Things I Found at My Mother's House

I did not perform my annual refrigerator purge at my mother's house this time. I had the full high-maintenance crew with me and just didn't have the time to get to it. As I explained in an earlier post (Easter Potluck with a Side of e Coli) my mother has old person refrigerator. I'm actually terrified that I'll come back next year and find the half a BLT I left in there. Really good BLT by the way from B&D Burgers on Broughton.

I did find some interesting things in and around the house and started compiling a list as follows:

• 7-10 day old tea in a mug with a coaster on top. I estimated age based on moldy film. I'm no CSI but guessing I'm close on the estimate.
• Lemon pepper expired May 2001. I momentarily considered reviewing the expiration date on all her spices but decided it would take me too long. And as I mentioned, I had plenty of high-maintenance to deal with already.
• Washcloth containing what appeared to be two disintegrated dog pills
• Rocks aka landmines. My mother had her gardener bring a bunch of stones to the house so she could stop the dogs from digging holes in her lawn. He didn't set them in the ground. She just placed them willy nilly creating little obstacles all over her yard. Like a toe stubbing nightmare.
• Scary BBQ sauce
• Why she still likes Sally Miller. Really a story more than a thing but interesting nevertheless since Sally is a serious biatch and I always wondered why my mother continued to deal with her. Now I know.
• A piece of paper towel containing dog fur under the bathroom sink.
• Way too many cashews. I've read several articles about snacking on a handful of nuts everyday including in this month's issue of Fitness Magazine. I cannot keep nuts in the house at all or I will eat them, every one of them until they are gone.

My mother says I enjoy these moments of finding old food or that bottle of rusted shaving cream. I feel like I'm giving her quite a bit of room on this stuff. I did throw out the paper towel with dog fur but I let her have the shaving cream because a gooey green gel still came out of the spout. You never know when you might find yourself in a shaving pinch and think, "Hey this stuff's still good, as long as I don't cut myself on that rusty metal bit there."

Southern Gothic

Yesterday my mother hosted brunch to celebrate Easter. There were about ten of us, including her priest, Father McDreamy they call him, two couples and another woman. It was a cast of characters that could only be assembled in a place like Savannah.

Early in the morning my husband told me he understood what was going on with me and my mother. He said I was like the herding dog tasked with looking after stray cattle. My mother and son are co-conspirators, the stray cattle. They make fun of my worrying and general anxiety associated with leaving the two of them alone together. The thing is I have good reason to be anxious. There are several examples on record of my leaving them alone and something bad happening. In all fairness, the same is true for all the grandparents. I love a metaphor with me as the dog.

We assembled at two in the afternoon. My mother wanted me to barbecue lamb. I have never cooked lamb, I never eat it and I don't own a charcoal grill. She assured me another guest was an expert and I needn't worry. The other guest was not an expert and I did worry. I asked the Father to bless the grill, he did and things worked out all right.

One of the couples lived in Paris for many years. I lived in Paris for one year as a student. The wife was not happy to be back in the US particularly back in Statesville, Georgia where they own a 6,000 square foot home in the middle of nowhere. They also own a home in nearby Thunderbolt which is apparently more to her liking. They were both very stylish if not over the top for a brunch in my opinion, but my taste runs to the very casual. I rarely get out of jeans. This couple bickered much of the afternoon, she having very clear disdain for living in the boonies of Georgia after spending 25 years on the Boulevard Saint Germain. The husband is from Statesville and quite ill. He decided to come home to ride out the rest of his life and his wife wanted no part. I sat next to him and she was across from me.

At one point, the husband realized he'd lost his wedding band. I began a frantic search only to find out later his wedding ring was not from his current wife but from his first wife which would explain why she, the second wife, showed so little interest in finding it. Who keeps his wedding ring from the first marriage and carries it forward to the second? I didn't ask.

The other couple was equally interesting. The wife was from South Dakota. She brought these delicious dumplings she said were the equivalent of Russian ravioli. Her mother in South Dakota made them and shipped them to her for the occasion. Delicious. Her husband was a pistol, making fun of my mother's manic behavior so of course I was a big fan. Then Father McDreamy and one other woman rounded out the crew. This other woman was from Fairfield, Connecticut where I now live. When she walked in, I thought wow, another over the top 60-something with her huge sunglasses and big jewelry. But the more we talked, the more I liked her.

