Never let it be said that my husband doesn’t have all his shit in one sack.
Having one’s excrement in a single flexible container is apparently of supreme importance in the U.S. military. Joe has been out of the Navy for 20 years, but the more colorful aspects of his service live on in scatological references and oft-repeated stories (under no circumstances should anyone ever ask about “that night in Manila”).
Unfortunately, at this moment, the reference is literal. Joe is cleaning the backyard of dog waste in preparation for planting—or rehoming—a full hedge of ligustrum bushes. A friend kindly offered the bushes, which need to be removed so he can build an addition to his house, after Joe told the sorry tale of our psycho-bitch-from-hell backyard neighbor. Joe was contemplating adding a spiral of razor wire atop our six-foot “privacy” fence until Sally reminded him that squirrels use to the fence as an elevated expressway to get from one tree to the next. “You can’t hurt the squirrels Daddy.” Her admonition—which curiously had much more resonance than my reminder of the Homeowner Association covenants—sent him in search of alternative ways to create a more effective barrier between our tiny backyard and Bitchzilla’s.
Apparently, our neighbor—we’ll just call her Bitch for short—thinks we’re too loud. In truth, we are a family “of volume.” However, our booming voices rarely can be heard after 11 p.m. and it’s been many months since we could afford a dinner party or any other merriment that might include serious drinking and loud, backslapping tales. Our adult son uses the front door, being past the age when he had to slip out his back bedroom window to meet his friends (did he really think we didn’t notice that window screen propped against the house?).
Her first serious salvo came a month ago in the form of a 9:30 p.m. call to see if everything was “all right.” At approximately 9:10 p.m., Joe made a particularly bad blunder in his online golf game and exclaimed “Oh no!” He was sitting on the lanai at the time. I heard him from inside the house and I’m pretty sure anyone on the block who happened to be sitting on their lanai at that hour also heard him. However, one non-profane exclamation at just-past-nine does not, in my mind, a nuisance make. Our neighbor apparently thought differently. She called, as mentioned, at 9:30 p.m.—a full 20 minutes after the exclamation—and asked “Is everything all right? I heard someone scream and I wanted to make sure you didn’t need assistance.” I thanked her for her concern, explained the yell and apologized for disturbing her. (Of course, if Joe actually had been having a heart attack or confronting a gunman, he would have been dead by the time she called.) She took the opportunity to lament our tiny lots and close-together houses and the fact that one can hear “everything.” She lingered over the word everything, which caused me to make a mental note to stop calling my sister from the lanai, but otherwise, no red flags.
That is, until two police officers showed up at our door this morning while I was making breakfast. As I stood there in my housefrau robe with a spatula in my hand, they explained that our noisy, late-night boisterousness was causing a problem in the neighborhood. I just stared blankly. I saw the female cop give me, in my frumpy middle-aged glory, the once-over and then check the address. “Uh, apparently your neighbor thinks you’ve been too loud,” she said slowly. “Do keep the TV turned up loud?” She was quickly getting the message that we weren’t a rock band, cheerleaders, sadists, or even particularly interesting. I think I stuttered something about leaving the back door open to get fresh air, but mostly I just stared at them. The male officer closed his notebook, scratched his chiseled chin and said “Ok then, have a nice day.”
I was still watching them walk to their patrol car when Mara, the woman who lives across the street and a former neighborhood association president, came tearing into my yard. “I heard them,” she said. “Did that crazy lady call the cops on you? She had them at Tommy’s house last week complaining about his dog barking. Old Ruffy is 13 years old, blind and deaf. I don’t even think he can bark.” I cleared my throat and asked Mara how she knew the police had been beckoned by my backyard neighbor. “Oh, she bitches about you guys all the time! She especially hates that Joe goes on the porch every morning and clears his throat for 10 minutes. You know, she put a motion detector in her backyard.”
I think it was the motion detector that did it. When Joe returned from walking the dog, I told him all he’d missed. Once he’d been dissuaded from a) confronting Bitch, b)buying a bullhorn, c)reviving his college garage band, or d) putting up razor wire, he opted for a three foot deep, seven foot high hedge between us and them. The hedge will make our tiny yard even tinier, but that should make it easier for Joe to keep all his shit in one sack.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Seven
I need to drink more.
