with fully developed opinions and life skills of my own, I called Charlotte to tell her that I was feeling a little iffy about the decision.
Charlotte has way more guts than me when it comes to putting Joe in his place. Her reaction was quick and decisive and certain.
"Call that idiot back and tell him to forget it! He's a jerk to even accept your money, and your lawn is the size of a postage stamp! I'll get one of my boys to do it, for Christ's teeth!"
Maybe it was that I was still a little weak in the knees from all that had been happening as my marriage unraveled like a cheap sweater or maybe I was feeling like I should not tempt fate while my divorce settlement hung in the balance, but I just could not do it.
Live and learn. I would live to replay Charlotte's advice over and over in my head as the most trying summer of my life came vividly to life.
So Joe mowed my lawn the first time and did an admirable job. No complaints. I'd told him where I'd hidden the key and left him $40 on the dining room table. He did the rest.
And the second time he came, I noticed that my iced tea pitcher was replaced in the fridge with about a mouthful of tea left in the pitcher. Not even my kids would do that.
And then one day my son noticed that his gaming system was left on and games were all out of order. My daughter found snack wrappers and other debris in her room. It happened for several weeks in a row.
Once or twice I came home to find that my computer was on and grass clippings were all over the upstairs carpets.
And again, once or twice, I found used bath towels hung on the shower rod because Joe had decided to take a shower.
But the crowning glory was when I ordered and lovingly planted a Pink Smoke Tree, after a careful selection process I involved J. in, as a symbol of my fresh, new life. I had planted the little twiglet in a corner spot and surrounded it protectively with a little fence. I had written Joe a note and included a diagram indicating where it was so he could be careful not to mow over it.
And incredulously, he not only mowed over it, but moved the little fence so that he could mow in that spot which was mysteriously guarded by a fence for some reason!
And for all this, I dutifully kept my end of the bargain. Paid him $40 every time. Oh sure, there was a time or two I was short on cash and paid him a few days later, but I shelled out the 40 clams every time for service I could have gotten from the drunken retired landscaper up the street for an $8 six pack of canned Schlitz.
And yet still, 4 years later, my act of charity would come back to haunt me.
And like a grown up person with fully developed opinions and life skills of my own, I called Charlotte to tell her that I was feeling a little iffy about the decision.
Charlotte has way more guts than me when it comes to putting Joe in his place. Her reaction was quick and decisive and certain.
"Call that idiot back and tell him to forget it! He's a jerk to even accept your money, and your lawn is the size of a postage stamp! I'll get one of my boys to do it, for Christ's teeth!"
Maybe it was that I was still a little weak in the knees from all that had been happening as my marriage unraveled like a cheap sweater or maybe I was feeling like I should not tempt fate while my divorce settlement hung in the balance, but I just could not do it.
Live and learn. I would live to replay Charlotte's advice over and over in my head as the most trying summer of my life came vividly to life.
So Joe mowed my lawn the first time and did an admirable job. No complaints. I'd told him where I'd hidden the key and left him $40 on the dining room table. He did the rest.
And the second time he came, I noticed that my iced tea pitcher was replaced in the fridge with about a mouthful of tea left in the pitcher. Not even my kids would do that.
And then one day my son noticed that his gaming system was left on and games were all out of order. My daughter found snack wrappers and other debris in her room. It happened for several weeks in a row.
Once or twice I came home to find that my computer was on and grass clippings were all over the upstairs carpets.
And again, once or twice, I found used bath towels hung on the shower rod because Joe had decided to take a shower.
But the crowning glory was when I ordered and lovingly planted a Pink Smoke Tree, after a careful selection process I involved J. in, as a symbol of my fresh, new life. I had planted the little twiglet in a corner spot and surrounded it protectively with a little fence. I had written Joe a note and included a diagram indicating where it was so he could be careful not to mow over it.
And incredulously, he not only mowed over it, but moved the little fence so that he could mow in that spot which was mysteriously guarded by a fence for some reason!
And for all this, I dutifully kept my end of the bargain. Paid him $40 every time. Oh sure, there was a time or two I was short on cash and paid him a few days later, but I shelled out the 40 clams every time for service I could have gotten from the drunken retired landscaper up the street for an $8 six pack of canned Schlitz.
