All the hellos have been said, the coats have been stowed, the kids are inspecting the myriad serving dishes of treats and hors d’oevres that Charlotte and Jack have prepared.
Jack offers cocktails. Asks what we’d like to drink. Scott replies that we’d like to drink what he is drinking. He says he’s having a Bicycle Thief. Would we like to try one?
I inquire, “If I have to tell my mother to stop talking, will it make me brave enough to do so, without slurring my words?” He’s not sure about the slurring but the bravery is covered.
Yes, please. We’ll take two.
Moments later Jack appears with two brightly colored drinks. Salve for my wounded nerve endings.
We take seats in the living room with Charlotte and Jack's boys. Another moment passes, and Jack appears with a beautiful dish containing some yummy looking smoked sausages and dipping sauce. As he proudly enters the room, Bill stops him and says, “Jooomeeeeyafaveurrrrrrannnncuddeminhaffffffffffff.”
A whino says what?
Loosely translated by Scott, Bill had intended to ask Jack to slice the sausages in half before serving them. Wouldn’t want anyone to choke because their swallowing reflexes have been anesthetized beyond the point of involuntary functioning. Don’t laugh, it’s happened. All I want for Christmas is a Heimlich Maneuver and a stomach pump.
Glances around the room are exchanged and Jack retreats to the kitchen to comply with the request. I am sure the next one will be to mechanically soften the salmon and to emulsify the spiral ham. Note to self: Buy PEG tube on eBay for next birthday.
Bill doesn’t even eat the freakin’ sausage now that Jack has Ginsued and sliced and diced them down to toddler-ready tidbits. He’s in the kitchen having another round of ill-advised cocktails.
After a short time, Scott and I are presented with two fresh drinks, courtesy of Jack. This is a Bicycle Thief concoction also, but made with OJ instead of grapefruit juice, because “Bill doesn’t like grapefruit.” Jack says this with an implied, “Pain in the ass, that he is” tacked onto the end of the sentence. Bill sure knows how to work the crowd.
The games have begun, and at some point, for lapses in reason that I can not explain, Scott and Bill and Mom and I find ourselves confined to the kitchen alone together. Bill is prattling on and on about an expensive camera he bought and the fact that a camera you spend that much money on should have a little instruction book included (well, it did, but it was online, where most users of that camera would be happy to have it, but that is assuming a lot about Bill and Estelle. Just saying.) But to them, it didn’t, so they took "that thing" back and got this nifty little camera, and “just look at all the great pictures we’ve taken…” No really. Look at them all. And what followed was us having to seem to enjoy looking at dozens and dozens of pictures of road signs with double entendres and bumper stickers with racial epithets that they’ve stopped on the road side to memorialize on film for all posterity. Even Mom gets bored and sees an opportunity to exit, Stage Left, on the double.
And then Bill wants a photo of us. Me and Scott. And I lean in close to Scott to be photographed, but first kiss him on the cheek. And out of nowhere Bill objects and takes offense. Makes a snarky remark as though I am his 12 year old daughter doing something beyond my maturity level. Like lighting up a doobie.
And for the umteenth Christmas in a row, I know what it is like to want to vanish.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Beating Around the Christmas Tree
Charlotte is in a panic and so am I. There goes another joyous holiday up in smoke thanks to our ding-a-ling brother.
Or maybe not.
Charlotte reports no whining, pleading, all-I-want-for-Christmas-is-this-one-small-gift-of-my-family-together-who-knows-how-many-Christmases-I-have-left phone calls from Estelle. And I have none as well. I was vacuuming up pounds of pine needles when she rang my cell phone, and I missed the call/dodged the bullet. But when I listened to the message, there was only the usual longitude, latitude, price of gas, mile-marker, times of departure and estimated arrival, and traffic situation reports, but no unsolicited lunatic ramblings about the pickle my brother is in thanks again to his shrew wife.
She is set to arrive at Charlotte's at about 2:30. I expect to be there at 3. Maybe a few minutes early to derail any pregame lunacy that will likely be the result of my brother’s situation looming and a pre-Charlotte visit to Bill’s son’s widow who was as on The Outs as I was last year. An encounter fraught with the potential for disaster for sure. And bloodshed. And arrest warrants. Happy fucking holidays. Your bail is set at 1 million dollars.
Scott and his younger daughter arrive in time to help Hil straighten her hair, and Pat to pick a suitable ensemble, and to calm my nerves, which are shredded and frayed like a much abused cat toy.
After carefully packing the cars, we head in the direction of Charlotte’s and Jack’s and I am coaching the children on the way, hoping that they only minimally insult Estelle and Bill with their unedited comments. I educate them on the beauty of gift receipts and explain the long term value of graciousness. Admit that I am not entirely sure what is going on with Grandmomstella’s hair and no, I don’t understand much of what Pop Pop Bill says, either. It is a lot to absorb in a 15 minute car ride.
