Dirty Little Secrets

Set aside in a little pile are a few telling items. Collectively they scream, "This woman has absolutely no control over her life and has no business pretending to be a competent home owner."

A Tupperware container with rock hard, nearly unidentifiable Christmas cookies. I don't even remember the last time I made this particular type of cookie.  I am sure they precede my divorce. They are probably rancid. I take the container outside to the trash can without opening it. I could probably salvage the container; it is a nice one. But I fear some kind of Pandora's Box, opening of an ancient tomb, kind of universe-wide chain reaction. Better cut my losses.

There are several long lost serving utensils. Honestly, I'd thought Lars had taken them. Or perhaps a burglar. They'd disappeared that long ago. And that suddenly. They are sticky and scummy and will need to take a long ride in the dishwasher. If it is ever again plugged in.

An ant trap. No pretending now. What ants? There are ants?  I have ants?  I've never seen an ant. Where did THEY come from. You must have let them in yourself.

A mouse trap.  Maybe the mouse carcass attracted the ants. I am horrified. The trap was laid before the arrival of my mouser cat. Who is confined to the attic. Yeah...that's why I have the trap. Yes, with the ancient peanut butter blob on it. 

Several petrified breakfast bars of varying brands. And a package of Pop-Tarts.

I recall telling Wally when we met about the project that I have neither my sister's budget nor her housekeeping regimen. He laughed. He's probably laughing even harder now.  The budget he could have guessed at. My kitchen would fit in her bathroom. I am sure he never imagined that an impeccably dressed and groomed slob lived in my house. I am secretly wondering if I can credibly blame this on Lars.

"Yeah - once I discovered what a slob he is, divorce was inevitable. The way he used to just throw things back behind the cabinets just attracted bugs and other vermin. If I hadn't thrown him out, I am sure we'd have all manner of rodents by now. Luckily the rat left and took the cheese with him. Yay me! No seller's remorse here!"

In the end, I decide to ignore the whole thing. As I lay my head down upon my pillow, I convince myself that mine is not the worst house Wally has ever renovated, and every house, even the most pristine, has its dirty little secrets. A dozen rock hard cookies surely didn't shock him. And tomorrow is another day.

Demolition Derby

Wally calls the night before the demolition starts to go over a few details. I tell him I am a nerveen about the cat. I am hopeless. He tells me that after the first day, he'll have the kitchen closed off and kitty can have the run of the house.

Somehow I am relieved. I don't know why I am so nervous for the damn cat. A year ago she was living outside in the elements and scrounging for food in a dumpster. Puh-lease. I have turned her into a pampered putty in my mind. She likes the rafters of the dusty 100 year old basement. Why am I worried that the the beautifully remodeled third floor will feel like jail? 

Still, the next morning, I confine her to the third floor after luring her there with tuna and treats.  She barely notices when I close the door behind me and leave. I have a pang of guilt not unlike when I used to leave the kids at day care, distracted by their French Toast Stix. I practically need a nerve pill.

Scott agrees. I need a nerve pill. He has much better perspective.  He with 20 to 30 some odd pets in his life and  fatalistic acceptance that sometimes pets will not be happy with you. Too bad. And sometimes they die and get buried in a hole in the yard.  You miss them and get another pet. I have no such backbone. I want to cry.

I am, in spite of myself,  thrilled to see what progress is made while I toil away at work.

I get home 8 hours later and am not so much thrilled as I am shocked.

My kitchen was not charming to begin with. It is much less so in a state of deconstruction. 

The cabinets are gone. The floor is partially removed exposing two and three prior floors in some areas. The removal of the back splash has left ugly uneven divots in the walls. Several competing and clashing shades of green and turquoise are exposed where cabinets and other things used to be. A pipe sticks out of the floor where my sink used to be. Huge gashes in the plaster expose some kind of crumbly material. 

Frankly, I am freaking out.

Wally calls.

"Liza, you have a couple of problems."

He may as well have said he accidentally burned the place down.

With a racing heart and sweaty palms I listen.

"I found your ant problem. There was a huge nest over to the left of the rear window."