If I drank more, I probably would have missed my husband making a crude remark to a circle of alternating shocked and tittering women, which led some of their husbands to guffaw and slap him on the back, which in turn led some of the women to glare at me accusingly. Accusingly, but not without some pity.
Let me backtrack a bit. Between dodging bill collectors and trying to decide whether to pay the car note, the house note or the water bill (while I convince my kids that Triscuits and peanut butter is an excellent breakfast), I sometimes get glimpses of my former life. Before the economy collapsed, before our household income went from X to one-fourth X, Joe and I had something that resembled a high-profile social life. We went out to dinner, we entertained and we showed up at our share of charity balls and benefits. Most of the balls and benefits were duty-dances. Joe’s employer bought the tickets, we donned our formal attire and helped carry the flag for the company. Let me note that it’s easy to be gracious and fun-loving at an event for which you did not pick up the $600-per-couple tax-deductible ticket.
Needless to say, if you can’t pay the utility bill on time and you can’t use your credit cards, your ability to fake your way through a $300-a-plate fete is limited. We don’t go anywhere anymore and mostly, I find that I don’t mind. But when we got an invitation to a black-tie party to celebrate the release of a friend’s cancer-survival memoir, I convinced Joe it was time to dust off our party clothes.
The gala, I knew, was meant to build a database of potential donors for a new research foundation. Julie’s doctor, a brilliant, accomplished blowhard with matinee-idol looks, smelled the faint, sweet, magnolia-tinged scent of old money on his new patient. When he saw her scribbling in a journal during chemo, he offered to collaborate on full-fledged book—with the help of the hospital’s PR department. My Walk with Cancer found a publisher, Julie and Dr. Hubert “Cary” Grant made the talk show circuit, and the hospital underwrote the release party. Julie, graciously, added a few of her real friends to the guest list.
Which is how we wound up in a ballroom at the Ritz-Carlton sipping Champagne (me) and small-batch Bourbon (Joe) and nibbling on Frenched lamb chops and shrimp the size of a fist. I had planned on wearing a red silk sheath, but sadly discovered that there weren’t enough Spanx in three zipcodes to keep the seams from screaming in agony. Instead, I went for the safety of black chiffon palazzo pants and a coordinated black knit shell and jacket with a gold paisley pattern. The paisleys were thickly covered with gold glitter. I vaguely remembered pulling the ensemble from some long-ago sale rack back in the days when I shopped for sport.
I had never worn the glittery tops and was completely unprepared for the amount of glitter I seemed to be shedding everywhere. The car looked like an army of kindergarteners had transported Christmas projects on the seats. As the evening wore on, I tried to avoid brushing against Joe’s black tux, but noticed that whenever he put his hand on my back, gallantly guiding me through a crowd or toward the next liquor station, his hands sparkled. The more his palms sparkled, the more glitter dust he left on everything he touched.
The glitter didn’t interfere with Joe’s drinking. I perhaps underestimated the ego-stress of mingling with people who still have money when one is unemployed. Joe has been unemployed for long enough now that the usual “have a few irons in the fire” clichés don’t work. In fact, he’s been unemployed for so long that nobody even asks what he’s doing for fear of either creating an awkward moment, or of actually having to act like they care that his life and career are in the toilet. So, Joe spent much of the evening listening to other people talk about their lives and their careers. And drinking. As I congratulated my friend Julie and gave the requisite number of air-kisses around the room, I noticed that Joe and his bottomless Bourbon glass had migrated to a small coterie of older women who were standing near the ballroom doors, next to a table of books. Joe always feels happily self-confident and comfortable around ladies of age. He loves their experience and wisdom and they love him for treating them like vibrant women.
A spotlight focused on the book table spilled over onto the group and I could see Joe making broad motions and putting on the charm. I also saw glitter twinkling from his face, hands and jacket.
I moved toward the sociable circle—which included Julie’s globe-trotting, black-sheep aunt and the proud mother of Dr. Grant—just as J.J. Diehl, Joe’s former sparring partner in the magazine’s bull pen popped up. Before the magazine folded, J.J. married a widowed surgeon and convinced her to support his dream of becoming an anthropology professor. Since J.J. quit college after two years, this meant his new sugar-mama had committed to funding about seven years of education and untold numbers of field expeditions. J.J. had the giddy, outrageous demeanor of petty thief who dodged a bullet.