We get there and Charlotte greets me at the door. Taking my tray of cookies and Maple Walnut spread from my hands, she leans in for a kiss and tells me, “They are already at it. Already rehashed the visit to you at the cottage two summers ago and are currently arguing about what to do about Joe.” Yay. Is it too late to turn around?
I introduce Scott to my mother and Bill. Scott remembers her from her appearance at school in her nightgown and rusted out car (who wouldn’t?). She doesn’t remember him (senility). Then she reintroduces Bill to Scott, as though I’d forgotten to.
No, I did introduce them. It was a quick cover for being completely grossed out the door that Bill had tried to kiss me on the lips.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwww.
My brother does that. It completely grosses Charlotte and me out. My father did not kiss my lips. Why should my brother and step-father think it is OK? I don’t even want Pat to develop that habit. Only one man kisses my lips. And that is Scott. As it should be. A kiss on the cheek offends no one. A kiss on the mouth is another story altogether.
And this story is off to a rocky start.
Or maybe not.
Charlotte reports no whining, pleading, all-I-want-for-Christmas-is-this-one-small-gift-of-my-family-together-who-knows-how-many-Christmases-I-have-left phone calls from Estelle. And I have none as well. I was vacuuming up pounds of pine needles when she rang my cell phone, and I missed the call/dodged the bullet. But when I listened to the message, there was only the usual longitude, latitude, price of gas, mile-marker, times of departure and estimated arrival, and traffic situation reports, but no unsolicited lunatic ramblings about the pickle my brother is in thanks again to his shrew wife.
She is set to arrive at Charlotte's at about 2:30. I expect to be there at 3. Maybe a few minutes early to derail any pregame lunacy that will likely be the result of my brother’s situation looming and a pre-Charlotte visit to Bill’s son’s widow who was as on The Outs as I was last year. An encounter fraught with the potential for disaster for sure. And bloodshed. And arrest warrants. Happy fucking holidays. Your bail is set at 1 million dollars.
Scott and his younger daughter arrive in time to help Hil straighten her hair, and Pat to pick a suitable ensemble, and to calm my nerves, which are shredded and frayed like a much abused cat toy.
After carefully packing the cars, we head in the direction of Charlotte’s and Jack’s and I am coaching the children on the way, hoping that they only minimally insult Estelle and Bill with their unedited comments. I educate them on the beauty of gift receipts and explain the long term value of graciousness. Admit that I am not entirely sure what is going on with Grandmomstella’s hair and no, I don’t understand much of what Pop Pop Bill says, either. It is a lot to absorb in a 15 minute car ride.
We get there and Charlotte greets me at the door. Taking my tray of cookies and Maple Walnut spread from my hands, she leans in for a kiss and tells me, “They are already at it. Already rehashed the visit to you at the cottage two summers ago and are currently arguing about what to do about Joe.” Yay. Is it too late to turn around?
I introduce Scott to my mother and Bill. Scott remembers her from her appearance at school in her nightgown and rusted out car (who wouldn’t?). She doesn’t remember him (senility). Then she reintroduces Bill to Scott, as though I’d forgotten to.
No, I did introduce them. It was a quick cover for being completely grossed out the door that Bill had tried to kiss me on the lips.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwww.
My brother does that. It completely grosses Charlotte and me out. My father did not kiss my lips. Why should my brother and step-father think it is OK? I don’t even want Pat to develop that habit. Only one man kisses my lips. And that is Scott. As it should be. A kiss on the cheek offends no one. A kiss on the mouth is another story altogether.
And this story is off to a rocky start.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
What a Difference a Year Makes
And so, right or wrong, Joe threatens to worm his way into the holiday celebration with this little tale of woe, whether the threat to him his real or feigned.
This we know:
- Joe's wife is a shrew and is perfectly capable of doing something as awful as this without a moment of guilt.
- Estelle is aware. Hence all the documenting.
- Joe is blissfully unaware of the potential for his life to completely unravel before his eyes and is more focused on being mad at his wife. He has no idea that if she goes through with her threats, his life will become incredibly difficult and unhappy and she will relish every turn of the screw.
- As good Catholic people who strive to see the face of Christ in others, Charlotte and I should be embracing and supporting our brother in his time of need. Yet we struggle to be able to even form the words “Why don’t you come for Christmas?" for all the choking on the bile.
- Estelle is manipulative enough to use the last two points to pressure either Charlotte or me into caving and extending an invitation to Joe.