I am cringing.  I am sure he never found ants in Charlotte's house.

"Anyway, I sucked it all up in my vacuum so they're gone for good."  Gotta love a man. Had it been me, I'd have left and run down the street never to return, doing the "Get It Off Me Dance" the entire time.

"And you had the windows replaced didn't you?" 

"Umm, yeah. Why?"  I hold my breath and realize I've closed my eyes, bracing myself.

"Oh, well, there was a little moisture damage right under that window. I can fix it before we put the counter back, and I'll caulk so it doesn't happen again. I just wanted you to be aware."

"OK. What else?"

"Oh, that's it for now. We'll get your floor out of there tomorrow and get working on your lights and outlets. Just giving you an update."

I audibly exhale in relief.

And then I find the collection of stuff Wally found behind my cabinets.

It is like he's found my diary and read it.

The Cat's In The Cradle and The Silver Spoon

I am not sure why I am panicking so. I have done a renovation before.

But that was when I was married and had someone to share the responsibility with. Not that Lars was a great partner for such an undertaking, (we did get into quite a tiff about carpet color...) but at least I was not the sole responsible party. 

And that was the attic renovation. It inconvenienced no one. The attic was raw, unfinished space that was being redefined as living space. It also took place in the weeks that preceded my father's death and I had beau coup other distractions. Seriously, if the renovation had been a complete disaster I would have barely noticed. I remember the carpet guy coming to the door the day after my father passed, and Lars meeting him in the foyer to tell him to direct all questions to him. That I was not to be bothered, annoyed, pressured, or disturbed in any way. 

And as a side note, thank God that renovation took place when it did. Six months later I found myself in the middle of a divorce from the Anti-Christ and living up there in the penthouse suite alone.  It could have been far worse.

And the kids are with Lars. They will not be inconvenienced at all. They will come home Friday to a brand spanking new kitchen designed by their mother. Woo hoo!

But I am a little worried about the cat.

If Wally and his men are going to be traipsing in and out with equipment and prop the door, Trinket is going to s-p-l-i-t.  I am going to have to confine her in the penthouse like a divorcee.

I get a temporary kitty litter box (a travel toily) and place it on the landing of the attic steps.

I put my yard work weary arms to the test and install the window air conditioner in the large window in the attic (and while it is open, Trinket nearly jumps out, so strong is her desire to roam the wilds of suburbia). I set it to go on when the temp gets to 80.  perfect purring cat temperature.

I move her food bowls, water dish and placemat onto the counter where she'll find them. I put the can opener, a fork and tin of tuna in the little refrigerator that use to be stocked with wine during the divorce. She will enjoy her usual breakfast. I take the two highball glasses of water that Trinket usually finds in the bathroom and move them to a convenient spot in the attic. I fill a pitcher with fresh water to replenish the glasses and bowls daily.  I take her toys, all of them, and her scratching pad to the third floor as well. I tune the radio to our station. I open each storage area just enough for her to go in and explore in case she's bored.

I think I have lost my mind.

I Will Survive

After a relaxing, distracting weekend with Scott at the shore, complete with motorcycle rides, jet ski jaunts,  and beach time, I head for home to finish cleaning every last remaining item from my kitchen. 
I should have had a yard sale.  I can't believe all this crap has been wedged in the nooks and crannies of my teeny tiny kitchen for all this time. I am not sure I can wedge it all back in. Not sure that I want to. Hello, Purple Heart? 

As the dining room fills with all manner of kitchen stuff and every flat surface becomes a temporary home to coffee mugs, pans, small appliances, dishes, serving pieces and things I am not sure have a purpose, I am in a near panic. I am running out of space and Trinket's sense of curiosity is off the charts.

She hides herself in half emptied cabinets. She explores the interiors of drawers. She meanders delicately across surfaces crowded with glasses, expertly managing to avoid knocking them over (while I breathe into a paperbag nearby).  She circles my legs and the garbage can as I dump the old toaster oven, tea kettle and stained placemats in their final resting place.

