Foolery

Sunday

You wake up one glorious May Sunday morning, stretch, yawn and start your day.

 

You check on your 18-year-old daughter to make sure she's safe, since last night was her senior prom.  Her new boyfriend came up Saturday from his town down in the valley to take her to the prom, and he's staying the weekend with your family.  They met a few months ago in honors band camp.

 

Your 20-year-old son is also here for the weekend, and he'll be driving home today.

 

All is well.  You get ready for church.

 

When you come home from church your son has gone.  You go into your daughter's room . . .

 

. . . and that's when your world comes to a stop.  Your daughter and her boyfriend are there in body, but not in spirit.  You find them there, together, murdered.

 

Four hours later the police arrest a suspect -- your daughter's ex-boyfriend and co-worker at the grocery store.  Your son is on his way back to be with you.

 

At dinner time you get the news that there's been an accident.  Your son, in his hurry to get home, took a mountain curve too fast and hit a stand of pine trees.  He's been airlifted down to a valley hospital.  He's in critical condition.

 

Two days later, he dies, never having regained consciousness.

 

Two towns are grieving the loss of three young people whom they knew and loved.  An entire region moans in pain and grief every time the news is updated, because it is worse every time.  Parents everywhere have glazed eyes as they try to -- and then try not to -- imagine your loss.  Prayers are offered, hugs are tighter at bedtime.

 

This is an imagined account of a true story, here in my part of the world.  The tragedy happened Sunday, which was Mother's Day.  Please hold the woman, the mother, the parent, who in a way is all of us, in your minds and hearts this week.

Get to Know Me!

What is your name?

Favorite foods?

Relationship status?

 


Celebrity crushes?

Favorite TV shows?

Musical performers you like?

What you had for breakfast?

Something you are wearing?

Favorite colors?

Favorite electronic items?

Something fun you did in the last three months?

How do you feel right now?

With thanks to Grandma J and Cortney for passing this photo meme along.
 

The Honeymoon Party

My parents retired quite young, due to completely unforeseen circumstances.  They live pretty simply and travel when they feel like it, going to interesting places around the world and close to home.

But their favorite place for several years has been a little Caribbean island in the Lesser Antilles, the ownership of which is divided between France (Saint-Martin) and the Netherlands (Sint Maarten).


(Map stolen from these guys)

When Chas and I got married in 1998, Mom and Dad gave us money for a honeymoon.  They encouraged us to go somewhere memorable, because we were not likely to be able to travel again for many years (so true).  As we talked it over, St. Martin kept coming up, and they were eager to tell us all about it.  The conversations went something like this:

Dad:  "Oh, you'll love it there, especially the French side.  Orient Beach is consistently rated one of the top five beaches in the world."

Mom:  "Kontiki and Boo Boo Jam's are a lot of fun.  And the restaurants in Grand Case are wonderful --"

Dad:  "You know, the far end of Orient Beach is a nude beach, so you'll want to take your binoculars.  Well, Chas will."

Mom:  "And you'll have to go to the farmer's market over in Marigot --"

Dad:  "The Dutch side has all the nightlife.  You don't want nightlife, do you?  That'd be pretty boring, just the two of you.  Too bad you're not going with another couple; it'd be more fun."

Mom:  "If you rent Chip's villa, you'd be just up the hill from Dawn Beach and Captain Oliver's, which we really like --"

Dad:  "Do you know anybody who could go with you?  Because it really would be a lot more fun with more people."

Later that night . . .

Um.  Chas?

Yes?

Now, hear me out.  Say no and I'll never bring it up again, but . . . what would you think about asking my parents to go with us on our honeymoon?

Yeah, okay.

Are you sure?  Because, you know, HONEYMOON . . .

No, it's fine.

So.  We were married in February and honeymooned in St. Martin in the summer, which is low season because of the chance of having a hurricane ruin your dream vacation.  We weren't joined by any hurricanes, but we WERE joined by my parents, my brother Mantel Man, and my brother Bocci and his wife.  My sister couldn't make it, so we were only seven in our honeymoon villa.


(Photo stolen from the source)

Coincidentally, the place slept seven just fine.