Invited or not, Joe will dominate the holiday, with either his horrifying depiction of these latest events over too many cocktails and overly loud conversation, or by so consuming our mother (who now, no doubt is on a mission that surpasses the enormity of anything NASA ever undertook) that she does nothing else but ramble on and on about Joe or his shrew wife, again, over too many cocktails and overly loud conversation.
She will start with Charlotte since she’s hosting Christmas Eve. If Charlotte caves, (and I am sure she won’t unless the Blessed Mother comes walking right into her living room declaring that she is revoking the Get Out of Hell Free card this instant unless she does) then I will just have to endure the warping effects it will all have on the holiday celebration, and have to explain the essence of my brother to Scott, who will be surprised to learn that Joe is not at all like his two high-functioning sisters, and he should not expect to find a pal.
If Charlotte holds her ground, Estelle will hit me up for a little hospitality. And while it would be safe to assume that I have a pretty good excuse not to have any guests (I have the kids until noon on Christmas Day and then will bee-line it to Scott’s directly from the curb in front of Lars’ house), I really don’t. Not if you are Estelle.
No. She will think it is perfectly fine to assume she can come to your home when you are not there, turn up your heat, prepare a nice meal in your kitchen, rifle through your papers and mail and belongings and invite Joe and his three unruly children over for a few hours. Again, to take the usual liberties with your home, your possessions, and all manner of hospitality.
And this is precisely what she’d suggested last year, and exactly where the fight began.
I feel an encore performance coming on.
This we know:
- Joe's wife is a shrew and is perfectly capable of doing something as awful as this without a moment of guilt.
- Estelle is aware. Hence all the documenting.
- Joe is blissfully unaware of the potential for his life to completely unravel before his eyes and is more focused on being mad at his wife. He has no idea that if she goes through with her threats, his life will become incredibly difficult and unhappy and she will relish every turn of the screw.
- As good Catholic people who strive to see the face of Christ in others, Charlotte and I should be embracing and supporting our brother in his time of need. Yet we struggle to be able to even form the words “Why don’t you come for Christmas?" for all the choking on the bile.
- Estelle is manipulative enough to use the last two points to pressure either Charlotte or me into caving and extending an invitation to Joe.
Invited or not, Joe will dominate the holiday, with either his horrifying depiction of these latest events over too many cocktails and overly loud conversation, or by so consuming our mother (who now, no doubt is on a mission that surpasses the enormity of anything NASA ever undertook) that she does nothing else but ramble on and on about Joe or his shrew wife, again, over too many cocktails and overly loud conversation.
She will start with Charlotte since she’s hosting Christmas Eve. If Charlotte caves, (and I am sure she won’t unless the Blessed Mother comes walking right into her living room declaring that she is revoking the Get Out of Hell Free card this instant unless she does) then I will just have to endure the warping effects it will all have on the holiday celebration, and have to explain the essence of my brother to Scott, who will be surprised to learn that Joe is not at all like his two high-functioning sisters, and he should not expect to find a pal.
If Charlotte holds her ground, Estelle will hit me up for a little hospitality. And while it would be safe to assume that I have a pretty good excuse not to have any guests (I have the kids until noon on Christmas Day and then will bee-line it to Scott’s directly from the curb in front of Lars’ house), I really don’t. Not if you are Estelle.
No. She will think it is perfectly fine to assume she can come to your home when you are not there, turn up your heat, prepare a nice meal in your kitchen, rifle through your papers and mail and belongings and invite Joe and his three unruly children over for a few hours. Again, to take the usual liberties with your home, your possessions, and all manner of hospitality.
And this is precisely what she’d suggested last year, and exactly where the fight began.
I feel an encore performance coming on.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
The Taming of the Shrew
Seems Joe has gone and gotten himself into a nasty little tangle with his shrew wife and she is making his life ever the more miserable and becoming more and more aggressive. It’s almost like she wants him to think she wants to get rid of him but doesn’t really want to. She is just acting out because she lacks the ability to actually conduct herself within the confines of conventional adult marital decorum.
Merry Christmas, here is my latest threat to divorce you all wrapped up in a bow.
So just before Christmas he texts me at work. Which almost never happens.
“Call me.”
OK I know that this is not going to be nothing. It is not going to be “What size does Hil wear?” or “Does Pat already have this video game?” Someone is dead. Or nearly dead. Or threatening to be dead. Or something equally as interesting.
So I call. He answers sounding fine. I check Someone is Dead off my mental check list.
I say “What is going on?”
He says, “Not much. How ‘bout you?”
It's Who’s On First only considerably more aggravating. I am actually working on something of some import and do not have time to engage in what is sure to be a completely inane conversation.
“Joe, you asked me to call you.”