And yet still, 4 years later, my act of charity would come back to haunt me.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Moscow Rule 1 - Assume Nothing
As in, assume nothing is too low a blow.
Mom apparently saw fit to drag our brother into her brier patch to support her agenda, knowing that he is on thin ice on the best of days and any further disturbance to his tenuous position on the tightrope above the boiling pit of familial swill would only weaken his chances of survival.
C'est la vie. C'est la guerre. Estelle has a war to win.
Mom spun her yarn about some gross injustice I am rumored to have visited upon my brother nearly 4 years ago.
Mom apparently observes no statutes of limitation on anything.
The story, in a moldy little nutshell, is this:
In 2007 when my louse husband Lars had finally seen fit to take his hideous little horror show on the road and leave our so-called Marital Residence, he took almost everything.
Every stick of furniture I did not expressly bargain for in court.
Every CD and DVD.
Every piece of audio visual or sound equipment.
Every camera or recording device.
Every computer or peripheral appliance.
Every photo and family film.
Any item that was a gift from his friends or family, even if it were to me.
Every roll of toilet paper.
Every drop of laundry detergent.
Every bar of soap, bottle of shampoo, tube of toothpaste.
Glasswear, linens, food, sporting equipment.
All in the name of making me pay for dumping him so unceremoniously.
Oddly, he felt compelled either by fear of the wrath of the dead or that of my family to leave the snow blower my father had given us as a house warming when we bought the corner property with the 300 feet of sidewalk.
Evidently, he felt no compunction about taking the lawnmower, even though he would be living in a rented house where the landlord did the mowing.
Like I said. Louse.
I managed to do a little homework and buy myself a reasonably priced, decent lawnmower with enough gadgetry to get the job done. My sidewalk is huge, but the portion of the property requiring mowing is pretty reasonable. Much of the property is lushly planted and treed and it is a quick and easy job to mow it all.
An easy job, provided that you are not afraid of your lawnmower.
And to be truthful, I was afraid of my lawnmower. And my snow blower and my gas grill and my sump pump for that matter. These were not my areas of concentration as a married person. Wallpaper? That's me! Light fixtures? Let me at 'em! Decorative do-hickeys for cabinets and drawers? Right in my sweet spot! Large gas powered appliances whose purpose is to cut, char or remove by force? No thank you!
So, life gave me lemons. I got a little Jack Daniels and made some lemonade. And served it up to myself and others. A real treat.
Joe at the time was unemployed. And you can imagine how well that was going over with his shrew wife and her diabolical lack of patience and good will toward others. And while the kid up the street, whose mother made him do it, told me he'd mow my lawn for $25 any time I needed it done, I called Joe, or rather, Joe's answering machine, and told him/it if he'd like something to do, he could cut my lawn, with my mower and my gas and I'd pay him $40 to do it.
And seconds later, when he listened to the whole message he'd screened for reasons that still escape me, and called me back, he said he would do it.
Part of me felt pretty good. I was getting something and giving something too.
And part of me was filled with a sense of doom. No good deed goes unpunished in our family. I desperately wanted to call him back and tell him to forget it.
Mom apparently saw fit to drag our brother into her brier patch to support her agenda, knowing that he is on thin ice on the best of days and any further disturbance to his tenuous position on the tightrope above the boiling pit of familial swill would only weaken his chances of survival.
C'est la vie. C'est la guerre. Estelle has a war to win.
Mom spun her yarn about some gross injustice I am rumored to have visited upon my brother nearly 4 years ago.
Mom apparently observes no statutes of limitation on anything.
The story, in a moldy little nutshell, is this:
In 2007 when my louse husband Lars had finally seen fit to take his hideous little horror show on the road and leave our so-called Marital Residence, he took almost everything.
Every stick of furniture I did not expressly bargain for in court.
Every CD and DVD.
Every piece of audio visual or sound equipment.
Every camera or recording device.
Every computer or peripheral appliance.
Every photo and family film.
Any item that was a gift from his friends or family, even if it were to me.
Every roll of toilet paper.
Every drop of laundry detergent.
Every bar of soap, bottle of shampoo, tube of toothpaste.
Glasswear, linens, food, sporting equipment.
