StormyWrites

Holy Camoly! Talk about a bad week. Remember when a bad day involved having to go to court after a little too much fun the night before or getting dumped by some dbag you probably didn’t really care about but that beat you to the punch? Those things used to bad day make me mad for upwards of a week depending on the amount of personal pride involved. Now? I’m pissed off when Spray’n’Wash isn’t on sale. Oh, how times change.

Sorry to hear about your legit bad week. Medical doozy seemed an understatement , but I appreciate the soft sell. I don’t care if it’s induced, anything that has to do with turning your liver into biopsy pate’ and comas sounds awful. I hope this means you’re taking all of the big hits early on and the rest will be as uneventfully routine in the best least interesting patient ever way. And – just in case you are concerned – you are fully excused from failing to respond to my texts.

Bought this card because I like the sparkly front and who doesn’t like toasting wine glasses? Not gonna lie, though, as I really don’t get the inside text:

“Whatever you need to do, I’m here for you.”

NOT because I am not here for you. Totally am – say the word and I’ll come clean your house or ship you a case of Fireball. But the “whatever you need to do” seems unfit, maybe more like an inappropriate or at least questionable card line absent maybe a divorce or joining a convent or go ahead and leave the baby at the fire station, we’ll still be pals scenario. Does Hallmark get that deep? It’s the John Hughes bad guy boyfriend that ultimately jilts the kids on the wrong side of the tracks line. Jake Ryan and Blake moved on at some point when the credits were done rolling. Just sayin’.

The latest from upscale Mayberry:

My house was the blasé Midwest version of the Birdcage this holiday weekend, but at least I got to be the Nathan Lane. My July 4th plans consisted of going to Rem&Jess’s, eating their food, drinking their booze and passing out on the part of their sectional affectionately known as “Stormy’s end.” No kids, Pete was working, so low drama adulting was warming up on deck, waiting for me to bat. THEN Pete’s trip got traded, he planned to come this direction and his brother Simon decides this is a great chance to load up the family truckster and bring his family the eight hour drive to Chicago. Pete’s mom grew up on the south side, a cousin also lives near the city, so coming this weekend with other cousins also in from out of town made sense to him. Which I fully respect the A for effort to get together with long distance family, the problem with that family visiting this house is that a.) they have kids and mine won’t be here (awkward), 2.) they are really religious and I am really not religious, and 3.) there’s the feeling that everything about you from the mousetrap game hidden beneath the coffee table to the fact that you are a divorcee that doesn’t attend church and just thinks folks should be good people who names her god “Science” and “Karma” is sin sin sin sin sinful (insert Ned Flanders sin-iddley-inful for full effect).

I offered for them to stay at the house, but that was staunchly declined because we. are. sinners. that sleep in the same bed and subjecting three minor aged children to Beelzebub’s Lair meets the township hamlet of Hampshire neighborhood’s answer of a one women brothel (ie my house) is abominable. Upside is it makes my life a lot easier. All of that was fine by me. What was NOT fine by me was being told that we would host a July 4th bbq without my kids being here and not to include Rem&Jess. Simon just figured that I could just tell Chase that we would completely dishonor the custody holiday agreement we made and I’d take them because he decided last minute to bring his kids here. Gotta love when the world thinks all divorces are akin to the bad wholly unrealistic writings of one season sitcoms where the exes are besties. Chase hasn’t had a conversation with me for years; I’m not in a position to ask for favors.

The bigger offense was Rem&Jess. Even though we. are. sinners. Pete is concerned that his brother’s tunnel vision right wing world vision means that Simon will consider interacting with lesbians – who treat us with love and acceptance of family – will be fair game for rudeness. Pete is worried about offending our friends by his brother’s potential embarrassing behavior. Apparently I missed the Sunday school week where you learn about which categories of folks it is okay to hate – which is a shame because I still haven’t been able to figure it out despite my best analytical charting efforts:

My whole world ends up in the far upper right hand corner of icky bad (also known as “the fun zone”).

I threw Simon under the bus by being totally honest with Rem&Jess. I explained that if our suspicions – which we never actually fronted by asking Simon or his wife what their thoughts were, so we may be the ignorant savants of the story – were true, that this crew was the very reason why people cannot stand the far right wing conservatives and I’d be embarrassed to subject them to that environment. Even though they know Pete is not like that, he was pretty mortified at my outing (oh, the irony in verbiage) anyone related to him for being a potential hateful hypocrite.

Simon’s family arrived with that war beaten look of a long drive. Normally that alone is cause for happy hour, but they don’t drink and have made it clear that Pete is judged (sinner! sinner! sinner!) because he does even though one of the best JC stories did involve the dude changing water to wine. Like LOTS of water to LOTS of wine.

