The other day, I called my parents from Bed, Bath and Beyond to ask what color wood, walnut or black, was the furniture at the condo.
For the last few years, they have had one lonely little collage frame on a rather large, otherwise blank wall, so I thought I'd pick up a variety of frames to fill the empty space. Sort of like a giant collage.
"Don't get too many," my dad warned me. "I don't think I have that many really good pictures of Cait from this year."
Umm. Hellooooo. I am aware that Cait, your only grandchild, otherwise known as the cutest, most perfect, smartest, best child of all time on the face of the earth is the main focus these days, but aren't you forgetting something? Something like, gee, I don't know, your three children?
I mean, I know we can't even begin to compare with Cait, but maybe you could include us in at least one picture? Just a group picture perhaps, where we're all standing around looking at Cait. Maybe you could photoshop her into the center of daVinci's Last Supper painting and do it as a mural on the whole wall. The rest of us can be in the background somewhere, or hey, we could be the wait staff.
I have come to accept that gradually, over the last three years, our old photos have been replaced with ones of Cait. Sometimes, I have even been grateful for the Caitmania that has gripped my parents.
I really don't need to be confronted with photos of me from the 80's looking like a linebacker in drag. And who wants to be reminded of those unfortunate years before braces, contacts and clearasil had worked their magic? And did we really need to have the ghosts of Christmases past photos keep haunting us year after year? Wheee! Look at us frolicking in the snow with our tacky winter sweaters and smiles that make us look like we're trying to pass kidney stones!!
It was beyond time to say good-bye to those photos, but I didn't know that also meant we were being cut out of the family tree as though we had dutch elm disease.
Ahh, but this is just the most recent affront to our vanity. The last attack was about a month ago.
Tim had had his back surgery and Pat had undergone surgery on her shoulder. My dad and I were talking about how small their scars were and how good they looked considering the amount of work that had been done, when he said, "Well, it's not as if we have to worry about either one of them winning a beauty contest anyway at their ages."
Slam!!! An unprovoked attack where he picked off the two of them with one shot. The best part is, he wasn't even trying!
"I mean, not that they're ugly or old, or anything," he began to backpedal. "I meant because of the scars. Not that they're bad, they're not. You can hardly notice them."
Wow. Maybe we should just shoot those two poor humpbacked wildabeasts and put them out of their misery. Maybe we could borrow the elephant man's cover-up and they could take turns wearing it when they go out in public. You know, so they don't send poor little children running screaming into the night.
Knowing that no force on the planet would be able to keep me from cheerily repeating his comment to said wildabeasts, he kept trying make it better, but it was too late. It was out there. In the universe. And I was texting even as we were speaking. Hehehe.
Not to be outdone in the faux paux department, my mother has had a moment or two of her own. The one that sticks out the most was last year when we were throwing Pat a birthday party.
We decided to gather up a bunch of old photos of her and run a slide show during the cocktail hour. Since my mom had years ago divided up our childhood pictures (to each his/her own), we asked Paqt to bring the photos over to the house for us to pick what we wanted to use.
As we sat at the table, sorting through the pictures, my mom held up one from many years earlier and reminisced, "This was when you were thin."
As Tim and I fell howling on the floor, Pat huffed with indignation. "Thanks. When I was thin. Before I became Tillie the elephant. Hang on, P.T. Barnum is calling to ask which of the three rings I'd like to perform in tonight."
My nother tried to mount a defense, but at that point, anything she said just made it worse.
"No, you were young then." she protested.
"As opposed to the old, fat whale I am now?" Pat sputtered.
Tim and I, of course came to her defense. NOT! And like any good, older sister, I still remind Pat of this any chance I get. Hehehe.
Can't wait for the holidays to see what they come up with this year.
Showing posts with label Pat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pat. Show all posts
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Lost (Literally)
No matter where we are in the world, Tim has a pretty good sense of direction. He knew the driver in Paris was not heading the right way, even though he couldn't communicate it to him without his translator.
In Tim's book, there is nothing worse than getting lost or not being able to find a place. It's a total guy thing. But sometimes it can't be avoided.
Years ago, we took a trip with my mother, sister, brother and two family friends to England, Scotland and Ireland. Due to the mountain of luggage we toted around with us, we needed to rent two cars for the duration.