“Oh, well my holidays just got that much more interesting.” And with those words proceeds to meander aimlessly through his story of how his shrew wife has made her most recent attempt to ruin his life to the extent that it doesn’t inadvertently ruin hers.
I tell him matter of factly to defend himself, but suggest also that he go on the offensive. Bank on her not being prepared for that. I ask a few questions, make a few suggestions. And I am concerned that he seems to want to talk while I’m talking.
“Joe,” I interrupt. “Are you writing any of this down? You are going to have to hire a lawyer and it will be easier and cheaper if you walk in with documentation.”
“Oh!” he says proudly. “Mom’s writing down all this documentation for me.”
“Mom? She’s 9 hours away. What good is her documentation? Write down everything we just talked about. Get off the phone with me and write it down. I have to go, good luck.”
I text Charlotte. I am sure she’s not been apprised.
And then I text Joe. I text a list of everything he needs to document and remind him to write down specific examples. I don’t have the slightest inclination to be sucked into his trouble – he just has to go through it and get to the other side.
But the Charlotte in me is worried that he will hang himself with his own stupidity. And there is a part of me that won’t be able to just let that happen if I can help it.
Merry Christmas, here is my latest threat to divorce you all wrapped up in a bow.
So just before Christmas he texts me at work. Which almost never happens.
“Call me.”
OK I know that this is not going to be nothing. It is not going to be “What size does Hil wear?” or “Does Pat already have this video game?” Someone is dead. Or nearly dead. Or threatening to be dead. Or something equally as interesting.
So I call. He answers sounding fine. I check Someone is Dead off my mental check list.
I say “What is going on?”
He says, “Not much. How ‘bout you?”
It's Who’s On First only considerably more aggravating. I am actually working on something of some import and do not have time to engage in what is sure to be a completely inane conversation.
“Joe, you asked me to call you.”
“Oh, well my holidays just got that much more interesting.” And with those words proceeds to meander aimlessly through his story of how his shrew wife has made her most recent attempt to ruin his life to the extent that it doesn’t inadvertently ruin hers.
I tell him matter of factly to defend himself, but suggest also that he go on the offensive. Bank on her not being prepared for that. I ask a few questions, make a few suggestions. And I am concerned that he seems to want to talk while I’m talking.
“Joe,” I interrupt. “Are you writing any of this down? You are going to have to hire a lawyer and it will be easier and cheaper if you walk in with documentation.”
“Oh!” he says proudly. “Mom’s writing down all this documentation for me.”
“Mom? She’s 9 hours away. What good is her documentation? Write down everything we just talked about. Get off the phone with me and write it down. I have to go, good luck.”
I text Charlotte. I am sure she’s not been apprised.
And then I text Joe. I text a list of everything he needs to document and remind him to write down specific examples. I don’t have the slightest inclination to be sucked into his trouble – he just has to go through it and get to the other side.
But the Charlotte in me is worried that he will hang himself with his own stupidity. And there is a part of me that won’t be able to just let that happen if I can help it.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Sins of Omission
And this year as in so many others past, there was the elephant-in-the-room question, “What about Joe?”
It’s the gift that keeps on giving. The perpetual font. The eternity pool of swill that will forever torment all of us and grasp at the loose thread of our holiday tapestry and unravel it like a cheap sweater.
In big families, as I’ve said before, Joe would not be an issue. Every family has one of those relatives. The guest that defaults to whatever party he has not been specifically banned from attending who no one wants to specifically invite. But in a big family, the qualities that render him uninvitable would be diluted by so much family. And in big families, no one takes a headcount, because chances are, you have too many people to notice if one was left off the list. Too many people to keep track of. Maybe one is on vacation in Miami. Maybe one is in jail. Maybe one has better plans. It is not a glaring omission.
But in small families – where there are only 3 sibs, the omission is in fact glaring. Like a flare. A caution flag. A strobe.
And maybe Estelle knew she was on thin ice this year and didn’t push the issue much. Charlotte nearly caved again and thought about inviting him. Or maybe she really really needs that Get Out of Hell Free card, but she sent me a text asking me if she thought it was a good idea.
Ok, maybe good is a strong word. She really meant to ask if she was out of her cotton-pickin’ mind to even be considering such a hare brained idea.
She says she would make it very clear that it is for Mom’s benefit only and would not become a regular thing.
Let’s be even clearer. Nothing is clear to Mom. She says she understands and says to herself that you really don't mean that and everything will be hunky-dory forever and ever amen.
And it will be even less clear to our brother, who is even more dimly-witted and who will assume all the sins have been forgotten and that he can resume behaving like an ass and taking the usual liberties with your home, your possessions, and all manner of hospitality. Your patience will be hacked to collops in a matter of minutes.