And so it unfolded, from the Parisian couple and their little dog, to my mother, her friend from Fairfield and the couple from the Great Plains. Did I mention the little dog walked in the house and immediately wee'ed on the carpet? Orleans, the little dog from Chartres, did that several times and also took a poo that my mother's dog graciously ate to cover up her tracks.

All and all it went fairly well in spite of the lost wedding ring, the pee and poo, the mysterious reference to the 60 something's husband's death by accident and my feeble attempts at lamb grilling. My son was the only child as is often the case. He did dump his entire ginger ale all over the dining table. But he held his own until the end of the night when he started having asthma again.

My mother gets very agitated because my son has asthma. My entire family has asthma. My mother outgrew hers. My father's family moved from Ohio to Texas for the dry climate. He outgrew it. My brother outgrew it. I still have it and so does my son. Everyone else in my family wants to push my son to outgrow it. I wish he would too. I really do, but so far it's not happening. So my mom was pissed at me for giving my son a breathing treatment with the nebulizer. I don't really get it but because of this behavior (wishing to ignore the asthma) and the other grandparents' behavior, my son has wound up in some type of emergency care on more than one occasion.

My son was so upset he started crying. I thought my mom and I were going to get into it again. We often get into it to the point where we typically go for some period during every year not speaking. I have three more days here in Savannah so I was hoping to stave off a major argument until I was leaving. But that may not happen. I may have to kill her before we leave.

In the meantime, it's all very Southern here with the wedding ring feud bubbling just below the surface, my mother and her agitation about my son's asthma, all of this being pushed below the surface because by all means we have to be well-mannered. There are many times when I miss the South, particularly the weather, and today was a spectacular example of the weather. But the stifling and the bullshit I can do without.

I can see why so many great writers come from the South. There's so much material. There are so many characters. The place writes itself. But this place is not for me. I've kept secrets my entire life. I've stifled and been well-mannered. But it's not for me.

A close friend once said to me I have no filter. I was offended because I obviously don't think that is a good thing. Still at this point, I'm starting to think I don't give a shit. I don't want to keep the secrets. I want to know why the man still has his wedding ring from his first marriage. I want my son to be able to say he's got asthma and not have to hide the fact we're doing something about it. I want to say what's on my mind, write about it and have a good laugh later.

Flashback

Today, Good Friday, we had a very good Friday. My son played outside all day. It was like a 1970's day for those who experienced the 1970's. No fear of bad people, no fear of bad drivers, just horsing around all day.

Don't get me wrong the 1970's was rife with danger. We just didn't know it. And that was the beauty of it all. For a 70's Christmas, my parents gave us the Ronco bottle cutter. This was funny on multiple levels. First it was primarily used to cut wine bottles, of which there were plenty, at least in my house. Second, who gives a child a cutting tool? Third, the cuts were not exactly precise so what you were left with was a jagged edge open wine bottle to make, say a votive holder for your memorial service once you developed Hepatitis C.

My parents had that rule, the one everyone had in the 70's. Be home by dark. The idea being how far could you push dark before you were punished. In Arlington, Texas where I grew up, dark meant when the street lights came on and the bats started to circle. Again, bats probably not all that sanitary or safe. But we lived in that bubble where nothing bad ever happened.

Today kids are subject to all sorts of badness and cruelty. It may have been the same then, but we had no idea. As I've said before on this blog, Mystic River scared the crap out of me. I was terrified someone would take off with my son and do terrible things. I'm still worried. Look at the news. A young girl found in a suitcase in a drainage ditch.

But today, we were free from worry. Today was like the old days before media and news and whatever else told us how really scary it is out there. See we live in a fringe neighborhood where people drive too fast, do burnouts and throw their airplane bottles of liquor outside. Today was a good day in the hood.

Easter Potluck with a Side of e Coli

I was reading Dooce.com this morning and she took on the subject of vaccinations. I debated the vaccination issue myself until I realized my son wouldn't be able to attend public school in Raleigh. At that point I decided he really needed to get out of the house. Obviously not making fun of parents who've made another choice, it's just that in my case it was more important for me to get my son off to school.

This year my son will be 11 and out of vaccinations, moving on to being treated for STDs in high school no doubt. Reminds me of a funny story about my brother who as a high schooler thought he had an STD, went to see our pediatrician, had to sit in a little clown chair and read Highlights while he waited. All clear by the way in case any of Clay's former girlfriends read this.

