I got a message today on Facebook from a college friend and sorority sister. She’d reposted an ad for a foreign sunglasses company launching, (get this) a line of sunglasses named for Helen Keller.
Seriously?
My friend, who is very clever by the way, suggested that the most appropriate song to play as an accompaniment to the ad would have to be Alanis Morrisette’s “Isn’t It Ironic?”
At first, I wanted to comment that I am speechless, but that seemed a little cold, given Helen’s profound difficulties. And although my friends would have thought I was just being very clever, I couldn’t hit the “post” button.
But then my inner Estelle took over.
Both of my parents were/are funny people. My Dad was the life of the party when he wanted to be. Practical jokes, teasing. Funny little one liners that would tickle your rib cage. Amusing little ways of referencing things. He could be delightful.
My mother was funny, too. But by contrast, she was wickedly funny. Eye rolling at someone’s expense. Caustic little jabs at someone who was no match for her logic or her quickness. The first one to laugh if someone road their bike into a car door that had swung open unexpectedly. Brutal if you failed at something. I recall her being bent over and laughing to the point of tears when I could not get the car into first gear and get started up the hill when she was “teaching me” (shaming me) to drive a manual transmission car. She literally howled every time a frustrated driver beeped and passed me on the left, waving their arms and swearing. I wanted to abandon the car and her in it and let her get it going, if she’s so smart. I’d have gladly walked up the hill without her.
So naturally, my mother was a big fan of Helen Keller jokes. You know, before all this political correctness and the universal ban on reindeer games, and all the clutching the pearls anytime someone dared make a slightly off-color remark, however deserved.
Well, actually, I imagine she’s still a fan, it’s just that no one is telling them anymore. But rest assured, nothing would prevent Estelle from running through her repertoire if she thought she could get away with it at Bridge Club.
I go back to my iPhone and comment on my friend’s post. “And for the men’s line, the Pinball Wizard Collection.”
Because that deaf, dumb and blind kid sure plays a mean pinball. And therefore should have some sunglasses named after him. And maybe some Tommy Can Ya Hear Me ear muffs.
I am a little worried that my comment is insensitive and people will think I am a Terrible Person.
And then my other friend comments as well.
“Sunglasses at Night.”
I am off the hook.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
No Woman, No Cry
I pay for my wafle iron. I walk out of the store. I keep my eyes and ears wide open and on high alert as I walk across the crowded parking lot. Hopefully I will hear the screeching of tires or the gunning engine or maybe even catch the license plate of Endorra’s little pathetic car before she rams it into the backs of my legs and speeds off like a bat out of hell.
But nothing happens. Thank goodness.
But what I find most disturbing about the whole incident is that I worried at all.
The relationship with J. is long dead and the relationships I once had with his family and friends just as buried and decomposing.
I have no obligation to any of the peple who were part and parcel of the whole fiasco.
It’s not like it is with Lars. Where the financial obligations to him, and the fact that we had children together and have a binding custody agreement all keep me tethered to a life I’d gladly leave behind until we are genuinely and naturally parted by death (which just won’t conveniently happen…)
J. and his merry band of sycophant supporters are just specks in my rearview mirror. Left in the dust. I can pretend they don’t exist quite convincingly. Cross them off the Christmas card list. Forget their birthdays. Hell, forget their names.
So what is my problem?
I think I know.
Lets compare my two most abysmal relationship stories, Lars and J.
The story ended badly with both. My happily ever after in shreds.
I learned over years of painful endurance and unthinkable amounts of forgiveness that I could not trust either one of them. That I’d been less important in the long run than their selfish vices.
The difference is this:
While Lars has numerous egregious faults and is not to be trusted to play any game fairly, at the very least he has a shred of pride.
He’ll take what isn’t his and play dirty if it suits him, but only so long as it’s only me who sees what a scumbag he is. Publicly, he want to remain smelling like the proverbial rose, even as he is growing out of a festering pile of steaming cow manure. There are limits to what he’ll do, how low he’ll stoop, if only imposed by the amount of exposure he’ll risk. To me he will be a cad. To the world, he wants to appear to be Prince Charming.
J. on the other hand is so bereft of pride that he will gladly act like a weasel and doesn’t care who observes. He will embarrass himself on his way to humiliating you, but as a loser with quite literally nothing left to lose, it doesn’t matter. There is nothing he won’t risk, because there is nothing to risk. He’s so low he can’t get any lower, so why not play in the sludge of your life and sling a little while you are at it?