I write back:
I think it would be nice. But you know with him you have to set limits like “I will fire a gun at you if you arrive before X time, and you and your merry band of trolls must have said your goodbyes and be in your car, and said car must be moving down the street away from my home at a reasonably high speed by Y time or there will be bloodshed. And do not leave Mom to do the inviting. I realize you’d rather burst into flame than speak to him but if you let her extend the invitation it will not be menacing enough and both of them will “ take liberties.” That is where our problems began last year. If you do not show him the love, hers will be the first shot over the bow. And Estelle never misses.I encouraged her to make the decision soberly and in consultation with her family.
She didn’t need to. She decided against martyrdom and skipped the whole thing.
But that was before Joe called with his latest news just a day before Christmas Eve.
It’s the gift that keeps on giving. The perpetual font. The eternity pool of swill that will forever torment all of us and grasp at the loose thread of our holiday tapestry and unravel it like a cheap sweater.
In big families, as I’ve said before, Joe would not be an issue. Every family has one of those relatives. The guest that defaults to whatever party he has not been specifically banned from attending who no one wants to specifically invite. But in a big family, the qualities that render him uninvitable would be diluted by so much family. And in big families, no one takes a headcount, because chances are, you have too many people to notice if one was left off the list. Too many people to keep track of. Maybe one is on vacation in Miami. Maybe one is in jail. Maybe one has better plans. It is not a glaring omission.
But in small families – where there are only 3 sibs, the omission is in fact glaring. Like a flare. A caution flag. A strobe.
And maybe Estelle knew she was on thin ice this year and didn’t push the issue much. Charlotte nearly caved again and thought about inviting him. Or maybe she really really needs that Get Out of Hell Free card, but she sent me a text asking me if she thought it was a good idea.
Ok, maybe good is a strong word. She really meant to ask if she was out of her cotton-pickin’ mind to even be considering such a hare brained idea.
She says she would make it very clear that it is for Mom’s benefit only and would not become a regular thing.
Let’s be even clearer. Nothing is clear to Mom. She says she understands and says to herself that you really don't mean that and everything will be hunky-dory forever and ever amen.
And it will be even less clear to our brother, who is even more dimly-witted and who will assume all the sins have been forgotten and that he can resume behaving like an ass and taking the usual liberties with your home, your possessions, and all manner of hospitality. Your patience will be hacked to collops in a matter of minutes.
I write back:
I think it would be nice. But you know with him you have to set limits like “I will fire a gun at you if you arrive before X time, and you and your merry band of trolls must have said your goodbyes and be in your car, and said car must be moving down the street away from my home at a reasonably high speed by Y time or there will be bloodshed. And do not leave Mom to do the inviting. I realize you’d rather burst into flame than speak to him but if you let her extend the invitation it will not be menacing enough and both of them will “ take liberties.” That is where our problems began last year. If you do not show him the love, hers will be the first shot over the bow. And Estelle never misses.I encouraged her to make the decision soberly and in consultation with her family.
She didn’t need to. She decided against martyrdom and skipped the whole thing.
But that was before Joe called with his latest news just a day before Christmas Eve.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
I Wish I Had a River I Could Skate Away On
And then there is Mom’s annual pilgrimage north. Across the colonies to blow in like a hurricane for the holidays. If you pay attention you can tell she’s coming. Animals start running. Birds take flight. There is a stillness as the world braces itself for the event.
Last year I didn’t see her. An ill-fated phone call, a couple of nasty voicemails, and then a poison pen letter from me cast the deciding vote on whether or not Estelle would be making an appearance at my house. She had waivered at one point, then a dusting of snow caused her to panic and bail out early. But not before having two huge fights with her two BFFs – the primary friend and the run-off vote friend. When she fought with the one, she picked the second string to keep her company. And when that went south (probably over a difference in voting history or something else she finds terribly important) she found herself having to make an excuse to leave town at the crack of dawn on Christmas Day. Never saw my kids.
But this year, since we’ve called a truce, (not to be confused with signing a peace treaty, it is just a truce), she is planning on seeing the whole family.
And we are all refilling our anti-anxiety medications from last year.
Since the primary friend remains on the lam from Mom, Mom has been in touch with the run off friend to scrounge up a potential place to stay. This is a friend who famously gave her a gift one year that included a pillar candle that unfortunately, an not unnoticed by Mom, had been burned. Flagrant gift giving foul. Flags all over the playing field. But there is lodging at stake so she's conveniently forgiven that for now.