“Whoa! My man Joe. How have you been? I didn’t expect to see you here.” I heard J.J. interrupt the conversation. I stood behind a petite blonde and tried to get Joe’s attention. I motioned toward the door. Joe ignored me, and he ignored J.J. Unlike me, J.J. would not be ignored. “So, Joe what have you been doing? Still beating the pavement? I don’t know what this means, but I gotta tell you, you’ve got glitter on your mustache.” J.J. laughed a bit too loudly. By then, a few husbands had joined the merry band. I saw Joe take a big sip of Bourbon. His mouth pressed into a tight smile as he stared into the glass.
“I’ll tell you what it means J.J. It means I’ve been going down on Tinkerbell. She said the last time you showed up at the fairy convention, you weren’t up to the job.”
Maybe I just imagined the gasp from Mrs. Grant. I definitely heard a dropped-and-shattered Champagne glass.
I need to drink more.
If I drank more, I probably would have missed my husband making a crude remark to a circle of alternating shocked and tittering women, which led some of their husbands to guffaw and slap him on the back, which in turn led some of the women to glare at me accusingly. Accusingly, but not without some pity.
Let me backtrack a bit. Between dodging bill collectors and trying to decide whether to pay the car note, the house note or the water bill (while I convince my kids that Triscuits and peanut butter is an excellent breakfast), I sometimes get glimpses of my former life. Before the economy collapsed, before our household income went from X to one-fourth X, Joe and I had something that resembled a high-profile social life. We went out to dinner, we entertained and we showed up at our share of charity balls and benefits. Most of the balls and benefits were duty-dances. Joe’s employer bought the tickets, we donned our formal attire and helped carry the flag for the company. Let me note that it’s easy to be gracious and fun-loving at an event for which you did not pick up the $600-per-couple tax-deductible ticket.
Needless to say, if you can’t pay the utility bill on time and you can’t use your credit cards, your ability to fake your way through a $300-a-plate fete is limited. We don’t go anywhere anymore and mostly, I find that I don’t mind. But when we got an invitation to a black-tie party to celebrate the release of a friend’s cancer-survival memoir, I convinced Joe it was time to dust off our party clothes.
The gala, I knew, was meant to build a database of potential donors for a new research foundation. Julie’s doctor, a brilliant, accomplished blowhard with matinee-idol looks, smelled the faint, sweet, magnolia-tinged scent of old money on his new patient. When he saw her scribbling in a journal during chemo, he offered to collaborate on full-fledged book—with the help of the hospital’s PR department. My Walk with Cancer found a publisher, Julie and Dr. Hubert “Cary” Grant made the talk show circuit, and the hospital underwrote the release party. Julie, graciously, added a few of her real friends to the guest list.
Which is how we wound up in a ballroom at the Ritz-Carlton sipping Champagne (me) and small-batch Bourbon (Joe) and nibbling on Frenched lamb chops and shrimp the size of a fist. I had planned on wearing a red silk sheath, but sadly discovered that there weren’t enough Spanx in three zipcodes to keep the seams from screaming in agony. Instead, I went for the safety of black chiffon palazzo pants and a coordinated black knit shell and jacket with a gold paisley pattern. The paisleys were thickly covered with gold glitter. I vaguely remembered pulling the ensemble from some long-ago sale rack back in the days when I shopped for sport.
I had never worn the glittery tops and was completely unprepared for the amount of glitter I seemed to be shedding everywhere. The car looked like an army of kindergarteners had transported Christmas projects on the seats. As the evening wore on, I tried to avoid brushing against Joe’s black tux, but noticed that whenever he put his hand on my back, gallantly guiding me through a crowd or toward the next liquor station, his hands sparkled. The more his palms sparkled, the more glitter dust he left on everything he touched.