So, yeah, I'm a bit of a freak because I took my family on my honeymoon.  But no one EVER had a better time on their honeymoon (thatwecan
talkaboutinpolitecompanythankyouverymuch).


(Photo stolen from RogerTheriault on Flickr)

The Mormor Stories: Saturday Night Dance

(Original photo stolen from JAM1978 on Flickr)

We take so much for granted these days.  It's easy to think of the obvious -- television, Tivo, computers, even electricity.  But what about how to spend your occasional unfettered Saturday nights?  We THINK we could get along with a strong candle and a good book, but really?  Could we do without a Miles Davis or Grateful Dead disc playing in the background while we read?  Or a scented pomegranate candle, maybe?  And who among us would be jonesing for a Starbucks coffee or (like Yours Truly) a big balloon of Trader Joe's Two-Buck Chuck diesel red?

Now read this account, and ask yourself if you really long for those days of simpler pleasures.  You still may.

The first winter we were on the ranch at Camp Grant my mother discovered that we were, by custom, supposed to hold dances now and then at our house.  This because we had a big living room and a large dining room that had good floors for dancing if well-smeared with candle wax ahead of time.  Mom didn't mind the wax, but she adamantly refused having a bale of hay to work in the wax; she said that shoes will soon do the job.

Midnight supper, consisting of box lunches and coffee, also became my mother's job.  It was no small task, for she never knew how many to prepare, and the nearest store was miles away.  I got to stay up way past my bedtime for I could help Mom, and besides, who could sleep with an accordion and violin being played very loudly so dancers in both rooms could hear?

(Original photo stolen from this guy)

After I'd finished my little jobs one winter night, I sidled into the dining room to watch, and was quite thrilled with it all.  Then along came Jinx Hall, a young man of about twenty, who asked me why I wasn't dancing.  I answered most seriously and truthfully, "Jinx, I don't know how."

"Well, we'll fix that," he said.  "Come on."

So we went whirling about with my toes touching the floor only now and then.  We must have made an odd-looking couple because my nine-year-old frame only reached to his top vest button.  But it was heaven for me and, after that dance number was over, he gravely thanked me and brought me back to my corner.

You can bet I rushed into the kitchen calling, "Mama, Mama, I danced!  I danced with Jinx Hall.  He asked me and he thanked me too!  Isn't he beautiful?"

"Yes, he's a nice-looking young man," said my mother, "And it was kind of him to ask a little girl to dance."

"Oh," I said, "I'll never, never forget this night."

"But now," said Mama, "Come down to earth and help me wrap the sandwiches."

I've loved to dance ever since that evening.

p.s.  As an adult I still thought Jinx Hall was a most handsome man.

Put Them All Together, They Spell . . .

This is my mom.  She is so many things to the world.



Mom is soft-hearted.  She has inherited several dogs throughout her adulthood, and has patiently fed them and taken them all for walks and games of Throw The Ball, every day.  She did just about the same with her kids, and loads of our scruffy farm-kid friends. 



Mom is adventuresome.  She eagerly tried cross-country skiing and snorkeling, and she took up boogie-boarding WELL past the age at which I plan to stop wearing swimming suits in public.



Mom is musically gifted.  She has played the piano for more choir recitals, weddings, church services, and plays than she probably cares to name.  She loves opera, the symphonic classics, and certain hand-picked-by-her-children Beatles songs.  (For the sake of family harmony she pretended to like Creedence Clearwater Revival and The Doors, but drew the line at Aretha Franklin and The Rolling Stones.)  With exasperation Mom coined the pop music category "I Fed The Cat Songs," for songs that go on and on and on and talk about nothing of consequence.  Gee, that sounds familiar.



Mom is funny.  I think you'd have to have a refined sense of humor to keep from yelling all the time, around our house anyway.



She puts up with her children, which is my working definition of a mother.  There you go -- Mom is the template by which I judge all other mothers.



I love you, Mom.

Happy Mother's Day to my wonderful mother, and to all of the mothers and grandmothers out there.

-- Laurie

*     *     *     *     *

An edit to add this, which I found in my inbox, from my brother Mantel Man.  He's so darned good:

Our Mom certainly deserves all the accolades you gave her, and more. So here are a few more.