And there is the risk to me. With nothing to lose, there are no boundaries. And people with no boundaries are the scariest people of all to me. The sense of decorum and propriety that others have and hold sacred just don’t exist. While some might hesitate to cause a scene, for them there is no reason not to.
Maybe some day I will reach a point of such aloofness that I can approach such threats with a sense of confidence. But for now, I’ll keep my eyes on the road and my hands upon the wheel.
But nothing happens. Thank goodness.
But what I find most disturbing about the whole incident is that I worried at all.
The relationship with J. is long dead and the relationships I once had with his family and friends just as buried and decomposing.
I have no obligation to any of the peple who were part and parcel of the whole fiasco.
It’s not like it is with Lars. Where the financial obligations to him, and the fact that we had children together and have a binding custody agreement all keep me tethered to a life I’d gladly leave behind until we are genuinely and naturally parted by death (which just won’t conveniently happen…)
J. and his merry band of sycophant supporters are just specks in my rearview mirror. Left in the dust. I can pretend they don’t exist quite convincingly. Cross them off the Christmas card list. Forget their birthdays. Hell, forget their names.
So what is my problem?
I think I know.
Lets compare my two most abysmal relationship stories, Lars and J.
The story ended badly with both. My happily ever after in shreds.
I learned over years of painful endurance and unthinkable amounts of forgiveness that I could not trust either one of them. That I’d been less important in the long run than their selfish vices.
The difference is this:
While Lars has numerous egregious faults and is not to be trusted to play any game fairly, at the very least he has a shred of pride.
He’ll take what isn’t his and play dirty if it suits him, but only so long as it’s only me who sees what a scumbag he is. Publicly, he want to remain smelling like the proverbial rose, even as he is growing out of a festering pile of steaming cow manure. There are limits to what he’ll do, how low he’ll stoop, if only imposed by the amount of exposure he’ll risk. To me he will be a cad. To the world, he wants to appear to be Prince Charming.
J. on the other hand is so bereft of pride that he will gladly act like a weasel and doesn’t care who observes. He will embarrass himself on his way to humiliating you, but as a loser with quite literally nothing left to lose, it doesn’t matter. There is nothing he won’t risk, because there is nothing to risk. He’s so low he can’t get any lower, so why not play in the sludge of your life and sling a little while you are at it?
And there is the risk to me. With nothing to lose, there are no boundaries. And people with no boundaries are the scariest people of all to me. The sense of decorum and propriety that others have and hold sacred just don’t exist. While some might hesitate to cause a scene, for them there is no reason not to.
Maybe some day I will reach a point of such aloofness that I can approach such threats with a sense of confidence. But for now, I’ll keep my eyes on the road and my hands upon the wheel.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Where the Wild Things Are
The possibilities are endless.
Maybe J.'s simpy, miserable sister Sheila did the driving and Endorra wandered off while Sheila contemplated the racks of elastic waistband pants and considered giving in and finally considering some much needed Spanx. I could easily bump into that sniveling pile of wasted skin if I wandered off course into Big Girl Land. Or she went meandering off in the the direction of single digit sizes by mistake. She'd take an ill-advised verbal swipe at me, and I'd fire back something hateful and send her squealing off to find Endorra with her tail between her utility pole-shaped legs. That might actually be fun.
And considering that it is a weekend where I have custody of Hil and Pat, J. would have custody of his younger daughter. (The older daughter only visits under duress.) There is a good possibility that I could unexpectedly bump into her. And since it is a mandatory holiday, perhaps her older sister after all. Both would be screaming to get out of the undoubtedly crowded house, which is routinely filled with the old, and the prematurely old, yammering on and on endlessly about their aches and pains and all the people out there roaming the planet who are doing them wrong. A trip to Kohls would be an oasis.
And so what if that happened? I'd have to just politely greet and then ignore Sheila if she were with them. I wonder if they'd be uncomfortably caught in the middle? Their loyalties split and their little not-quite-yet-adult-enough-to-handle-such-complexities brains all scrambled wondering what would be the least horrible thing to do while jumping out of the way of this inevitably horrifying emotional train wreck?
Dear God, what if J. has been dragged along? Under normal circumstances he'd let all the hens go without him and bee-line it to wherever in the house it is that he's managed to successfully hide his bottle of hootch. Down half a bottle while the bitties are out cackling over table linens and control top underwear. Get on buzz maintenance for their inevitable return to the lair.