Tim drove car one while I navigated with the map (this was way before nav systems), and my mom followed in car two. The rest of our happy little band alternated between the two cars.
Everything went well enough in England where they believe in putting up fairly accurate signage and have paved roads and maps whose lines actually represent the roads. And then we got to Ireland.
On our way out of Dublin to the west coast, Tim got quite ill, so I had to drive. With much trepidation, I handed over the map to my mother, sister, Pat, and our friend Mary Ann, and told them they would have to lead the way. I would have done better putting on a blindfold and throwing darts at an atlas. Those three could get lost in a broom closet with a flashlight and mapquest. But I had no choice.
True to form, two hours later of careening around hairpin turns and dodging suicidal sheep, we ended up dead-ended at a lake. This would not have been nearly so distressing had we been planning to visit the lake, or even the county, but since we were actually aiming for a major city on the opposite coast, it was not a good situation.
Tim woke up, and I believe his first words were, "Where in God's name are we?" And the really tragic part was, nobody knew for sure.
"A lake," did not seem to be the answer he was looking for, especially when it was not accompanied by the actual name of the lake.
"What county are we in?" he rasped out. Again, his question was met with blank looks and helpless shrugs.
"Are we still in Ireland?" Okay, now he was just grasping for straws. After all, Ireland is an island and we hadn't crossed any water...well major waterways...I didn't think. I don't know, I was too busy trying to keep from plunging over the edge of a cliff every time another car wanted to pass on the wrong side of the narrow cow-pass they laughingly refer to as two-lane roads in that country.
Eventually, we found a native who was able to assure us that: A. we were still in Ireland (so there!) , and B. we were still on the east coast.
After pouring over the map for a good half hour, we were able to figure out where they went wrong, if not why, and plot a course back to civilization (my mother, trying to put a bright face on things by saying, "At least we got to see a place most tourists don't see. Aren't we lucky?" was not helping. It was like the captain of the Titanic trying to put a bright face on the whole sinking thing by pointing out that at least there was plenty of ice for cocktail hour.).
Tim managed to keep it together and climbed back behind the wheel to finish off our journey, which was uneventful until near the end.
The hotel we had booked into in Cork had no actual address that we could find, only a description that it was "on the hillside overlooking the river" (Gotta love the Irish--ask a simple yes or no question of us and you get a forty-five minute dissertation with the most detailed, colorful descriptions you will ever hear in your life. Ask for a little help with directions and you get the vaguest, most rambling explanation that leaves you more confused than when you started.).
But we were young and still had a shred of hope and optimism, so we figured we would find it.
The only problem was, as we pulled into Cork, I looked behind us and there was no blue car following our red one. My mother, Pat and Mary Ann had vanished!
Tim, being gallant, pulled over and waited for them to appear. After all, he reasoned, there was only one main road and we were on it. Foolish boy. Applying reason to my family. Tsk, tsk.
Black cars whizzed past, red cars whizzed past, even blue cars whizzed past, but not the one we were looking for.
Feeling a sense of duty, Tim turned the car around and backtracked to find them, against the strong urging of Mike and myself to "Save ourselves" and not end up dead-ended at a cave or a giant pile of cow-dung which is where they were sure to be.
Much later, after a fruitless search (duh. Tim couldn't have seen that coming?) we convinced him to head to the hotel where we could check in and perhaps marshall some troops for a fresh search party later.
As we drove up the hill and prepared to make a right turn into the hotel, we encountered the blue car chugging down the hill and making a left into the hotel. Turns out, they had started chatting and followed the wrong car! Fortunately for them, the luck of the Irish was with them and they didn't end up back at the lake (which was a real possibility).
Poor Tim. And that was the last group trip he went on. Wonder why?
In Tim's book, there is nothing worse than getting lost or not being able to find a place. It's a total guy thing. But sometimes it can't be avoided.
Years ago, we took a trip with my mother, sister, brother and two family friends to England, Scotland and Ireland. Due to the mountain of luggage we toted around with us, we needed to rent two cars for the duration.
Tim drove car one while I navigated with the map (this was way before nav systems), and my mom followed in car two. The rest of our happy little band alternated between the two cars.
Everything went well enough in England where they believe in putting up fairly accurate signage and have paved roads and maps whose lines actually represent the roads. And then we got to Ireland.