All in the name of making me pay for dumping him so unceremoniously.
Oddly, he felt compelled either by fear of the wrath of the dead or that of my family to leave the snow blower my father had given us as a house warming when we bought the corner property with the 300 feet of sidewalk.
Evidently, he felt no compunction about taking the lawnmower, even though he would be living in a rented house where the landlord did the mowing.
Like I said. Louse.
I managed to do a little homework and buy myself a reasonably priced, decent lawnmower with enough gadgetry to get the job done. My sidewalk is huge, but the portion of the property requiring mowing is pretty reasonable. Much of the property is lushly planted and treed and it is a quick and easy job to mow it all.
An easy job, provided that you are not afraid of your lawnmower.
And to be truthful, I was afraid of my lawnmower. And my snow blower and my gas grill and my sump pump for that matter. These were not my areas of concentration as a married person. Wallpaper? That's me! Light fixtures? Let me at 'em! Decorative do-hickeys for cabinets and drawers? Right in my sweet spot! Large gas powered appliances whose purpose is to cut, char or remove by force? No thank you!
So, life gave me lemons. I got a little Jack Daniels and made some lemonade. And served it up to myself and others. A real treat.
Joe at the time was unemployed. And you can imagine how well that was going over with his shrew wife and her diabolical lack of patience and good will toward others. And while the kid up the street, whose mother made him do it, told me he'd mow my lawn for $25 any time I needed it done, I called Joe, or rather, Joe's answering machine, and told him/it if he'd like something to do, he could cut my lawn, with my mower and my gas and I'd pay him $40 to do it.
And seconds later, when he listened to the whole message he'd screened for reasons that still escape me, and called me back, he said he would do it.
Part of me felt pretty good. I was getting something and giving something too.
And part of me was filled with a sense of doom. No good deed goes unpunished in our family. I desperately wanted to call him back and tell him to forget it.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
To Tell the Story...
Charlotte was being a very good sport.
She called me in between attacks to fill me in on the enemy’s position. It was familial espionage. Charlotte was employing the Moscow rules. A master.
I am sure the conviction in Mom’s tone was palpable. I am sure the name calling and the character defamation were vicious. I am sure hearing the tales of untold selfishness and deplorable conduct first hand was like a verbal disembowelment. I am sure Charlotte was visiting her local pharmacy for antacid and mood stabilizers on a daily basis.
But no matter how horrific the harangue, Charlotte would wordsmith her retelling so that I knew factually what had been imparted (and I am using the term “factually” admittedly very, very loosely…), but was spared all the hurtful, colorful, inflammatory descriptive accessorizing. God bless Charlotte.
Still, it was hard not to react.
The tidbit about me and Dad, though a low blow, was not something I a) could do anything to repair, or b) had any heartburn about. No merit to the accusation and therefore no reason to fire up a brainwave.
But the first shot into my camp from Joe’s platoon, no matter how matter of factly delivered by Charlotte, had the effect of acid into water. I was explosive. Immediately unhinged from all that is calm and reasonable and sailing into a shit storm of Oh-No-He-Didn’t lunatic ranting.
In spite of the fact that any words that cross Joe’s lips are suspect, and can be counted on to be uncommonly stupid and/or pathetically skewed to suit his limited comprehension of the big confusing world around him, and the fact that Charlotte was clear from the beginning that she thought the whole story was a big steaming, reeking platter of crap, I felt compelled to defend myself.
Strenuously defend myself. Loudly defend myself and with words you don’t say in polite company.
A Saturday morning full pot of coffee under my belt, I was not going to take this one sitting down.
She called me in between attacks to fill me in on the enemy’s position. It was familial espionage. Charlotte was employing the Moscow rules. A master.
I am sure the conviction in Mom’s tone was palpable. I am sure the name calling and the character defamation were vicious. I am sure hearing the tales of untold selfishness and deplorable conduct first hand was like a verbal disembowelment. I am sure Charlotte was visiting her local pharmacy for antacid and mood stabilizers on a daily basis.
But no matter how horrific the harangue, Charlotte would wordsmith her retelling so that I knew factually what had been imparted (and I am using the term “factually” admittedly very, very loosely…), but was spared all the hurtful, colorful, inflammatory descriptive accessorizing. God bless Charlotte.