But what if, now that he weighs as much as a 7th grade girl, he needs a new clip on tie and matching shirt and a blazer from the Boys department to go to Easter Mass? And socks and underwear since there is no one to buy them for him anymore and Endorra has a coupon? I could just see him being forced to tag along and bumping into that festering pile of sewage right there as I round the bend by the fashion jewelry.
What then?
I could go on without missing a beat, ignore him if we inadvertently make eye contact before I can look away (so as not to turn to stone). But he is deranged and has destroyed his atrophied little brain with alcohol and poor attention to his health. He can't be trusted to behave under these or any other circumstances. I would bet my house that he'd shout out something hideous and embarassing while hiding behind the rack of Spiderman jammies like a coward. Or he'd come right out and cry like a 2 year old and make fools of us both. It wouldn't even matter if his kids were there to witness it. He'd consider his outburst either a demonstration of his unwavering adoration for me or proof that I destroyed him.
Too bad, so sad. Loser.
But as I hurry my pace to join the throngs of other buyers in line at the registers, I am pitting out just a little at the very thought of what could happen in the next 10 minutes. What could happen that I'd have absolutely no control over.
Maybe J.'s simpy, miserable sister Sheila did the driving and Endorra wandered off while Sheila contemplated the racks of elastic waistband pants and considered giving in and finally considering some much needed Spanx. I could easily bump into that sniveling pile of wasted skin if I wandered off course into Big Girl Land. Or she went meandering off in the the direction of single digit sizes by mistake. She'd take an ill-advised verbal swipe at me, and I'd fire back something hateful and send her squealing off to find Endorra with her tail between her utility pole-shaped legs. That might actually be fun.
And considering that it is a weekend where I have custody of Hil and Pat, J. would have custody of his younger daughter. (The older daughter only visits under duress.) There is a good possibility that I could unexpectedly bump into her. And since it is a mandatory holiday, perhaps her older sister after all. Both would be screaming to get out of the undoubtedly crowded house, which is routinely filled with the old, and the prematurely old, yammering on and on endlessly about their aches and pains and all the people out there roaming the planet who are doing them wrong. A trip to Kohls would be an oasis.
And so what if that happened? I'd have to just politely greet and then ignore Sheila if she were with them. I wonder if they'd be uncomfortably caught in the middle? Their loyalties split and their little not-quite-yet-adult-enough-to-handle-such-complexities brains all scrambled wondering what would be the least horrible thing to do while jumping out of the way of this inevitably horrifying emotional train wreck?
Dear God, what if J. has been dragged along? Under normal circumstances he'd let all the hens go without him and bee-line it to wherever in the house it is that he's managed to successfully hide his bottle of hootch. Down half a bottle while the bitties are out cackling over table linens and control top underwear. Get on buzz maintenance for their inevitable return to the lair.
But what if, now that he weighs as much as a 7th grade girl, he needs a new clip on tie and matching shirt and a blazer from the Boys department to go to Easter Mass? And socks and underwear since there is no one to buy them for him anymore and Endorra has a coupon? I could just see him being forced to tag along and bumping into that festering pile of sewage right there as I round the bend by the fashion jewelry.
What then?
I could go on without missing a beat, ignore him if we inadvertently make eye contact before I can look away (so as not to turn to stone). But he is deranged and has destroyed his atrophied little brain with alcohol and poor attention to his health. He can't be trusted to behave under these or any other circumstances. I would bet my house that he'd shout out something hideous and embarassing while hiding behind the rack of Spiderman jammies like a coward. Or he'd come right out and cry like a 2 year old and make fools of us both. It wouldn't even matter if his kids were there to witness it. He'd consider his outburst either a demonstration of his unwavering adoration for me or proof that I destroyed him.
Too bad, so sad. Loser.
But as I hurry my pace to join the throngs of other buyers in line at the registers, I am pitting out just a little at the very thought of what could happen in the next 10 minutes. What could happen that I'd have absolutely no control over.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
'Scuuuuuuuuuuse Me
As I stride down the small appliance aisle, I get that sick fight or flight feeling. I have no idea what to expect and will probably overreact to whatever happens. I am secretly hoping that the brain synapses that control snappy responses are all firing full throttle. I am sure that as she's been spinning, she's been practicing her delivery of one or two of the myriad hateful things she's been wishing she'd said when the had the chance.