Mom is soft-hearted: I'll never forget something she said at a party by the pool on the ranch, with Gubby and several of our other friends there.  A foolish old woman who rented a mobile home on our ranch (one of three formerly used to house dairy employees) had a mangy little dog that had already turned the trailer into a superfund site because the woman was too lazy to take the mutt out for its fifty-times-a-day constitutional.  That very day the little vermin had expired and gone to a  special place in Doggy Hell.  Any other landlady would have shouted, "At last, at last!"  Our mother instead wept a bit and lamented that the woman would probably be lonely.

Mom is funny.  Your readers might be amused to know that whenever we kids quote her, we instinctively use a sing-song falsetto voice for some reason - prob'ly because we tend to be teasing her a bit when we quote her.  "Anyone want a sandwich?  How about a margarita?" 

Mom is musically gifted:  besides having perfect pitch, which I'll never grasp, Mom also knew opera was a perfect way to get her noisy kids to go outside without her having to pitch us out.  One day in early December, when we were little, she announced she had something special for us as we gathered in the living room.  "What is it, what is it?" we asked her as she carefully began removing an LP record from a box.  With a mischievous, "here comes the boogeyman" look on her face, she replied, "It's an OPERA RECORD!"  Then, after driving several miles to pick us up, she complimented us on our foot speed and brought us home for the first playing of what soon became our favorite Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer album.

Laurie, you are absolutely right that our mom is the standard by which all other moms must be judged.  She sets the bar.

But you are horribly, criminally mistaken about the origins  of the "I Fed the Cat Song" category.  It was MY invention -- and it came to me while we were listening to one of YOUR records, by the way.  And Mom agreed with me.  Sorry.

Laurie adds: That, right there, is why children should be seen and not heard.  Thanks, Mantel Man.

Rounding Off the Asshat Week With a Q&A

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Come on admit it. There is no Chas, Nick Ass Hat, Smedley, Sparky or Gubby.  I think its time for you to come clean and admit that "Orland" is a mythical place located in a snowglobe sitting on your desk in your Manhattan high-rise office.  The truth will set you free!*

It's time to take a few Nick Asshat questions, but first, an apology.  I never expected this to be longer than a one-post story, and here it became FOUR posts.  And I never intended this to be Nick Asshat Week, but here we are.  So sorry, and I will be giving Nick a rest for a while.  BUT NOT FOREVER, because even now he is up to his shenanigans, I assure you.  There will always be more to hear from that guy.

The Mom Bomb said:  Admit it: This Nick Asshat is a creature of your imagination. It's impossible for so much assery to exist in one human being.  Miss Bomb, Nick is as real as the mole on Cindy Crawford's face, and realer (it's a word, tonight) than 92% of all the boobs in California.  I wish my imagination were that cunning, but it's not.

scuse me ma'am, but I work for Heidi Fliess asked:  Yea, but was he any good in the rack?  In a word?  Nope.

Crazy FrogPoot queried:  Were you Always that easy?  Maybe more impotently, "are you STILL that easy"?  Poots, if I'm your idea of "easy," you must have gone broke in college.  I am, however, a sucker for seeing a man cry.  There are two ways to go at that point: out the door, or straight into the arms of the Devil himself, and I obviously chose the latter.

MommyTime wanted to know:  . . . are Chas and Gubby the same person or two different people. And if the latter, how does Gubby fit into this whole story? I'm sorry if the answer should be obvious, but I've read the whole Asshat series and I still an unsure.  MT, Chas is my husband, whom I have known since age 29.  Gubby is one of my best friends, whom I have known since age 15.  I can't say for sure which one is more mentally challenged -- Gubby for hangin' out with the freak for close to 30 years, or Chas for marrying the freak.  But Gubby and I talk on the phone several times a week, and his phone number on the caller ID readout is DARN close to Nick Asshat's.  I've been fooled three times now, unfortunately.  Also?  Gubby leaves hit-and-run smart-ass comments here, and Chas does not.

Mental P Mama inquired:  Is Asshat married now?  Yes, he is.  We went to their wedding a few years ago.  It was lovely, but it's hard to get past the weirdness, still, you know?

ok, where was I just had to say:  I love the threesome photo, but I do not like "the end" part. Can't you just keep going?  I'll give you a break from N.A. for a while, but there is still more to tell.  Plus, I have to grill the husband for more tidbits.