The glitter didn’t interfere with Joe’s drinking. I perhaps underestimated the ego-stress of mingling with people who still have money when one is unemployed. Joe has been unemployed for long enough now that the usual “have a few irons in the fire” clichés don’t work. In fact, he’s been unemployed for so long that nobody even asks what he’s doing for fear of either creating an awkward moment, or of actually having to act like they care that his life and career are in the toilet. So, Joe spent much of the evening listening to other people talk about their lives and their careers. And drinking. As I congratulated my friend Julie and gave the requisite number of air-kisses around the room, I noticed that Joe and his bottomless Bourbon glass had migrated to a small coterie of older women who were standing near the ballroom doors, next to a table of books. Joe always feels happily self-confident and comfortable around ladies of age. He loves their experience and wisdom and they love him for treating them like vibrant women.
A spotlight focused on the book table spilled over onto the group and I could see Joe making broad motions and putting on the charm. I also saw glitter twinkling from his face, hands and jacket.
I moved toward the sociable circle—which included Julie’s globe-trotting, black-sheep aunt and the proud mother of Dr. Grant—just as J.J. Diehl, Joe’s former sparring partner in the magazine’s bull pen popped up. Before the magazine folded, J.J. married a widowed surgeon and convinced her to support his dream of becoming an anthropology professor. Since J.J. quit college after two years, this meant his new sugar-mama had committed to funding about seven years of education and untold numbers of field expeditions. J.J. had the giddy, outrageous demeanor of petty thief who dodged a bullet.
“Whoa! My man Joe. How have you been? I didn’t expect to see you here.” I heard J.J. interrupt the conversation. I stood behind a petite blonde and tried to get Joe’s attention. I motioned toward the door. Joe ignored me, and he ignored J.J. Unlike me, J.J. would not be ignored. “So, Joe what have you been doing? Still beating the pavement? I don’t know what this means, but I gotta tell you, you’ve got glitter on your mustache.” J.J. laughed a bit too loudly. By then, a few husbands had joined the merry band. I saw Joe take a big sip of Bourbon. His mouth pressed into a tight smile as he stared into the glass.
“I’ll tell you what it means J.J. It means I’ve been going down on Tinkerbell. She said the last time you showed up at the fairy convention, you weren’t up to the job.”
Maybe I just imagined the gasp from Mrs. Grant. I definitely heard a dropped-and-shattered Champagne glass.
I need to drink more.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Six
Here’s the definitive signpost for middle-age: When you find yourself using your long-handled vibrating massager for its publicly advertised purpose—to work the kinks out of your back and neck—you have passed the point of no return.
At the moment, I don’t even care. I spent the last two hours digging through purses, tote bags, coat pockets, piles of bills and half-used notebooks, trying to find a damn ticket. Several months ago—okay six but do we really need to count?—a ridiculously cheery, polite cop alerted me to the fact that my car registration had expired. The friendly shout-out came in the form of a $72 ticket. At the time, I had a choice, renew my registration or pay the ticket. I couldn’t afford to do both. So, the ticket went to the island of misfit documents. Out of sight, out of mind. Now the state is communicating with me, in a decidedly non-cheery manner, telling me that I have a week to pay the freaking ticket or lose my driver’s license. This is exactly the sort of thing that, in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, catapults the heroine into a potentially-murderous chain of events, all of which
could have been avoided by a simple timely act. Now I’ve got to find the ticket, pay the ticket in person at a Clerk of Court office, then take the receipt to a DMV office because god-forbid that the state should have a mechanism for alerting the DMV that the ticket has been paid.
Searching for the errant ticket, then imagining a trip to not one, but two low-level government offices—where I envision clerks either filing data or filing their nails while a mass of humanity fidgets and sweats and tries to get comfortable on hard, single-cheek plastic chairs—has sent me in search of an out-of-date bottle of Xanax. And the long-handled vibrator.
At the moment, I don’t even care. I spent the last two hours digging through purses, tote bags, coat pockets, piles of bills and half-used notebooks, trying to find a damn ticket. Several months ago—okay six but do we really need to count?—a ridiculously cheery, polite cop alerted me to the fact that my car registration had expired. The friendly shout-out came in the form of a $72 ticket. At the time, I had a choice, renew my registration or pay the ticket. I couldn’t afford to do both. So, the ticket went to the island of misfit documents. Out of sight, out of mind. Now the state is communicating with me, in a decidedly non-cheery manner, telling me that I have a week to pay the freaking ticket or lose my driver’s license. This is exactly the sort of thing that, in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, catapults the heroine into a potentially-murderous chain of events, all of which
could have been avoided by a simple timely act. Now I’ve got to find the ticket, pay the ticket in person at a Clerk of Court office, then take the receipt to a DMV office because god-forbid that the state should have a mechanism for alerting the DMV that the ticket has been paid.