I would have relished that confrontation once, too. God only knows how many zingers I could deliver. Plenty to say. The vocabulary to make it stick.
But I don't care now. Happy J. is gone from my life. Happy in the place I've landed. I have cut my losses and have moved onto a beautiful new life and have left him in the flotsam and jetsam of the life he ruined for himself.
Endorra can tell herself any version of that story she'd like. Revisionist History doesn't change what I know. Whatever she manages to say as I pass can't touch my heart. I. Won't. Even. Respond. Won't. That's my decision. I won't give her anything to say about me.
All this churning as I walk 10 feet past the toasters, electric mixers, hot dog roasters and ice cream makers collecting dust for another season.
I notice that Endorra has spun and teetered her way a good distance from the intersection of the aisle, and is now rotating counterclockwise near the muffin pan display. She seems to want to get back to the battle zone but can't really get there. It's like she's swimming upstream.
Seizing the moment, without breaking stride and now whistling out loud (but something happy, not "The Bitch Is Back." I think it might have been a show tune. "Zippity Doo Dah," perhaps) I whip by with my waffle iron and my bad self, making sure I looked exquisitely casual and fabulous as I did so. Posture perfect, smiling, waving pleasantly to a small child belted into her mother's shopping cart. Clearly not a care in the world.
But as I walk down the main aisle toward the check out, my eyes are darting about the place. Endorra was clearly confused and disoriented. I doubt that she drove to Kohls by herself in that condition. I am in the clear with my run in with her, but are there other family members with her that I could be ambushed by on my way to the register?
I would have relished that confrontation once, too. God only knows how many zingers I could deliver. Plenty to say. The vocabulary to make it stick.
But I don't care now. Happy J. is gone from my life. Happy in the place I've landed. I have cut my losses and have moved onto a beautiful new life and have left him in the flotsam and jetsam of the life he ruined for himself.
Endorra can tell herself any version of that story she'd like. Revisionist History doesn't change what I know. Whatever she manages to say as I pass can't touch my heart. I. Won't. Even. Respond. Won't. That's my decision. I won't give her anything to say about me.
All this churning as I walk 10 feet past the toasters, electric mixers, hot dog roasters and ice cream makers collecting dust for another season.
I notice that Endorra has spun and teetered her way a good distance from the intersection of the aisle, and is now rotating counterclockwise near the muffin pan display. She seems to want to get back to the battle zone but can't really get there. It's like she's swimming upstream.
Seizing the moment, without breaking stride and now whistling out loud (but something happy, not "The Bitch Is Back." I think it might have been a show tune. "Zippity Doo Dah," perhaps) I whip by with my waffle iron and my bad self, making sure I looked exquisitely casual and fabulous as I did so. Posture perfect, smiling, waving pleasantly to a small child belted into her mother's shopping cart. Clearly not a care in the world.
But as I walk down the main aisle toward the check out, my eyes are darting about the place. Endorra was clearly confused and disoriented. I doubt that she drove to Kohls by herself in that condition. I am in the clear with my run in with her, but are there other family members with her that I could be ambushed by on my way to the register?
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
The Bitch is Baaaack
About four or five waffle irons into the narrowing down process, I am down to two I can choose from. Price is right, features are good. The deciding factor turns out to be one of storage. In my teensy, tiny kitchen, I may need to unload something to wedge this thing into a cabinet. Based on HxWxD measurements, one waffle iron moves ahead of the pack. Unless some equally storable, fabulously versatile waffle iron materializes between me and the end of the aisle, I have my winner.
And Endorra is still pivoting aimlessly and unsteadily at the intersection between the George Foreman Grills, the Fry Babies, and the remaining runner up waffle irons.
Hello, 911? Silver alert in the local Kohls. Dangerously slow-witted elderly woman has come unharnessed from her caregivers and is terrorizing the small kitchen appliance section weilding a cane. Rescue personnel should consider her armed and dangerous. Bring riot gear.