Asthmagirl pressed:  ahem... so then what happened?  "Then" has been a series of gradually less uncomfortable get-togethers.  They are pretty pedestrian.  I still have to go back farther in time, B.C. (before Chas), and tell some jealousy stories . . .

Bob Cleveland pointed out:  I note that the representative snapshot of Nick didn't reveal a hat.  May I assume the reason to be that your last name of choice for him is indicative of where you told him he could put it?  Bob, where were you when I was getting all uppity?  I could have used your guidance in the assertiveness department!  And really, so few donkey owners these days are capturing their donkey moments in hats -- why is that?

Jason offered: Pardon me if I missed this detail, but why is "Asshat" his name?  Because any other appropriate appellation would have catapulted Foolery into the R-rating.  And because his real name is just too darned unique.  And because it made me laugh so hard I made donkey noises.



*Thanks to the real Gubby for finding this comment.  It remains one of my all-time favorites.

The Adventures of Nick Asshat: The Light Dawns, Part Four (End)

(Photo stolen from grasshopper25 on Flickr)

Yes, you read that right:  Nick Asshat showed up.  On my first illicit date with his best friend, just after I ended our entanglement for his cheating on me.

There we were, at a little table in Panama's, when who should walk past the window but Nick Asshat.  Chas and I shot each other a glance, but we were trapped.  Trapped!  There's NO escape from an Asshat on the town.

Nick saw us and did what any Asshat in his position could be counted on to do:

he joined us at our little table in Panama's.

And, so you get the full effect of this moment, I need to give you some idea of what Nick looks like.

Pretty much like this, minus the suit.  And he's drunk.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

My apologies to Steve Carell and the suit for any unwanted associations.

ANYWAY, Nick did join us at our table.  He was either blithely indifferent to the awkwardness of the situation (i.e. clueless), or he was taking the high road, extending the olive branch, if you will, burying the hatchet and mending fences.*

Or, just drunk.  Lay your bets please!

There was some stilted, idle chatter, and then Nick Asshat moved on.  And so did we, very quickly thereafter.

It was very important to me that Chas understand that this was not a revenge date, or that I had something to prove.  He was being cautious, but I think he believed me when I said that I had been interested in him weeks before, and that I was trying to end my Asshat association.  I was also quite concerned about his friendship with Nick.  "After all," I said, "A date is not worth throwing away a best friend."

"Best friend?" he asked, taken aback.  "Nick isn't my best friend."

I didn't know quite what to say.  "But he told me you were his best friend," I said slowly.

"Well, I may be HIS best friend, but he isn't MINE," he said.  "I've known him too long and too well for that.  I golf with him."

Oh.

You know what that meant, right?

SMOOTH SAILING, WOO-HOO!

And it was, and it is, and it has been now for over thirteen years.  Except when Nick calls for Chas and I mistake his caller ID for Gubby's number, and accidentally answer the phone.  Crap.


*So, so, so sorry for the pureed metaphors.

The Adventures of Nick Asshat: The Light Dawns, Part Three

(Photo stolen from World of Oddy on Flickr)

Then I climbed into my car and drove to where I knew Nick Asshat's friend was working that morning.  I walked up to him bravely, with a determined look in my blurry eyes.  He looked at me, recognized me, and said hi.

And I asked him out for a drink.

His name was Chas, and I had met him three times before.  The first time was in a noisy bar during the holidays, and there was little conversation.  The second time you can read about here, and I hope you will, because it's one of my favorite personal true stories.

The third time I met Chas was at Oktoberfest, about three weeks after the golf course incident.  Nick Asshat and I met up with the same guys, including Chas, who had been out golfing that day.  They were all very nice and had either forgiven me or else had forgotten my un-country-club-like screaming of that day.  And the guy who had caused all the trouble in the first place was very sorry and brought a large bouquet of flowers to make it all better.