Searching for the errant ticket, then imagining a trip to not one, but two low-level government offices—where I envision clerks either filing data or filing their nails while a mass of humanity fidgets and sweats and tries to get comfortable on hard, single-cheek plastic chairs—has sent me in search of an out-of-date bottle of Xanax. And the long-handled vibrator.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Five
My son thinks I’m mean. This because his hulking, vampire-like presence wandering into the kitchen at 1 p.m.—just out of bed after I’ve been working my ass off for five hours already—pisses me off. I want to slap him upside the head and tell him to shape up. However, it didn’t work when he was 12 and I’m pretty sure it won’t work now. He assures me that he’s applying for jobs via the internet every day. I don’t believe him, and even if it is true, it isn’t enough. At one time, I had high hopes that he’d get a college degree or even a two-year certificate in something that would allow him to be, if not a mogul, at least self-sustaining. He went to college for one semester, declared it to be “not his thing” and took a part-time job. He ill-advisedly protested a manager’s insistence that a co-worker—a cute brunette—refrain from wearing her nose ring at work and inexplicably wound up “off the schedule.” Permanently.
Since I seem to be incapable of allowing my adult son to live on the street, and since his lack of skills and resources make that inevitable, I can’t really say or do anything that will lead to an ultimate show-down.
Oh, I have no problem provoking a screaming match with the useless little bast…uh…gamer. But if I do, then Joe will inevitably rouse from his internet golf stupor, be rudely reminded that he spawned a deadbeat and fly into a rage over some aspect of the argument. Then the testosterone in the house will rise to suffocating levels and either Joe will kick Dean out or Dean will make some grand stand, throw his computer in a backpack and walk out. Of course, this was more effective when he could drive his car. Since my son is unemployed and we’re squeaking by on one income, his car is both unregistered and uninsured. Somehow, storming away on his skateboard doesn’t have the same impact.
So, I’m limited to focusing my complaints, lowering my voice and hissing to Dean that I’m tired of asking him to empty the dishwasher and I’m tired of reminding him to check the dishes to make sure they’re really clean before putting them in the cabinets. Since this seems like such minor thing, Dean can’t believe I’m getting “in his face” before he’s really awake. Hence, he thinks I’m mean. He has no idea.
Since I seem to be incapable of allowing my adult son to live on the street, and since his lack of skills and resources make that inevitable, I can’t really say or do anything that will lead to an ultimate show-down.
Oh, I have no problem provoking a screaming match with the useless little bast…uh…gamer. But if I do, then Joe will inevitably rouse from his internet golf stupor, be rudely reminded that he spawned a deadbeat and fly into a rage over some aspect of the argument. Then the testosterone in the house will rise to suffocating levels and either Joe will kick Dean out or Dean will make some grand stand, throw his computer in a backpack and walk out. Of course, this was more effective when he could drive his car. Since my son is unemployed and we’re squeaking by on one income, his car is both unregistered and uninsured. Somehow, storming away on his skateboard doesn’t have the same impact.
So, I’m limited to focusing my complaints, lowering my voice and hissing to Dean that I’m tired of asking him to empty the dishwasher and I’m tired of reminding him to check the dishes to make sure they’re really clean before putting them in the cabinets. Since this seems like such minor thing, Dean can’t believe I’m getting “in his face” before he’s really awake. Hence, he thinks I’m mean. He has no idea.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Four
My mother doesn’t understand why I don’t pick up the phone. She calls the house phone, leaves a long message, then successively calls each and every cell phone in the house until somebody picks up. Having finally tracked me down, this time via my son’s cell phone, she alerts me to the fact that I didn’t answer the house phone and asks if that’s the number I had disconnected. This, despite the fact that she left a message on that line and despite the fact that I’ve told her many times that I had the office line turned off.
Since the only work I’ve gotten lately—aside from poorly-paid how-to books—is writing reports for research houses, I don’t have any need to call sources or accept calls from anyone. Ergo, no need to pretend I’m actually running a business here in this asylum.