I actually hesitate for a moment. Not that I am afraid to walk past her...hell, I'd sashay past her whistling "The Bitch is Back" if I didn't think it would offend the other little old lady in the section who appears to be trying to buy her granddaughter a Whoopee Pie Maker (It's a banner year for nearly useless appliances, evidently)
But Endorra is diabolical. Truly she is. And it isn't like I haven't poked Mama Bear a few times in the last few years. Hurled a few irretractible insults. Shamed her first born. (He did deserve it, have no doubt!) Verbally bitch slapped her only daughter (again, deserved) and blew off the only grandchild's wedding she will be of sound enough mind to remember. Her hatred toward me has been festering for some time now. Some people forgive and forget. Some people carry a grudge to the grave (the big square grave, as it will likely be).
I would not put it past her, even if I gave her a wide berth as I passed, to throw her large gelatinous body on the ground, wailing and moaning, and shrieking that I pushed her. Claiming I attacked her.
Not that the idea didn't once hold quite a lot of appeal. I just don't care anymore. Even hurling a little verbal jab has no appeal. She is insignificant. A bug on my windshield.
But I'm kind of trapped. My only other escape route from this poorly designed section of Kohls is currently blocked by a flatbed cart loaded with patio umbrellas, and a man on a motorized cart who is struggling with a 3-point turn, a la Austin Powers in the first movie.
I can stand there a while longer and let it be obvious that I am avoiding the brush with Satan. Or I can buck up and take the risk.
I am not about to be caught sweating this out.
First, I check my appearance in one of the low-budget art-deco mirror things popular in dormitories and first apartments. I am indeed looking fabulous. Great outfit, hair and makeup are casual perfection.
I go for it. I'll bet on Kohls having surveillance cameras to refute any claims of violence (no matter how deserved they would be!). So I tuck my waffle iron under my arm, sling my high-end purse over my shoulder, smile with satisfaction, and stride confidently in the direction of the end of the aisle, currently monopolized by the ever-pivoting, disoriented Endorra.
I am whistling "The Bitch Is Back" ...but only in my head. I am indeed, above the fray.
And Endorra is still pivoting aimlessly and unsteadily at the intersection between the George Foreman Grills, the Fry Babies, and the remaining runner up waffle irons.
Hello, 911? Silver alert in the local Kohls. Dangerously slow-witted elderly woman has come unharnessed from her caregivers and is terrorizing the small kitchen appliance section weilding a cane. Rescue personnel should consider her armed and dangerous. Bring riot gear.
I actually hesitate for a moment. Not that I am afraid to walk past her...hell, I'd sashay past her whistling "The Bitch is Back" if I didn't think it would offend the other little old lady in the section who appears to be trying to buy her granddaughter a Whoopee Pie Maker (It's a banner year for nearly useless appliances, evidently)
But Endorra is diabolical. Truly she is. And it isn't like I haven't poked Mama Bear a few times in the last few years. Hurled a few irretractible insults. Shamed her first born. (He did deserve it, have no doubt!) Verbally bitch slapped her only daughter (again, deserved) and blew off the only grandchild's wedding she will be of sound enough mind to remember. Her hatred toward me has been festering for some time now. Some people forgive and forget. Some people carry a grudge to the grave (the big square grave, as it will likely be).
I would not put it past her, even if I gave her a wide berth as I passed, to throw her large gelatinous body on the ground, wailing and moaning, and shrieking that I pushed her. Claiming I attacked her.
Not that the idea didn't once hold quite a lot of appeal. I just don't care anymore. Even hurling a little verbal jab has no appeal. She is insignificant. A bug on my windshield.
But I'm kind of trapped. My only other escape route from this poorly designed section of Kohls is currently blocked by a flatbed cart loaded with patio umbrellas, and a man on a motorized cart who is struggling with a 3-point turn, a la Austin Powers in the first movie.
I can stand there a while longer and let it be obvious that I am avoiding the brush with Satan. Or I can buck up and take the risk.
I am not about to be caught sweating this out.
First, I check my appearance in one of the low-budget art-deco mirror things popular in dormitories and first apartments. I am indeed looking fabulous. Great outfit, hair and makeup are casual perfection.
I go for it. I'll bet on Kohls having surveillance cameras to refute any claims of violence (no matter how deserved they would be!). So I tuck my waffle iron under my arm, sling my high-end purse over my shoulder, smile with satisfaction, and stride confidently in the direction of the end of the aisle, currently monopolized by the ever-pivoting, disoriented Endorra.
I am whistling "The Bitch Is Back" ...but only in my head. I am indeed, above the fray.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Dance With the Devil
Face to face with Satan herself. Satan in hot pink lipstick.