But this friend has had some issues and though she's been a little reticent to tell Mom all the presumably gory details, Mom has deduced from 5 states away that Run Off Friend has had a colostomy. And since Mom is here to celebrate the holidays, and isn't the "Here, let-me-take-care-of-you-while-you-are-down-on-your-luck" type, she's not jazzed about staying with her and her "pain-in-the-ass" husband. Come on now, she has a lifting restriction! Mom is sure the house isn't even decorated! And what fun are you if you can't even carry a tray of blender drinks from the kitchen for your guests?
Anyway, to get to the point, Charlotte has heard the rant and in some moment of weakness, or an attempt to secure a Get Out of Hell Free Card, has invited Estelle and her very own pain-in-the-ass Bill to stay with her and Jack and their boys for the few days they are here.
So, forget the Peace On Earth. Any notion of that will be shattered to smithereens the moment Estelle crosses the threshold.
I hope Charlotte has been to the liquor store. She's going to need a jumbo cocktail as they pull into the driveway for a long winter's night.
Last year I didn’t see her. An ill-fated phone call, a couple of nasty voicemails, and then a poison pen letter from me cast the deciding vote on whether or not Estelle would be making an appearance at my house. She had waivered at one point, then a dusting of snow caused her to panic and bail out early. But not before having two huge fights with her two BFFs – the primary friend and the run-off vote friend. When she fought with the one, she picked the second string to keep her company. And when that went south (probably over a difference in voting history or something else she finds terribly important) she found herself having to make an excuse to leave town at the crack of dawn on Christmas Day. Never saw my kids.
But this year, since we’ve called a truce, (not to be confused with signing a peace treaty, it is just a truce), she is planning on seeing the whole family.
And we are all refilling our anti-anxiety medications from last year.
Since the primary friend remains on the lam from Mom, Mom has been in touch with the run off friend to scrounge up a potential place to stay. This is a friend who famously gave her a gift one year that included a pillar candle that unfortunately, an not unnoticed by Mom, had been burned. Flagrant gift giving foul. Flags all over the playing field. But there is lodging at stake so she's conveniently forgiven that for now.
But this friend has had some issues and though she's been a little reticent to tell Mom all the presumably gory details, Mom has deduced from 5 states away that Run Off Friend has had a colostomy. And since Mom is here to celebrate the holidays, and isn't the "Here, let-me-take-care-of-you-while-you-are-down-on-your-luck" type, she's not jazzed about staying with her and her "pain-in-the-ass" husband. Come on now, she has a lifting restriction! Mom is sure the house isn't even decorated! And what fun are you if you can't even carry a tray of blender drinks from the kitchen for your guests?
Anyway, to get to the point, Charlotte has heard the rant and in some moment of weakness, or an attempt to secure a Get Out of Hell Free Card, has invited Estelle and her very own pain-in-the-ass Bill to stay with her and Jack and their boys for the few days they are here.
So, forget the Peace On Earth. Any notion of that will be shattered to smithereens the moment Estelle crosses the threshold.
I hope Charlotte has been to the liquor store. She's going to need a jumbo cocktail as they pull into the driveway for a long winter's night.
Puttin Up Reindeer, Singin' Songs of Joy and Peace
Break out the mood stabilizers. Christmas is coming. Coming like the dawn. No avoiding it.
And on one hand, I am thrilled. I am spending another Christmas standing under the mistletoe with Scott. I will wake up with the kids on Christmas morning and enjoy all of our rituals without pretending it is Christmas one day early. And I have planned and pushed myself to make the biggest impression on my kids. Squeezed the most joy into our time together. Concentrated the festivities. Saturated our on-again-off-again custody schedule with a much fun as the season has to offer.
Decorated the house our first weekend together so that when they returned to me two weeks later, it would me like stepping into Santa's workshop.
Maintained our ritual of picking out the tree and walking it home in our little red wagon.
Decorated the tree as a family and listened to Christmas carols as we strung the lights and draped the ribbons.
Baked cookies, ate cookies and baked some more cookies. More than I will be able to eat and/or give away.
Went to see train displays and doll house exhibits and Christmas crafts.
Lit candles, illuminated outdoor trees, hung wreaths, burned Dad's famous incense.
Slowed down to drink eggnog and watch a few Christmas classics piled on the sofa. Laundry be damned.
But as I wait for Christmas to come upon a midnight clear, it seems that every year panic, and chaos, and havoc and even few real asswipes come a-caroling first.
Let's start with the asswipe with the frequent flier plan - Lars.
You might imagine that someone with the motherload of emotional SNAFUs of epic proportion such as Lars would be the first in line to collect his boarding pass for Dementia Express Flight 302 to The Loony Bin.
You would be correct. At least in assuming that he'd go sailing over the edge.