“Your cousins are going to be in St. Augustine next week,” she says. There are 63 living first and second cousins in our family. I ask her to be more specific. “Jeannie and Sam. Their grandchildren are giving them a cruise. Before the boat leaves, they’re going to spend a couple of days in St. Augustine. It would be nice of you to take them around. You know, that’s where Jeannie and Sam went on their honeymoon.”
I didn’t know. Sam and Jeannie are in their late 70s. Sam and Mom are first cousins, although Sam is a bit older. The two high school sweethearts struggled to have a family—a tale I’ve heard in excruciating detail—but were given the opportunity to adopt a sibling pair as toddlers. “You see, they prayed.” Mom always concluded the story with that admonishment. I never knew if she was trying to tell me to believe in a higher power or to warn me to be careful what you pray for. Sam, Jr. and Jean-Ann’s teen exploits were legendary in the small town of Legendre, Louisiana, including (but not limited to) using their ATVs to herd the mayor’s prized Nubian goats through the streets of the nine square block downtown. My late father pointed to them as an example of what happens when your parents are white trash with oil money. (A minor well had been drilled on their farm.) When Aunt Jeannie uttered her favorite expletive, she did it with such emphasis that one felt a pile of it had been shoveled into the room.
The last time I saw Jean-Ann was at a great-aunt’s funeral. I quickly decided she took after her mother—only with more makeup, more costume jewelry and more rhinestone studs on the jogging suit she wore to the wake. Sam, Jr.’s children by his second wife seemed to be the generation of that family that bridged the gap from societal menace to genteel professional class. By the time the girls were born, Sammy had been out of rehab for the second time and sober for 6 years. He discovered a talent for cooking, managed to get a loan for a historic house on the edge of town, married the real estate agent who sold it to him and launched a very successful restaurant. Foodies drove for miles to sample his boudin-stuffed, pan-seared quail and pecan-crusted trout over corn grits.
His wife Suzette had a special “chef’s table” set up in the kitchen for Sam and Jeannie, thus ensuring that her in-laws and her husband’s patrons never mingled. Clever woman.
Sammy’s daughters performed admirably at LSU, then one went to law school at the University of Pennsylvania and the other went to Stamford. Read: As far from family as humanly possible. They got back together in Dallas where they own a joint practice specializing in family law. Family law, of course, being a euphemism for kick-your-ex’s-ass barracuda divorce lawyers. Crystal and Cherie are very good at what they do.
Why are they now taking such an interest in Sam and Jeannie? This I can’t say. What I can say is this: Crystal and Cherie get to chew up poor bastards in the Dallas courthouse, cash mega-checks and sleep in their posh condos in Texas. I have to escort their foul-mouthed grandmother and feeble grandfather through the cobblestone streets of St. Augustine.
“Sure Mom. Just let me know when they’re getting in.” And she wonders why I don’t answer the phone.
Since the only work I’ve gotten lately—aside from poorly-paid how-to books—is writing reports for research houses, I don’t have any need to call sources or accept calls from anyone. Ergo, no need to pretend I’m actually running a business here in this asylum.
“Your cousins are going to be in St. Augustine next week,” she says. There are 63 living first and second cousins in our family. I ask her to be more specific. “Jeannie and Sam. Their grandchildren are giving them a cruise. Before the boat leaves, they’re going to spend a couple of days in St. Augustine. It would be nice of you to take them around. You know, that’s where Jeannie and Sam went on their honeymoon.”
I didn’t know. Sam and Jeannie are in their late 70s. Sam and Mom are first cousins, although Sam is a bit older. The two high school sweethearts struggled to have a family—a tale I’ve heard in excruciating detail—but were given the opportunity to adopt a sibling pair as toddlers. “You see, they prayed.” Mom always concluded the story with that admonishment. I never knew if she was trying to tell me to believe in a higher power or to warn me to be careful what you pray for. Sam, Jr. and Jean-Ann’s teen exploits were legendary in the small town of Legendre, Louisiana, including (but not limited to) using their ATVs to herd the mayor’s prized Nubian goats through the streets of the nine square block downtown. My late father pointed to them as an example of what happens when your parents are white trash with oil money. (A minor well had been drilled on their farm.) When Aunt Jeannie uttered her favorite expletive, she did it with such emphasis that one felt a pile of it had been shoveled into the room.