I thank God nearly every day for the gifts I have been given. My most prized (OK after the obvious ones like my good health and two wonderful children, no crap!) is my mental agility in situations like these. Where some people might stammer and begin to sweat on the spot as if by Pavlovian response, I move well beyond the point of shock and horror to an offensive game.
She looks me in my eyes. I look her in her (beady little Satanic) eyes. And without a moment's hesitation, I manage to say, quite brightly, but not at all overly friendly, "Oh. Hello!" and as I continue make my way around the corner she is blocking with considerable girth, I say, "Happy Easter!" and continue to the display, not two feet away. I will not be intimidated off my mark. She'll have to shove me. I am the picture of cool. Aloof. No appreciable quickening of the pulse. No blip on my EEG. Barely registered. A non-event.
In the few seconds I engaged in full on eye contact, though, I did notice something odd. Her smile was plastered on her hangy little bowling bag face, as fake as if it were painted there (Botox gone wrong?) and her eyes never registered any recognition. A vacuous, blank, stare. Medicated. It was the deadpan stare of the medicated criminally insane. (Nurse Ratched, another dose, please!)
But I am not that easily fooled by the likes of the innocent old lady act. In that rotund little spherical weeble beats the heart of a warrior. She may look like a little old feeble-minded beanbag chair, but she has teeth and claws and is as sneaky as any other old embittered matriarch whose idiot daughter can't manage her own miserable little unproductive hellish life, and whose sociopath 50-something son drank away everything of worth in his life and is forced to squat in her house with his child, relying on child support as his only means of income. Girlfriend has an axe to grind, make no mistake.
So while I flit about the store, casually price-checking waffle irons, I keep an eye on her.
And she does the oddest thing.
She stands in the precise spot where I nearly bowled her over like a bowling pin, and spins in little unsteady circles, teetering on her orthopedic shoes and utility-pole legs, aided by a cane, with her not-so-dead-after all eyes darting about the place.
She says nothing, but I am expecting her to begin shrieking at any moment.
I thank God nearly every day for the gifts I have been given. My most prized (OK after the obvious ones like my good health and two wonderful children, no crap!) is my mental agility in situations like these. Where some people might stammer and begin to sweat on the spot as if by Pavlovian response, I move well beyond the point of shock and horror to an offensive game.
She looks me in my eyes. I look her in her (beady little Satanic) eyes. And without a moment's hesitation, I manage to say, quite brightly, but not at all overly friendly, "Oh. Hello!" and as I continue make my way around the corner she is blocking with considerable girth, I say, "Happy Easter!" and continue to the display, not two feet away. I will not be intimidated off my mark. She'll have to shove me. I am the picture of cool. Aloof. No appreciable quickening of the pulse. No blip on my EEG. Barely registered. A non-event.
In the few seconds I engaged in full on eye contact, though, I did notice something odd. Her smile was plastered on her hangy little bowling bag face, as fake as if it were painted there (Botox gone wrong?) and her eyes never registered any recognition. A vacuous, blank, stare. Medicated. It was the deadpan stare of the medicated criminally insane. (Nurse Ratched, another dose, please!)
But I am not that easily fooled by the likes of the innocent old lady act. In that rotund little spherical weeble beats the heart of a warrior. She may look like a little old feeble-minded beanbag chair, but she has teeth and claws and is as sneaky as any other old embittered matriarch whose idiot daughter can't manage her own miserable little unproductive hellish life, and whose sociopath 50-something son drank away everything of worth in his life and is forced to squat in her house with his child, relying on child support as his only means of income. Girlfriend has an axe to grind, make no mistake.
So while I flit about the store, casually price-checking waffle irons, I keep an eye on her.
And she does the oddest thing.
She stands in the precise spot where I nearly bowled her over like a bowling pin, and spins in little unsteady circles, teetering on her orthopedic shoes and utility-pole legs, aided by a cane, with her not-so-dead-after all eyes darting about the place.
She says nothing, but I am expecting her to begin shrieking at any moment.
Friday, April 20, 2012
From Waffles to Wickedness
The rest of our trip is fabulous. Hil gets her vintage on and Pat finally, at our last stop of the shopping tour of Gettysburg, finds an authentic actual rifle that has been stripped of it's firing hardware. It weighs a ton. It is very cool. The guy at the shop spends loads of time with him showing him how it is carried and telling him how to be safe. Not to take it out of the house. Warning him that even though he knows it can't hurt anyone, other people will think that he is armed.