On our way out of Dublin to the west coast, Tim got quite ill, so I had to drive. With much trepidation, I handed over the map to my mother, sister, Pat, and our friend Mary Ann, and told them they would have to lead the way. I would have done better putting on a blindfold and throwing darts at an atlas. Those three could get lost in a broom closet with a flashlight and mapquest. But I had no choice.
True to form, two hours later of careening around hairpin turns and dodging suicidal sheep, we ended up dead-ended at a lake. This would not have been nearly so distressing had we been planning to visit the lake, or even the county, but since we were actually aiming for a major city on the opposite coast, it was not a good situation.
Tim woke up, and I believe his first words were, "Where in God's name are we?" And the really tragic part was, nobody knew for sure.
"A lake," did not seem to be the answer he was looking for, especially when it was not accompanied by the actual name of the lake.
"What county are we in?" he rasped out. Again, his question was met with blank looks and helpless shrugs.
"Are we still in Ireland?" Okay, now he was just grasping for straws. After all, Ireland is an island and we hadn't crossed any water...well major waterways...I didn't think. I don't know, I was too busy trying to keep from plunging over the edge of a cliff every time another car wanted to pass on the wrong side of the narrow cow-pass they laughingly refer to as two-lane roads in that country.
Eventually, we found a native who was able to assure us that: A. we were still in Ireland (so there!) , and B. we were still on the east coast.
After pouring over the map for a good half hour, we were able to figure out where they went wrong, if not why, and plot a course back to civilization (my mother, trying to put a bright face on things by saying, "At least we got to see a place most tourists don't see. Aren't we lucky?" was not helping. It was like the captain of the Titanic trying to put a bright face on the whole sinking thing by pointing out that at least there was plenty of ice for cocktail hour.).
Tim managed to keep it together and climbed back behind the wheel to finish off our journey, which was uneventful until near the end.
The hotel we had booked into in Cork had no actual address that we could find, only a description that it was "on the hillside overlooking the river" (Gotta love the Irish--ask a simple yes or no question of us and you get a forty-five minute dissertation with the most detailed, colorful descriptions you will ever hear in your life. Ask for a little help with directions and you get the vaguest, most rambling explanation that leaves you more confused than when you started.).
But we were young and still had a shred of hope and optimism, so we figured we would find it.
The only problem was, as we pulled into Cork, I looked behind us and there was no blue car following our red one. My mother, Pat and Mary Ann had vanished!
Tim, being gallant, pulled over and waited for them to appear. After all, he reasoned, there was only one main road and we were on it. Foolish boy. Applying reason to my family. Tsk, tsk.
Black cars whizzed past, red cars whizzed past, even blue cars whizzed past, but not the one we were looking for.
Feeling a sense of duty, Tim turned the car around and backtracked to find them, against the strong urging of Mike and myself to "Save ourselves" and not end up dead-ended at a cave or a giant pile of cow-dung which is where they were sure to be.
Much later, after a fruitless search (duh. Tim couldn't have seen that coming?) we convinced him to head to the hotel where we could check in and perhaps marshall some troops for a fresh search party later.
As we drove up the hill and prepared to make a right turn into the hotel, we encountered the blue car chugging down the hill and making a left into the hotel. Turns out, they had started chatting and followed the wrong car! Fortunately for them, the luck of the Irish was with them and they didn't end up back at the lake (which was a real possibility).
Poor Tim. And that was the last group trip he went on. Wonder why?
Friday, September 7, 2007
Like Mother, Like Daughter
They say if you want to know how a girl will turn out, look at her mother.
My sister, annonymous, seems to think Tim should have looked more closely twenty years ago. Although she disagrees, I think, that of the two of us, I dodged that bullet more successfully than she did.
Like my mother, I may exhibit a certain lack of coordination, but, unlike her (and Pat) I don't tempt fate.
In her fifties, my mother took up skiing. In her sixties, she went parasailing. And last year, at seventy-one, she jumped out of a plane in New Zealand.
Skiing? No thanks. My first (and last) attempt ended with a trip to the first-aid station to bandage my thumb which, after an unfortunate encounter with a ski boot clip had no nail--at all. Sitting by the fire sipping a hot chocolate is definitely more my speed.