The last time I saw Jean-Ann was at a great-aunt’s funeral. I quickly decided she took after her mother—only with more makeup, more costume jewelry and more rhinestone studs on the jogging suit she wore to the wake. Sam, Jr.’s children by his second wife seemed to be the generation of that family that bridged the gap from societal menace to genteel professional class. By the time the girls were born, Sammy had been out of rehab for the second time and sober for 6 years. He discovered a talent for cooking, managed to get a loan for a historic house on the edge of town, married the real estate agent who sold it to him and launched a very successful restaurant. Foodies drove for miles to sample his boudin-stuffed, pan-seared quail and pecan-crusted trout over corn grits.
His wife Suzette had a special “chef’s table” set up in the kitchen for Sam and Jeannie, thus ensuring that her in-laws and her husband’s patrons never mingled. Clever woman.
Sammy’s daughters performed admirably at LSU, then one went to law school at the University of Pennsylvania and the other went to Stamford. Read: As far from family as humanly possible. They got back together in Dallas where they own a joint practice specializing in family law. Family law, of course, being a euphemism for kick-your-ex’s-ass barracuda divorce lawyers. Crystal and Cherie are very good at what they do.
Why are they now taking such an interest in Sam and Jeannie? This I can’t say. What I can say is this: Crystal and Cherie get to chew up poor bastards in the Dallas courthouse, cash mega-checks and sleep in their posh condos in Texas. I have to escort their foul-mouthed grandmother and feeble grandfather through the cobblestone streets of St. Augustine.
“Sure Mom. Just let me know when they’re getting in.” And she wonders why I don’t answer the phone.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Three
I’m having an out of body experience. That’s the only plausible excuse for the situation at hand. I’m having cocktails (happy hour and someone else is buying) with people who have secure, good-paying jobs. I oh-so-vaguely remember being in a similar position. Anyway, these humanoid-looking aliens are posturing about recent economic events in the same way I might discuss the melting glaciers of the Antarctic. It’s a concern, but it’s happening over there. Meanwhile, I’m smiling, nodding and drowning.
Joe is two beers into a discussion about why his former employer folded. Joe managed ad sales for a string of magazines extolling the good life of luxury homes, yachts and high-end cars, aimed at those who very recently achieved that good life and at those who aspired to it. Why did the magazines fold? Simple: The people who recently left their stucco bungalows for fancier digs stopped acquiring new toys and in some cases lost the toys they had. Those who bought the magazines to dream a little dream of wealth had to go back to spending that $5 a month on groceries. Oh, and throw in the fact that half the advertisers—those highly-leveraged developers who built mini-mansions in zero-lot-line trailer parks—went out of business when the nouveau riche went back to being the vieux pauvre. However, it will take Joe at least one more beer to disclose these simple truths to his rapt thrall, a petite blonde with a newly-minted EdD and an expensive rack. Right now, he’s busy expounding on the publisher’s lack of vision.
A cute waiter named Todd (aren’t they all named Todd?) hands me a double Glenfiddich on the rocks. “It’s from the gentleman at the corner table,” he says. I take a sip, thrill to the smoky, smooth taste and turn to face my benefactor. There at the back of the room, glass raised in my direction, sits my ex-husband. Well, that’s what he calls himself. He’s really a former housemate from my lovely misspent young adulthood. One night in a cocaine-and-Scotch fueled haze we allowed a neighbor who had been recently ordained as a minister in the World Stewardship Ministries Outreach to practice his marriage ceremony chops on us. We dutifully consummated the marriage and, having satisfied the curiosity, felt little need to have much to do with one another again, save the occasional innuendo-studded conversation. I haven’t seen him in years and probably wouldn’t have recognized him except for the fact that his face is plastered on TV ads and billboards all over town. Colby Horner in your corner. Ho-Ho, short for his nickname Horny Horner, is a personal injury law factory magnate. We locked eyes and I started to stroll over to his table to catch up, but before I could grab my purse a young lovely in a black sheath and 4-inch heels returned to his table.
Just as well.