Still, it was hard not to react.
The tidbit about me and Dad, though a low blow, was not something I a) could do anything to repair, or b) had any heartburn about. No merit to the accusation and therefore no reason to fire up a brainwave.
But the first shot into my camp from Joe’s platoon, no matter how matter of factly delivered by Charlotte, had the effect of acid into water. I was explosive. Immediately unhinged from all that is calm and reasonable and sailing into a shit storm of Oh-No-He-Didn’t lunatic ranting.
In spite of the fact that any words that cross Joe’s lips are suspect, and can be counted on to be uncommonly stupid and/or pathetically skewed to suit his limited comprehension of the big confusing world around him, and the fact that Charlotte was clear from the beginning that she thought the whole story was a big steaming, reeking platter of crap, I felt compelled to defend myself.
Strenuously defend myself. Loudly defend myself and with words you don’t say in polite company.
A Saturday morning full pot of coffee under my belt, I was not going to take this one sitting down.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Where Do I Begin?
And what followed the inception of that brilliant little scheme was nothing short of cloak and dagger comedy.
Why Charlotte had to listen to all of this remains a mystery. But I have to say, what sib doesn't enjoy a titillating story about another sib from the point of view of the parent who was dished to by another sib? It is gossip at its syrupy sweet best.
However, she starts with complaints that really can not be validated. They are alleged to have come from my father.
I have mentioned that he is deceased, no? Very classy mother, very classy.
She regales Charlotte with a tearful story about how my father was so upset when as a teenager, I suddenly and without explanation began to kiss him goodnight less regularly. How Dad was so upset. Crushed. Driven to tears.
Nice to hear I was responsible for such heartbreak as an adolescent. Especially now that I am crowding in on 50 and not able to make amends with dad, if amends were in order in the first place. And especially since whatever Dad's feeling's on the matter, they weren't enough to compel him to say or do anything different with me.
I am fairly confident, no, uncommonly confident, that whatever teenage rebelliousness I might have been going through with my "She's a Maniac" legwarmers and my Dorothy Hamel haircut, I overcame and realigned at some point by the time I went off to college. Dad and I had a lovely relationship. We got each other. I am sure he didn't go to his grave wondering what he might have done to deserve such abandonment. Good grief, he gave me away at my wedding.
I dismiss this little complaint as simply an episode that mom remembers so vividly because she was not there to observe its resolution. It's hard to observe the frequent shifts in dynamics from another county where you've shacked up with someone else's throwaway husband.
And in my own defense, I blame Leanna Chuckwagon. She had the party where I met my prom date and drank my first beer from a tapped keg. And then began to keep a social calendar that included all manner of keg parties with garage bands and absentee parents. What better reason to skip the kiss goodnight than reeking like Michelob?
But the list would go on. Estelle was just scratching the surface with her jagged little nails.
Why Charlotte had to listen to all of this remains a mystery. But I have to say, what sib doesn't enjoy a titillating story about another sib from the point of view of the parent who was dished to by another sib? It is gossip at its syrupy sweet best.
However, she starts with complaints that really can not be validated. They are alleged to have come from my father.
I have mentioned that he is deceased, no? Very classy mother, very classy.
She regales Charlotte with a tearful story about how my father was so upset when as a teenager, I suddenly and without explanation began to kiss him goodnight less regularly. How Dad was so upset. Crushed. Driven to tears.
Nice to hear I was responsible for such heartbreak as an adolescent. Especially now that I am crowding in on 50 and not able to make amends with dad, if amends were in order in the first place. And especially since whatever Dad's feeling's on the matter, they weren't enough to compel him to say or do anything different with me.
I am fairly confident, no, uncommonly confident, that whatever teenage rebelliousness I might have been going through with my "She's a Maniac" legwarmers and my Dorothy Hamel haircut, I overcame and realigned at some point by the time I went off to college. Dad and I had a lovely relationship. We got each other. I am sure he didn't go to his grave wondering what he might have done to deserve such abandonment. Good grief, he gave me away at my wedding.
I dismiss this little complaint as simply an episode that mom remembers so vividly because she was not there to observe its resolution. It's hard to observe the frequent shifts in dynamics from another county where you've shacked up with someone else's throwaway husband.