Parasailing?!?! The only way I am getting off a boat in the middle of the ocean is if it is sinking.
Sky-diving? I had a massage while she was plunging to the ground from nine thousand feet up. Trying a new massage oil is enough of a risk for me.
Like my mother? Please. I consider driving my four-door sedan three blocks to the store without a seatbelt an unnecessary risk.
My sister though, is just like her. Skiing? You bet! And this after she broke her arm twice (in the same place) rollerskating. Hellooo? Having wheels on your feet was not dangerous enough?
She has also jumped from great heights...attached to a bungee...over concrete. No soft, water landing for her. That's for sissies! Even my mother bypassed this opportunity in New Zealand.
And then there are her motorcycles. One is for going fast. The other is for going faster and farther. She and my mother even attended the motorcycle convention in NYC last year (Hell's Angels, watch out!) . I have to take a valium just to get into a NYC cab.
Pat has always been far more the daredevil than I. Years ago, on a trip to the Catskills, we were all in separate cars. Somehow, two trucks got between Pat and my father and refused to let her pass. She solved that problem by creating a middle lane for herself between them (This was the same trip where, when Tim got out of the car with a sunburned arm, she told him not to worry...he could even things out when his other arm burned on the way back---definitely shades of Mom!).
And finally...you know you are just like someone when you are the only one who understands what the heck they are talking about.
Some time ago, the family got together for dinner, and, appropo of nothing, my mother suddenly informed us that, "Wood is on shark". Silence greeted this announcement as we all struggled to decipher her meaning. Had she seen some National Geographic episode the rest of us had missed? Was this code for, "I'll have the surf and turf"? Had she lost her mind?
We all gazed at each other, helpless, until Pat decoded it for us.
Apparently, James Woods was set to star in a new show called Shark !
Yeah, she's not at all like my mother.
My sister, annonymous, seems to think Tim should have looked more closely twenty years ago. Although she disagrees, I think, that of the two of us, I dodged that bullet more successfully than she did.
Like my mother, I may exhibit a certain lack of coordination, but, unlike her (and Pat) I don't tempt fate.
In her fifties, my mother took up skiing. In her sixties, she went parasailing. And last year, at seventy-one, she jumped out of a plane in New Zealand.
Skiing? No thanks. My first (and last) attempt ended with a trip to the first-aid station to bandage my thumb which, after an unfortunate encounter with a ski boot clip had no nail--at all. Sitting by the fire sipping a hot chocolate is definitely more my speed.
Parasailing?!?! The only way I am getting off a boat in the middle of the ocean is if it is sinking.
Sky-diving? I had a massage while she was plunging to the ground from nine thousand feet up. Trying a new massage oil is enough of a risk for me.
Like my mother? Please. I consider driving my four-door sedan three blocks to the store without a seatbelt an unnecessary risk.
My sister though, is just like her. Skiing? You bet! And this after she broke her arm twice (in the same place) rollerskating. Hellooo? Having wheels on your feet was not dangerous enough?
She has also jumped from great heights...attached to a bungee...over concrete. No soft, water landing for her. That's for sissies! Even my mother bypassed this opportunity in New Zealand.
And then there are her motorcycles. One is for going fast. The other is for going faster and farther. She and my mother even attended the motorcycle convention in NYC last year (Hell's Angels, watch out!) . I have to take a valium just to get into a NYC cab.
Pat has always been far more the daredevil than I. Years ago, on a trip to the Catskills, we were all in separate cars. Somehow, two trucks got between Pat and my father and refused to let her pass. She solved that problem by creating a middle lane for herself between them (This was the same trip where, when Tim got out of the car with a sunburned arm, she told him not to worry...he could even things out when his other arm burned on the way back---definitely shades of Mom!).
And finally...you know you are just like someone when you are the only one who understands what the heck they are talking about.
Some time ago, the family got together for dinner, and, appropo of nothing, my mother suddenly informed us that, "Wood is on shark". Silence greeted this announcement as we all struggled to decipher her meaning. Had she seen some National Geographic episode the rest of us had missed? Was this code for, "I'll have the surf and turf"? Had she lost her mind?
We all gazed at each other, helpless, until Pat decoded it for us.
Apparently, James Woods was set to star in a new show called Shark !
Yeah, she's not at all like my mother.
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