This year is no different and he has done his darndest to manipulate the whole situation. Tried to jockey for more time with the kids - for his birthday, for a trip at Thanksgiving, for the entire week between Christmas and New Years because he can take the whole week off from work and stay home with them, you know, as a favor to me.
And when I would not agree to any of it, and instead outfoxed the fox, he agreed to an arrangement he does not like. Mostly because the children are in my clutches for far too long a stretch of time and God Only Knows what kind of spell I'll cast.
And while he's held it somewhat together for a while, this weekend he went around the bend over something relatively minor. Kate had a party when her parents came to town. (We'll get to that.) And Scott and the kids and I attended with bells on. Lars had attempted to call the kids but could not reach anyone and was pissed. The party was early (these ARE senior citizens) and we were on the road by 6 pm to get there with a bottle of wine and two hors d'oeuvres and Kate's belated birthday gift and a one-of-a-kind card making a Marie Antoinette joke. Hil and Pat left their phones at home. My phone was in the designated coat room in my purse buried under so many wool coats. Lars evidently dialed his little sausage fingers off with no luck. I'm surprised all the calls didn't start a small smoldering house fire.
And the next day there was hell to pay (as opposed to Hell Toupee, which we'll get to). He rankled the kids and snarked at me and went on and on with no end in sight to the point where I told him the phones were being turned off and the land line unplugged, please go take one of the many varieties of pills for what ails you and if you can't do us the courtesy of dying, please just go away.
And so a few days later, evidently in response, Hil pulls out something for me from her backpack. Something Lars sent home with her to give to me claiming it was mine and he needed to return it to me.
I open the bag and nearly croak.
It is the beautifully crafted, elaborately patterned, lovingly assembled counted cross stitch Christmas stocking I spent the first 18 months of our marriage making for him. Picked out a special lining fabric. Used a Christmassy quilted fabric for the back. Affixed a beautiful gold and red tassel. Not to mention the hundreds of hours of painstaking stitchwork. It hung on the mantle for our second Christmas together and every Christmas of our marriage. He took it with him when he'd left. As it should be.
It isn't like he just realized what it was. He purposely took it. Six years ago. I don't know why it is suddenly something that must be eradicated from the dwelling...
Maybe Liza made him a new one? (She's done lovely embroidery on her hemp garments...)
Or maybe since they are engaged, she can't stand the sight of something from me adorning the fireplace at Christmas? A Ghost of Christmas Past?
No - because if it were any of those things, he'd do what any normal person would do. He'd wrap it up and put it away to give to one of the kids one day saying "Your mother made this for me when we were first married. Maybe you'd like it for your new baby. I'd like you to have it."
So, no. It is none of those things. It is instead intended to say, "I hate you so thoroughly that I will part with this possession because I must scrape off any and all reminders that I ever shared so much as a split second of my life with someone as hateful as you." And the sneak has to stuff it into Hil's backpack and lie to her about it being mine.
Cat's out of the bag. When she saw how stunned I was, she asked why and I answered truthfully.
But now I don't know what to do with the darn thing.
Part of me wants to get rid of it. Like an exorcism. I am tempted to sell it on eBay. I wonder what I could get for it. It is lovely.
I am also half tempted to stitch the cat's name on it and stick it up on the mantel with the others. Thanks, Lars, you saved me the time and aggravation of getting a stocking for the cat myself.
I am not really sure why this bothers me so much, but it does. I guess because whatever the reason for not wanting it on his mantel, there were at least a dozen ways to handle the situation. And eleven of them didn't involve sending a little F*** You Christmasgram.
This was a message. As clear as the dead fish that said that Luca Brazzi rests with the fishes. There will be no boundaries and no limits to the levels of meanness and pettiness to which Lars will subscribe. He will never forgive my leaving him; he will never put it aside. So long as I'm living, he'll have someone to hate.
And with all the twinkling lights, and candles burning bright, and the North Star shining like a beacon in the night, there is a darkness that no one can light, a mile away in Lars' soul.
And on one hand, I am thrilled. I am spending another Christmas standing under the mistletoe with Scott. I will wake up with the kids on Christmas morning and enjoy all of our rituals without pretending it is Christmas one day early. And I have planned and pushed myself to make the biggest impression on my kids. Squeezed the most joy into our time together. Concentrated the festivities. Saturated our on-again-off-again custody schedule with a much fun as the season has to offer.
Decorated the house our first weekend together so that when they returned to me two weeks later, it would me like stepping into Santa's workshop.
Maintained our ritual of picking out the tree and walking it home in our little red wagon.
Decorated the tree as a family and listened to Christmas carols as we strung the lights and draped the ribbons.
Baked cookies, ate cookies and baked some more cookies. More than I will be able to eat and/or give away.