Moving on, my mom has called me about seven times this week in advance of our trip to Savannah. I think my mom has pretty serious OCD. She called me yesterday, Tuesday, to tell me she'd set the table for Easter Sunday. That's six days from now. Dishes won't even be clean on Sunday.

Mom called me this morning to ask if you boil the eggs first or dye them first. She couldn't remember. I explained that she would need to boil them first but make sure to refrigerate the eggs after coloring them. She then told me her ex, Gerhard, told her eggs will keep outside the refrigerator for a month.

Gerhard was known as one of the biggest characters Savannah had to offer. Now that's saying something in a town like Savannah. Read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil if you doubt me. So I'm not going to consider him a reliable source for storing eggs and dairy. Did I mention he lived on a tall ship in downtown Savannah until it sank? Again helluva guy but not sure he was all there.

At this rate, I am expecting to arrive in Savannah to find rotten eggs and dirty dishes. This in addition to the refrigerator purge I schedule for every trip home to visit mom. My mom has old people refrigerator now. It's strange because when we were kids, there was no food in the fridge. Now that it's just her, gal could make it through Armageddon with a stocked fridge.

I'll ask her about suspect foods like the last time I found green gunge in a jar in the side pocket. "It's delicious mint jelly from the church bazaar," she said. Mmm. Chuck, in it goes into one of those heavy duty garbage bags that can catch a piano. Just between you and me, I don't think those things can catch a piano.

Last time I checked, mom had a piece of salmon in her freezer that would feed 20. Honestly I have to catch myself sometimes to stop that little bit of vomit from coming up. I'm predicting I'll find more squash blossom hot sauce that she's used one time, expired maraschino cherries and frozen mystery meat. I pray that salmon is gone. Last one to get their stomach pumped is a rotten egg! My friend Lou Lou always says, "Drink enough vodka and you won't get sick."

Trying to bring this whole thing full circle. I really admire Dooce and the other very funny mommy bloggers out there. But I'm not one of them. I'm not mommy anymore. Maybe I'm a sandwich mom, taking care of my own kid and my parents.

If I am a sandwich, I hope I'm not a rotten Easter egg salad sandwich. If I am a sandwich, I hope the "me" in the middle is delicious, refreshing and just a little bit tart.

I Got You a Puppy! April Fool's!

I spoke to my mom this morning and she pretended she'd bought me a puppy. We're going to visit her next week in Savannah. I immediately started thinking how the hell am I going to get a puppy home. Noticing my silence, she said "April Fool's! But I almost bought you this adorable little black poodle." And it went on from there in that non-stop mother talking.

My dog Bailey died two years ago. I had to put her down. It was one of the most difficult experiences of my adult life. I won't go into it because it's too sad. Instead I was reading Jack Gray's blog on AC360, In Dog We Trust, and thought of this very funny story about my dog Bailey.

When I first got Bailey, I used to take her with me from Raleigh where I was living, to my dad's beach house in Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina. It's a two hour drive from Raleigh to Wrightsville, a long stretch of pretty much nothingness that connects these towns. On this occasion, I stole my stepmother's Mercedes out of the garage. She and my father were out of town so I "borrowed" her car in lieu of driving my crappy VW Golf. My friend Peggy was visiting. We set off in the Mercedes and Bailey was riding in the back.

Shortly after getting on the Interstate 40, Bailey started behaving strangely. This was not unusual for Bailey. Peg took a look in the back seat and noticed there was something all over the seats. It was blood. Bailey was in heat for the first time. "In heat" is an expression I've heard before but it was something theoretical to me, not a reality. Bailey was my first dog after leaving my parents' home so we'd been navigating these tricky waters together.

Basically Bailey was getting her period all over the backseat of my stepmother's Mercedes. Not good.

We stopped in Meadow which is a tiny town, but they do have a gas station with a little store. At a loss as to what to do, one of us bright girls came up with the idea of putting a diaper on Bailey. Diapers being another area where we lacked any real expertise.

We walked confidently in this little store. Peg, a New Yorker, and me, a former New Yorker. "We need diapers," we said. "What size?" said the clerk.

Size? There are sizes? She pointed toward a corner of the store, giving us that look Southerners give Yankees that says I'm being nice because we have to do that here in the South but I'm not really going to help you.

Peg and I walked to the diaper area and finally chose a pair of pull-ups by approximating Bailey's weight. We took the diapers to the car and each opened one of the back doors of the car. Did I mention it was a Mercedes? Not one of those C ones either. More like an E-class. Big Mercedes.