And in my own defense, I blame Leanna Chuckwagon. She had the party where I met my prom date and drank my first beer from a tapped keg. And then began to keep a social calendar that included all manner of keg parties with garage bands and absentee parents. What better reason to skip the kiss goodnight than reeking like Michelob?
But the list would go on. Estelle was just scratching the surface with her jagged little nails.
Friday, January 21, 2011
War, What Is It Good For?
Turns out Mom is a formidable war tactician.
Lucky me.
Joe's support in this conflict, as I've alluded, is a fairly fungible. It's hard to place value on and I'd gladly forfeit it in favor of something of genuine honest-to-goodness worth. Not necessary to have, not a tragedy to go without. Doesn't carry much political clout.
Charlotte's backing, on the other hand, is as politically valuable as an NRA endorsement or even that of the tobacco industry in a close political race. Definitely worth having, if I were the lobbying sort.
So Joe's weak and spineless disavowing of my comments, when he and Mom both know in their hearts of hearts that he agrees with me, is a fairly meaningless endorsement of Estelle's cause. Not many electoral votes to be had.
But Charlotte's endorsement is the motherload. And worth stumping for.
So Mom goes marching along the campaign trail criticizing and clutching her pearls in horror. On her soap box and kissing all the babies she can.
And oddly, slinging a little ill-advised mud along the way.
She of course has contacted the Lushes. She'll need to do some tap dancing there to explain why she might have a little less flexibility in her cocktail hour schedule. So empathetic are they, they are going to throw a little party for her. (Good, I can reduce my Wine and Spirits budget by half!)
But since she's had a conversation with Charlotte about the letter and Charlotte did not give a ringing endorsement of Mom's cause, there is still some work to be done. The fact that Charlotte did not scream and yell and name call and swear like a sailor gives Mom hope that Charlotte is an undecided voter that a few strategically placed phone calls can sway.
In no particular order, Mom sets about dredging up all manner of indiscretions that she can recall, however inaccurately and however poorly informed, to sling some carefully aimed mud so that my sister's loyalty to me is shaken like a play-at-home version of Arlen Spector.
And this friends is how wars are won: Don't attack the enemy directly. Attempt to strip them of their allies so you can leave them vulnerable to all of their opponents.
There is nothing quite like a mother's unconditional love.
Lucky me.
Joe's support in this conflict, as I've alluded, is a fairly fungible. It's hard to place value on and I'd gladly forfeit it in favor of something of genuine honest-to-goodness worth. Not necessary to have, not a tragedy to go without. Doesn't carry much political clout.
Charlotte's backing, on the other hand, is as politically valuable as an NRA endorsement or even that of the tobacco industry in a close political race. Definitely worth having, if I were the lobbying sort.
So Joe's weak and spineless disavowing of my comments, when he and Mom both know in their hearts of hearts that he agrees with me, is a fairly meaningless endorsement of Estelle's cause. Not many electoral votes to be had.
But Charlotte's endorsement is the motherload. And worth stumping for.
So Mom goes marching along the campaign trail criticizing and clutching her pearls in horror. On her soap box and kissing all the babies she can.
And oddly, slinging a little ill-advised mud along the way.
She of course has contacted the Lushes. She'll need to do some tap dancing there to explain why she might have a little less flexibility in her cocktail hour schedule. So empathetic are they, they are going to throw a little party for her. (Good, I can reduce my Wine and Spirits budget by half!)
But since she's had a conversation with Charlotte about the letter and Charlotte did not give a ringing endorsement of Mom's cause, there is still some work to be done. The fact that Charlotte did not scream and yell and name call and swear like a sailor gives Mom hope that Charlotte is an undecided voter that a few strategically placed phone calls can sway.
In no particular order, Mom sets about dredging up all manner of indiscretions that she can recall, however inaccurately and however poorly informed, to sling some carefully aimed mud so that my sister's loyalty to me is shaken like a play-at-home version of Arlen Spector.
And this friends is how wars are won: Don't attack the enemy directly. Attempt to strip them of their allies so you can leave them vulnerable to all of their opponents.
There is nothing quite like a mother's unconditional love.
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