So to Oktoberfest, where we hurtled around the hall as only beered-up revelers can.  Nick danced with several people, and so did I, and neither one of us was the slightest bit concerned or jealous.  I spent a lot of time shouting in Chas's ear, and found out that he was very witty and interesting, and seemed to find me charming.  Could I be finally ready to exit this stupid, disastrous Asshat relationship -- the one I explained to family and friends as, "I know, I know, BELIEVE me, I know, but I'm not ready to quit yet" -- once and for all?  Maybe.  I got a fantastic long goodbye hug out of the deal, and I was smitten.  Nick who?

When I got home to my roommate's house that night, she was still up.  "Been out with Nick?  What'd you do?" she asked.  I slumped against the wall in the hallway.  "I met the man I'm gonna marry," I told her, and we sat down and I told her all about Chas.

Chas.  Nick's friend -- Nick's BEST friend, as Nick had told me.  This was ugly.  I had been slowly extricating myself from the relationship, to the point where I could think about seeing other people again, but his best friend?  That was a no-no.  And anyway, I have The. Worst. Guy. Radar. EVER, so what if I were completely wrong about Chas being interested in me?  Still, Nick and I had always promised each other that if one wanted to see someone else, all it would take was being upfront and honest.  I would start by not being available so much.

But the Night of the Perm Date With Nick I was backsliding, and I was as happy in Nick's presence as I had ever been.

Until it all fell apart.

I realized that for the handful of weeks that I had been agonizing over how to tell Nick I was done and wanted to date other people, and to cautiously pursue dating his friend (fully prepared to be castigated for such questionable ethics, of course), Nick had no such crises of conscience.  Nope, Nick just hopped into bed with whiskey-voiced Cindy (and who knows if there were others, really) until he was dumb enough to spill the beans.

Well.  Screw him.  I'm moving on, AND I don't need his permission for anything.  If Chas balks at the idea of dating his friend's Long-Term Entanglement (me) I'll completely respect that, but I'm DONE asking for permission.  It's MY party, I'll be a sleaze if I want to.

And so I found myself outside of Chas's workplace that Saturday morning, looking wrecked and frightening, I'm absolutely sure.  I went inside and walked up to Chas.

"Hi Chas," I said, displaying my fierce command of conversational English.  Show-off.

"Hey Laurie," he answered, and smiled.  He brightened -- did he brighten?  I SWEAR he brightened.  Is he nervous?  'Cause he looks kinda nervous, and --

"I was just wondering if you'd like to have a drink with me," I said.  I vaguely remember sort of lolling on the counter in front of him, chin in hands, resting on my elbows.  It couldn't have been attractive, but it was ME!  Asking a human being out on a date!  And a bold one, too.  I give me some credit for huevos.

And, miraculously, Chas accepted, and we made the date.  We met downtown at the Panama Bar & Grill for Long island Iced Teas -- oh good plan, Laurie -- and conversation until a) the bar filled up with college students and b) it became too noisy to hear and c) Nick Asshat showed up.

Yes, you read that right:  Nick Asshat showed up.  On my first illicit date with his best friend, just after I ended our entanglement for his cheating on me.  You do see the thick layers of irony and karma, don't you?

to be continued . . .

The Adventures of Nick Asshat: The Light Dawns, Part Two

I remember very little about the rest of that night, except that I know I went home and cried myself to sleep, or to lack of sleep, probably.  After all of the emotional stuff I went through with that man -- his mother's memorial service, spending time with his little boy, watching his child move far away from him -- and THIS is how it ended.  Unbelievable.  Well, there was only one thing to do now, of course, and as soon as I woke up Saturday morning, that's what I did.

When you go to bed to cry your eyes out, rarely do you take the time out to floss or moisturize.  I certainly didn't remove any eye make-up, because when I woke up I looked like this:


(Photo stolen from quino para los amigos on Flickr)

Except with a fresh perm, fuzzy from sleep, which looked like this:

(Photo stolen from these guys)

So we're left with this:


Yes, that's about right.  So, miserable as I was, I did the only logical thing: I pulled on a crappy brown sweatshirt -- the same crappy brown sweatshirt I'm wearing at this moment, coincidentally -- and some jeans, and sort of washed my face.  Then I climbed into my car and drove to where I knew Nick Asshat's friend was working that morning.  I walked up to him bravely, with a determined look in my blurry eyes.  He looked at me, recognized me, and said hi.