In an attempt to regain some sense of control, I wash, dry and fold several final loads of laundry, mow the lawn, trim some hedges, edge the yard, and prepare a final meal in this version of my kitchen.  I am completely out of my comfort zone.

I have little pep talks with myself. "This will be over in no time. You will survive. So will the cat."

I take pictures of the empty kitchen (and a few of Trinket in her hiding places).  I shoot one shot from each of the 4 corners of the room. The before shots. Then I survey the heap of kitchen items in my dining room and photograph that so I can show the kids.  The renovation is anticipated to take 5 days. It will be finished (and presumably restocked, if I have my way!) by the time they return to me. the picture will be proof that it was ever completely dismantled. It will be over before they know it. It will seem like magic.

At least that was the plan THAT day.

The Number You Have Reached Has Been Disconnected

The text traffic continues for a short time more. I can't tell which texts are being forwarded by Charlotte or if there is a comment to me from Joe, but for good measure, I send him a message.

"A Message from AT&T: Your message has been blocked at the recipient's request. Msg6567*"

I am hoping that it is official enough to fool him. A similar message to Lars a few months back did the trick.  And Joe is a whole lot more slow-witted than my ex-husband, recreational drugs notwithstanding.

If he weren't so completely pathetic and aggravating, it would be easy to feel sorry for him. He's managed to run off the only worthwhile people in his life and is left surrounded by dozens of complete morons.  It took my mother decades to make the same mistake. Joe has done it in record time.

I am sure that he and Estelle are commiserating about this. He is whining on his cell phone from a remote location so his shrew wife will not know he's contacted his mother. Mom is screeching like a howler monkey into the mouthpiece of her Trac-Phone that my sister and I are wicked Hell-bound bitches with superior attitudes and not an ounce of kindness toward anyone but each other.

What-ev.  If it gets you through the night, rock on. I have a life to live. And it doesn't need to be mired in your nonsense, my dear mother and brother.  Don't bother me. Tell your little story to People Magazine.

In the meantime, I tell the story, the abridged Reader's Digest version, to Scott. He OH MY GODs his way through my meandering story, amused by the Hollywood outrageousness of it (I may as well be Lindsay Lohan's daughter) and empathetic about what a horror it is to live through each of these painfully realistic visions of Hell. I finish by telling him that my farewell to my mother was not dramatic and had no sense of finality. It was as though I could bump into her any day. No hint that we may never lay eyes on eachother again. I give my kids more meaningful goodbyes when I let them out of the car at school. 

She did mention though, that she'd be getting an early start and driving straight through to her home.  Read that "Not stopping to see Babs and Frank on the way back." 

Scott says, "Your mom is running out of places to stay."

True. Mom has managed to run off a couple more of her faithful friends.  And family, at that. It amazes me that she still blames them. Amazes me that she hasn't seen herself as the common denominator.

But my amazement is short lived. I have bigger fish to fry. My kitchen is about to be renovated.

The Road Less Traveled

Though there is a part of me that wants to pick up the phone, dial my Idiot Brother's number, wait for him to joyfully answer, and then let fly with an endless stream of obscenities and crucifying insults the effects from which he will never recover. He is that infuriating.

But I choose to do the more infuriating thing. I ignore him. I can not trouble my soul, quicken my pulse, burden my heart with so much as a single shred of his nonsense. It is like a flesh-eating virus. Just a drop and suddenly your life and everything in it is shriveling up and turning to foul smelling goo.

Charlotte takes the other route. Goes on the offensive.  Nibbles the bate to get his attention. Then gives him a run for his money.

She reminds him of the family gatherings and holidays and birthdays to which he and his family were invited. Then she reminds him, lest he forget, with that Dollar Store brain of his, that due to his conduct and lack of respect for her home and her boundaries, he's been excluded, for hello, two or three years now. Is he just catching on?

Her closing remarks are about not having the energy or the inclination to deal with his particular brand of bullshit. 

He replies, once again trying his novice hand at being clever.  Charlotte forwards the reply to me.  He claims that he doesn't have time for people who hold grudges (Really, then why are we texting?) Then he thinks he's moving in for the kill by saying "Dad would be really disappointed in all of this."