Bailey knew something was up and in no way planned to cooperate. It was like calf roping. I've seen my uncle roping calves but he lived on a farm. Even in Texas I lived in the burbs. No experience with roping anything, particularly a bleeding, hysterical, Boxer-Bulldog-godonlyknows whatelse mix. We got her in those goddamn pullups and she looked ridiculous. We then wiped down the back of the leather seats, and sped off down the road leaving Meadow and all her charms in my rear view mirror.

Liked this bit from Gray's blog:

And thus began a chapter of my life unlike any I had experienced before. All of a sudden I was responsible for this peculiar little creature that liked to climb up onto the top of my head and fart. It was like being roommates with Danny DeVito all over again.

The Real Housewives of New Yawk

I have to stop this. It's really unattractive. I was watching the Real Housewives of New York on Saturday afternoon. My husband came downstairs and said, "What are you watching?" I said, "It's my wrestling." It's so ridiculous and tragic and I can't stop myself.

I saw Chelsea Handler doing a bit about the episode when Simon and Alex are swimming in their inflatable pool in their backyard in Brooklyn. Seriously, she's right. Put some people with real money on that show. I too can afford an inflatable pool. It's just their attitude of swimming about like they're poolside somewhere in St. Barth's when in fact you can probably hear sirens every five minutes, followed by car alarms.

I can't imagine the balls it takes for these women to act the way they do. I mean it's not like they are truly New York high society. I don't think New York high society allows someone named LuAnn into the inner circle - fake countess or not. I had a cousin LuAnn back in Texas. We called her Ludy

I went to DC last week to attend a Washington Post event. It's pretty swanky in terms of journalists but other people wouldn't recognize the bigwigs. My husband recognized Daniel Schorr from NPR. He recognized him because Mr. Schorr was also in the movie The Game with Michael Douglas.

Anyway, when I was checking into my hotel I had some problems. First of all, I normally stay at another place and this new place failed to note it was next to a fire station so I was thinking it could get loud. I asked for a quiet room. They put me in a quiet room but it was a double, not a king as I requested. I thought about letting it go but it really was tough to get around in the room so I called downstairs and got my room changed.

I'd put some of my things on the bed so I smoothed it before I left. I don't think Jill Zarin would've done that. She would've left her mark like one of those dogs that pees on everything willy nilly. When I got to my new room, I called to ask about ice. Then I called because my blow dryer stopped working mid blow-out. Then it took some time to get the blow dryer and I felt like calling back and explaining I have a very narrow window between the time my hair is moderately curly and when it can no longer be contained. Then I thought to myself, is this what it's like to be high maintenance?Am I Jill insisting Alex wipe her chair before she will sit down?

I have never been high maintenance. I always thought that if I ever got rich, I'd still be incredibly uncomfortable with getting too much attention. As I sat there, with my new blow dryer and my new room, I was proud of myself for being difficult. We used to have a theory in our marketing firm that the more you pull away from the client, the more they want you. I wonder if it's the same thing with being high-maintenance. Are you more attractive the more difficult you become?

I swear one of these days one housewife is going to grab a chair and smash it over the other housewife's head. Just like in wrestling.

NB Posted comment on Bethenny's blog yesterday

The Santa Killer

Last night my son asked me if Santa Claus was real. He's 10. He's been asking about it for a couple of years now so I told him. No Santa Claus isn't real. It was like the shot heard round the world.

I think 10 is old to still believe but he's an only child so he doesn't have anyone else to break the bad news. My brother and I figured it out when we found a stash of gifts in my parents' walk-in closet. Really not the best hiding place. I think I was 6 and Clay was 4.

Will was very sad about Santa. I could see some part of his innocence washing away in front of my eyes. "So you and dad, are you guys giving me the presents?" "Yes," I said. "We've been giving you the presents." He was heartbroken.

I tried to recover and tell him I believe there is a Santa who brings some of the other gifts of Christmas like people feeling happy, people singing and being cheerful. This is all really a stretch for me because I hate Christmas but that's another story for another cheery blog.

I called for reinforcements - hy husband - who is Mr. Christmas. We both sat there on either side of Will trying to console him.

It's all the Wii's fault. We said Santa got him the Wii and we got him the games. But I could tell he wasn't buying it. How did we know Santa was bringing the Wii? I said Santa emailed me and told me. He cast a sideways glance.

Today he seems okay. He said he thought it was pretty cool that dad and I gave him presents. I can tell he's still upset. What was I thinking?