And I asked him out for a drink.

to be continued . . .

The Adventures of Nick Asshat: The Light Dawns, Part One

(Photo stolen from wauter de tuinkabouter on Flickr)

I think I need to tell you about how Nick Asshat and I parted ways.

For a girl who did not date in high school, dated only a handful of times in college, and had precious little experience in the boyfriend department, I suddenly became somewhat popular once I owned my own business and had no time to date much.

I have already mentioned my bad date with Man Named For A Topical Muscle Cream, as well as my would-be bad boy Jay, both of whom I dated during this time.  There were others, but none of them were too serious.  So I was able to date Nick for four or five months, casually, while having dinner or drinks with other guys, too, occasionally.  In this way I saw Nick only at his best -- in an ironed shirt and tie, on his way home from work -- and never saw him drink more than a couple of drinks, not sloshy at all.  Of course, that all changed once I stopped dating the other guys and focussed on Nick.  Then I had full exposure to the raging alcoholic binge drinker and total social deviant that was Nick Asshat On Booze.

But Nick had asked me, during that very first phone call months before, if I were seeing anyone, and Nick chose to remember my answer at the time, which was "kind of."  This set the tone for our casual, no strings attached relationship.  (Just so you don't think I was an enormous slut, I wasn't sleeping with ANY of them.  I may have played the field but I wasn't rolling on the grass.)

"Kind of."  This was the truth, and the truth shall set you free, right?  Except when it locks you up, ties you down, sits on your head and drools on your face.  Nick saw this as his ticket to get skanky, I guess.  I'll never know how many skanks women he played hide the hotdog with dated while we were seeing each other -- I know only about The One Who Stopped The Whole Damn Hotdog Train.  Cindy.

A Friday afternoon in the still-hot autumn in Chico.  I had gotten a fresh perm that afternoon, by the best perm artist on the planet, but one who was not above a Really Big Hair Fiesta.  Something like this, and I don't mean Harrison Ford:



I met Nick at our favorite bar (which was the one he called his "office," I later learned), and we had a beer or two.  It was a festive evening, and we were having an especially good time, the three of us (Nick, me, and my big hair).  But Nick had come straight from doing something that required leather work boots, and he needed to change if we were going to go dancing.  Dancing?  Are you kidding?  All we ever did was eat, drink and play liar's dice -- DANCING?  This was shaping up to be our best date ever.

So we went back to his house, which wasn't far.  He turned on his crappy clock radio while he got changed, and he hit the PLAY button on his answering machine, just across the room from where I sat waiting to go dancing.

EEEEP!  "Hi honey, sexyseedymushygushycrapolatalk, okay, 'bye -- call me!"

EEEEP!  "Hi, it's me again, pouty-woutybabytalkgagmegagmekissykissy

MWAHH! okay, so call me, all right?"

EEEEP!

You get the picture.  There were AT LEAST 7-8 calls, conservatively.  By this time, even though I had heard very few actual words above the blaring crappy clock radio, I had a very clear picture of the wasteland my love life had become over the past several weeks, without my knowing it.

I was quietly seething in my fresh perm.

Out of the bedroom bounced a buoyant Nick Asshat, buttoning his shirt and smiling a winning smile.  "Ready to go?" he asked.

"I'm not going ANYWHERE with you," I growled through my set teeth.  Nick looked baffled.

"Wh-why?" he stammered, truly perplexed.

"What kind of person plays his lover-on-the-side's answering machine messages in front of me?!" I demanded.  He seemed to understand at that moment.  To his credit, he didn't try to weasel out of it.

"How long have you been seeing her?" I shouted.

"Three weeks," was the quiet answer.  Now I was crying.  After all, it had been only a matter of weeks since we had . . . since I had . . . oh, crap, I can't quite get the nerve to type it.

I remember very little about the rest of that night, except that I know I went home and cried myself to sleep, or to lack of sleep, probably.  After all of the emotional stuff I went through with that man -- his mother's memorial service, spending time with his little boy, watching his child move far away from him -- and THIS is how it ended.  Unbelievable.  Well, there was only one thing to do now, of course, and as soon as I woke up Saturday morning, that's what I did.

to be continued . . .