Really. That is the best he could come up with. My 12 year old could make a more wounding remark.

Charlotte fires back with the ways Dad would be disappointed in him and soon they are off on a pissing contest.

It is all rather amusing from my position of detached voyeuristic distance, until my Idiot Brother, unaware that Charlotte is forwarding the texts to me, makes a disparaging comment, that he attributes to our mother, that opens a wound I'd long closed. Mom and Joe have evidently raked me over the coals again. 

It is not an issue I feel guilty about. It pertains to when we were tasked with cleaning out Dad's house so it could be sold.  I know exactly the contributions I made to that effort. And so does Charlotte. The fact that Joe and Mom remember it differently is not important.

But the fact that they still want to flog me for it amongst themselves makes me want to throttle them both.

I will never have a relationship with my mother and don't choose to. Too much trouble, and too much polluted water over the dam.  But both of us are completely comfortable having walked away.

My brother needs to keep knocking on the door. Waving his hands in our faces. Poking the bear if only to get someone's attention. Mom was trying to get me to feel sorry for him at Commencement. Saying he misses his family. I can hardly believe she'd dare try to work me over given the tenuous relationship between us. Some people never know when to quit.

I decide to enter the ring and poke back at him, the poor unarmed, unsuspecting boob that he is.

I send him a text. "Charlotte has kept me apprised of your discussion. Don't contact me again. Ever, for any reason. You have no idea what you have done."

Let Your Fingers Do The Talking

Mom goes on for some time meeting and greeting, completely unconcerned that she looks like a craniofacial reconstructive osteopathy patient.  I am practically breathing into a paper bag.  At last we leave for lunch. 

Upon arriving at the Pub of choice, I excuse myself and head to the loo.  (Skip to the loo, my darlin'? No?) Squirreled away in the stall, I text my friend. The one with all the advice about wine and deep breathing.  In a series of short texts, I tell her the story. Mostly because she was worried for me and I promised I'd send up a flare.

"Ok. Here is the deal." Send.

"Mom is being cordial." Send.

"Almost subdued. NOT her nature." Send.

"Probably because she stopped at her brother's on her way to my sister's." Send.

"Got plastered." Send.

"Fell walking up the front steps." Send.

"Broke her glasses." Send.

"Her dentures." Send.

"Has two black eyes." Send.

"And I am texting from the toily which the only place I can be alone enough to send a text." Send.

And she texts back.

"O" Send.

"M" Send.

"G" Send.

Exactly.

Lunch is as festive as one would expect and we all enjoy a few laughs. Soon, all too soon, we are heading for Charlotte's house and the awkward goodbye to Estelle. I manage to escape without injury and head for home to see the kids and finish resolving the stupid problem I'd created for myself at work.

Not long after my last task was wrapped for the night, I get a text. Thinking it is Charlotte with another "Oh My God If She Doesn't Shut Up Right This Minute I Will Commit Hari Kari" cry for help, or Scott with a few X's and O's, I pick up the phone to read it at once.

It is not Charlotte. It is not Scott. It is not my intrigued colleague wondering where else the story led after I'd exited the bathroom.

It is my idiot brother Joe. 

"I am so glad family togetherness still exists since dad died!"

An idiot says what?

For a brief misguided moment, I actually try to figure out what his imbecilic ramblings are supposed to mean to me. I think maybe he's being sarcastic, but he's too stupid to realize that sarcasm doesn't really read well in a text, and since there is no familiarity, I wouldn't pick up on it anyway.

Is he thinking he's clever having figured out that I was at Gray's graduation and he wasn't?  That anyone gave a rat's ass if he knew or was insulted to begin with?  Or is he just offended to not have been invited? 

And then I stop myself before wasting another crumb of gray matter more. 

Who cares what he is trying to say, however lamely?  And who cares if he's offended? 

I copy the text message and send it to Charlotte.

"This is the text I just got from Our Idiot Brother."

And she writes back.

"Me, too."

There is a method to his madness. He knows Mom is here. He's trying to stir the pot while the keeper of the cauldron is lurking nearby ready to throw us both in.