I am not so naive as to believe that Pat is all that anxious or willing to comply. But it would be hard not to. That is why I insisted on a full sized rifle if anything. A replica pistol would be out of the house in the backpack in a matter of minutes and I'd be retrieving him from the principal, the police station or worse by the end of the week. A rifle that comes up to his shoulder is not that easy to sneak out of the house. It would have to be a pretty big back pack! And it would be seen from a mile away. And people would be calling me as soon as they saw it. It will stay in his room. That's the deal.
On Saturday afternoon, we head for home. Scott is coming to our house after dinner when his daughter finishes her first day of work this season on the boardwalk at the beach. It is a gorgeous day. I go home, open windows, spruce up the place and open my mail.
I have a sale catalogue from Kohls and page through it absentmindedly. But when I peel off my special bonus discount sticker I am on my feet and ready to shop again. Thirty percent off and I already have $10 in Kohls Cash. And it expires today. Oh no it won't!
Pat was a big fan of our complimentary breakfast. Mostly because it had a neat little dispenser thingy that squirted out just the right amount of batter to pour onto a piping hot waffle iron and made a beautifully browned perfect waffle in a matter of minutes.
I used to love our waffle iron. I wonder what happened to it. No, I don't. Lars happened to it. He took it when he left, along with all the photo albums, all the CDs, all the toilet paper, all the laundry detergent and the entire contents of the liquor cabinet.
I don't know why I remain shocked by anything he does.
So I am immediately on a mission. To Kohls! To buy a waffle iron!
I am astonished, frankly, at the variety and price spread of these little gizmos. And, frankly, that Kohls has such an assortment of them! All shapes. All sizes. All brands. All features. I am overwhelmed. I need to thin the herd. I find a price scanner. No need to go overboard. I'll eliminate the grossly overpriced models first. I am not paying a fortune for an appliance that does exactly one thing.
I scan the first super deluxe model. One hundred dollars. For waffles? Next!
I carry the box back down the aisle to the end display from where it came. I turn the corner and inadvertently almost slam into someone standing there, too short to be seen above the boxes.
I move the box to my side to apologize, and as I do, I realize that the person I've nearly run down is none other than J.' s wicked mother.
I am not so naive as to believe that Pat is all that anxious or willing to comply. But it would be hard not to. That is why I insisted on a full sized rifle if anything. A replica pistol would be out of the house in the backpack in a matter of minutes and I'd be retrieving him from the principal, the police station or worse by the end of the week. A rifle that comes up to his shoulder is not that easy to sneak out of the house. It would have to be a pretty big back pack! And it would be seen from a mile away. And people would be calling me as soon as they saw it. It will stay in his room. That's the deal.
On Saturday afternoon, we head for home. Scott is coming to our house after dinner when his daughter finishes her first day of work this season on the boardwalk at the beach. It is a gorgeous day. I go home, open windows, spruce up the place and open my mail.
I have a sale catalogue from Kohls and page through it absentmindedly. But when I peel off my special bonus discount sticker I am on my feet and ready to shop again. Thirty percent off and I already have $10 in Kohls Cash. And it expires today. Oh no it won't!
Pat was a big fan of our complimentary breakfast. Mostly because it had a neat little dispenser thingy that squirted out just the right amount of batter to pour onto a piping hot waffle iron and made a beautifully browned perfect waffle in a matter of minutes.
I used to love our waffle iron. I wonder what happened to it. No, I don't. Lars happened to it. He took it when he left, along with all the photo albums, all the CDs, all the toilet paper, all the laundry detergent and the entire contents of the liquor cabinet.
I don't know why I remain shocked by anything he does.
So I am immediately on a mission. To Kohls! To buy a waffle iron!
I am astonished, frankly, at the variety and price spread of these little gizmos. And, frankly, that Kohls has such an assortment of them! All shapes. All sizes. All brands. All features. I am overwhelmed. I need to thin the herd. I find a price scanner. No need to go overboard. I'll eliminate the grossly overpriced models first. I am not paying a fortune for an appliance that does exactly one thing.
I scan the first super deluxe model. One hundred dollars. For waffles? Next!
I carry the box back down the aisle to the end display from where it came. I turn the corner and inadvertently almost slam into someone standing there, too short to be seen above the boxes.
I move the box to my side to apologize, and as I do, I realize that the person I've nearly run down is none other than J.' s wicked mother.
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