Joe is two beers into a discussion about why his former employer folded. Joe managed ad sales for a string of magazines extolling the good life of luxury homes, yachts and high-end cars, aimed at those who very recently achieved that good life and at those who aspired to it. Why did the magazines fold? Simple: The people who recently left their stucco bungalows for fancier digs stopped acquiring new toys and in some cases lost the toys they had. Those who bought the magazines to dream a little dream of wealth had to go back to spending that $5 a month on groceries. Oh, and throw in the fact that half the advertisers—those highly-leveraged developers who built mini-mansions in zero-lot-line trailer parks—went out of business when the nouveau riche went back to being the vieux pauvre. However, it will take Joe at least one more beer to disclose these simple truths to his rapt thrall, a petite blonde with a newly-minted EdD and an expensive rack. Right now, he’s busy expounding on the publisher’s lack of vision.
A cute waiter named Todd (aren’t they all named Todd?) hands me a double Glenfiddich on the rocks. “It’s from the gentleman at the corner table,” he says. I take a sip, thrill to the smoky, smooth taste and turn to face my benefactor. There at the back of the room, glass raised in my direction, sits my ex-husband. Well, that’s what he calls himself. He’s really a former housemate from my lovely misspent young adulthood. One night in a cocaine-and-Scotch fueled haze we allowed a neighbor who had been recently ordained as a minister in the World Stewardship Ministries Outreach to practice his marriage ceremony chops on us. We dutifully consummated the marriage and, having satisfied the curiosity, felt little need to have much to do with one another again, save the occasional innuendo-studded conversation. I haven’t seen him in years and probably wouldn’t have recognized him except for the fact that his face is plastered on TV ads and billboards all over town. Colby Horner in your corner. Ho-Ho, short for his nickname Horny Horner, is a personal injury law factory magnate. We locked eyes and I started to stroll over to his table to catch up, but before I could grab my purse a young lovely in a black sheath and 4-inch heels returned to his table.
Just as well.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Two
My daughter thinks I’m no fun. She’s got a Nintendo DS with $600 worth of games, a 17-inch screen laptop computer, an I-Phone that I gave up my business phone line to pay for and two chests full of low-tech toys and craft materials. Her bookshelves could stock a small town library. She has a dog and two cats. Did I mention we have cable TV with pre-teen fare running 24/7? But Sally is bored and by God it’s my job to keep her entertained.
And I’m not doing my job. Sally is 11 years old and resents the time I spend working at the computer. She goads me with the little platitudes she’s picked up about “all work and no play.” She’s also not above using guilt. “You can’t work all the time,” she whines. “You have to spend some time with your family.” By “your family” she means herself. Sally could give a shit whether I spend time with Joe or her brother.
Truth to tell, Joe and my 22-year-old son would rather I spend any “family time” I care to bestow with Sally. Since Joe is currently unemployed and my son is, near as I can tell, unemployable, my attentions make them feel alternating currents of guilt and dread. If I discuss the household financial straights, they think I’m blaming them (I am) and if I don’t (because I don’t have the energy) they think I’m trying to make them feel guilty (I wish).
Sally, of course, is right. I am no fun. Not in the let’s-play-silly-games-and-bake-cookies sense. Not in the cocktail conversation sense. And definitely not in the get drunk and get naked sense.
I work because I can, because I have to and because nobody else is going to do it for me. I also work because it’s a damn sight easier than dealing with anything that matters.
I should drink more.
And I’m not doing my job. Sally is 11 years old and resents the time I spend working at the computer. She goads me with the little platitudes she’s picked up about “all work and no play.” She’s also not above using guilt. “You can’t work all the time,” she whines. “You have to spend some time with your family.” By “your family” she means herself. Sally could give a shit whether I spend time with Joe or her brother.
Truth to tell, Joe and my 22-year-old son would rather I spend any “family time” I care to bestow with Sally. Since Joe is currently unemployed and my son is, near as I can tell, unemployable, my attentions make them feel alternating currents of guilt and dread. If I discuss the household financial straights, they think I’m blaming them (I am) and if I don’t (because I don’t have the energy) they think I’m trying to make them feel guilty (I wish).
Sally, of course, is right. I am no fun. Not in the let’s-play-silly-games-and-bake-cookies sense. Not in the cocktail conversation sense. And definitely not in the get drunk and get naked sense.
I work because I can, because I have to and because nobody else is going to do it for me. I also work because it’s a damn sight easier than dealing with anything that matters.
I should drink more.
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