Went to see train displays and doll house exhibits and Christmas crafts.
Lit candles, illuminated outdoor trees, hung wreaths, burned Dad's famous incense.
Slowed down to drink eggnog and watch a few Christmas classics piled on the sofa. Laundry be damned.
But as I wait for Christmas to come upon a midnight clear, it seems that every year panic, and chaos, and havoc and even few real asswipes come a-caroling first.
Let's start with the asswipe with the frequent flier plan - Lars.
You might imagine that someone with the motherload of emotional SNAFUs of epic proportion such as Lars would be the first in line to collect his boarding pass for Dementia Express Flight 302 to The Loony Bin.
You would be correct. At least in assuming that he'd go sailing over the edge.
This year is no different and he has done his darndest to manipulate the whole situation. Tried to jockey for more time with the kids - for his birthday, for a trip at Thanksgiving, for the entire week between Christmas and New Years because he can take the whole week off from work and stay home with them, you know, as a favor to me.
And when I would not agree to any of it, and instead outfoxed the fox, he agreed to an arrangement he does not like. Mostly because the children are in my clutches for far too long a stretch of time and God Only Knows what kind of spell I'll cast.
And while he's held it somewhat together for a while, this weekend he went around the bend over something relatively minor. Kate had a party when her parents came to town. (We'll get to that.) And Scott and the kids and I attended with bells on. Lars had attempted to call the kids but could not reach anyone and was pissed. The party was early (these ARE senior citizens) and we were on the road by 6 pm to get there with a bottle of wine and two hors d'oeuvres and Kate's belated birthday gift and a one-of-a-kind card making a Marie Antoinette joke. Hil and Pat left their phones at home. My phone was in the designated coat room in my purse buried under so many wool coats. Lars evidently dialed his little sausage fingers off with no luck. I'm surprised all the calls didn't start a small smoldering house fire.
And the next day there was hell to pay (as opposed to Hell Toupee, which we'll get to). He rankled the kids and snarked at me and went on and on with no end in sight to the point where I told him the phones were being turned off and the land line unplugged, please go take one of the many varieties of pills for what ails you and if you can't do us the courtesy of dying, please just go away.
And so a few days later, evidently in response, Hil pulls out something for me from her backpack. Something Lars sent home with her to give to me claiming it was mine and he needed to return it to me.
I open the bag and nearly croak.
It is the beautifully crafted, elaborately patterned, lovingly assembled counted cross stitch Christmas stocking I spent the first 18 months of our marriage making for him. Picked out a special lining fabric. Used a Christmassy quilted fabric for the back. Affixed a beautiful gold and red tassel. Not to mention the hundreds of hours of painstaking stitchwork. It hung on the mantle for our second Christmas together and every Christmas of our marriage. He took it with him when he'd left. As it should be.
It isn't like he just realized what it was. He purposely took it. Six years ago. I don't know why it is suddenly something that must be eradicated from the dwelling...
Maybe Liza made him a new one? (She's done lovely embroidery on her hemp garments...)
Or maybe since they are engaged, she can't stand the sight of something from me adorning the fireplace at Christmas? A Ghost of Christmas Past?
No - because if it were any of those things, he'd do what any normal person would do. He'd wrap it up and put it away to give to one of the kids one day saying "Your mother made this for me when we were first married. Maybe you'd like it for your new baby. I'd like you to have it."
So, no. It is none of those things. It is instead intended to say, "I hate you so thoroughly that I will part with this possession because I must scrape off any and all reminders that I ever shared so much as a split second of my life with someone as hateful as you." And the sneak has to stuff it into Hil's backpack and lie to her about it being mine.
Cat's out of the bag. When she saw how stunned I was, she asked why and I answered truthfully.
But now I don't know what to do with the darn thing.
Part of me wants to get rid of it. Like an exorcism. I am tempted to sell it on eBay. I wonder what I could get for it. It is lovely.
I am also half tempted to stitch the cat's name on it and stick it up on the mantel with the others. Thanks, Lars, you saved me the time and aggravation of getting a stocking for the cat myself.
I am not really sure why this bothers me so much, but it does. I guess because whatever the reason for not wanting it on his mantel, there were at least a dozen ways to handle the situation. And eleven of them didn't involve sending a little F*** You Christmasgram.
This was a message. As clear as the dead fish that said that Luca Brazzi rests with the fishes. There will be no boundaries and no limits to the levels of meanness and pettiness to which Lars will subscribe. He will never forgive my leaving him; he will never put it aside. So long as I'm living, he'll have someone to hate.
And with all the twinkling lights, and candles burning bright, and the North Star shining like a beacon in the night, there is a darkness that no one can light, a mile away in Lars' soul.
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