All was going really well UNTIL Rem&Jess showed up wearing muscle man sleeveless rainbow pride wife-beaters and Birkenstocks while making out for all to see on the door bell camera display stationed next to the snacks on the kitchen island.

JUST KIDDING!!! Jess would not be caught dead in Birkenstocks. But you gotta admit, THAT would have been the best show in the ‘hood. Simon’s crew did arrive, all went well and R&J stayed in their beautiful home where they enjoyed craft cocktails. I hear Remy passed out on my end of their couch. After a few hours of forced conversation (because it’s weird being in a home laden with kid stuff without the kids that live here) and consuming our “prepared by single people that have sex” sinner food, they headed into the city for fireworks. Guess it’s easier to judge a person in concept than a person that feeds you lunch.

At first I was bummed that Syd&Julian weren’t there to meet them because kids are such natural situational diffusers. When my uncle got DVT and had to have his leg amputated, his grandkids were awesome and asked all the stuff no one else would ask but everyone wanted to know: did it hurt? does the part not there still itch? will your new leg be made out of wood like a pirate? what did they do with it when they cut it off? can you keep it if you want?

Simon’s kids are super sweet and the same age as mine, but their conversations involved vacation bible school and if Alexa (an evil machine not welcome in their home – which might have some legit privacy concerns) could play any top pop Christian stations. We assured them that THIS Alexa did not. I realized that they didn’t know any Taylor Swift songs or albums – which Sydney would have town crier style declared sinful. I realized that maybe it was better to break in the introductions glacially because Sydney might have chewed them up and spit them out with her spirited (sometimes a little displaced but love that still) commitment to environmental causes, James Charles make-up, competitive swim and reading books like Dear Evan Hansen. I’ve gotta think about some of her jabs to get them: when I chided her messy room, she responded with an eyeroll and “oh my gosh, who killed lenny?” which took me like five minutes to realize it was a dramatic reference to Steinbeck. Which I loved until I realized that it was intended to be a rip on me. It’s suck-awesome when you realize your kids are smarter than you.

I relate a lot to Simon’s kids – I was a lot like them growing up: parents that loved me but likely sheltered and unduly critical of anything beyond the bubble of my personal experience even though I was out of shape and judgmental. Going to college was amazing: I’d traveled a lot but I’d never lived with kids from other countries or cities who called into question everything from religion to mathematical theorems. I started running to clear my head (and because I was often locked out of my room for stints when my roommate was “entertaining” guests from the men’s wing); which led to me losing the freshman 15 gained by most. There were so many ways to accept so much about the world I was in that I had never even considered. I was mesmerized; changed to the positive on day one.

Regardless, in three hours I had Simon’s kids playing video games and eating watermelon. If given the chance, in three days I’d have ’em swimming with Syd and hooked on edamame and Riverdale. Maybe …

Now that they have been here and not just survived but hopefully enjoyed themselves, maybe they’ll come back. Next time I’m leaving the half empty bottle of astroglide and sliquid on the nightstand in case anyone gets snoopy and needs validation that “yep, fun shit happens here – frequently!”

Sorry about the hillbilly stationary attempt – again. I am at a swim meet an hour away. In my defense, I ordered paper with hummingbird decals because they made me think of you: small but majestically mighty with fluttering wings that move in the pattern of the infinity symbol – which seemed good faith omen relevant in light of your recent medical escapades. Who knew that hummingbirds are like the honey badgers of midget aerial badasses? Anyhow – the hummingbird stickers didn’t really stick to the paper it came with so the wings got all mucked up which, sadly, looked far more WT than my legal pad.

Hope you had a good, fun un-judgmental low stress Independence Day.

Hang in there – love ya xoxox, Stormy

Note to self: if the Pete-Stormy wedding thing ever happens, R&J get dibs on a table with you by the bar where we all know the teetotalers will be secretly wishing they were also seated.

Hello from your Fennec townie:

Hope you are having a good week because I’m sure thinking of ya!

Punta Cana was great – def on the list of possibilities for our girls trip next year. By then we will have you back in fighting form where your hardest decision of the day will be red or white sangria. That will also give them time to figure out what’s axing all the tourists (none of which seemed remotely phased – island time will whisk all those mortal worries away; at least until Hurricane season). My guess is Legionnaires, but maybe something more scandalous like hot Latino bartenders looking to avenge their plight by poisoning low-tipping Americans. Anyhow …

I bought this card because it reminded me of that baby deer we’d watch from your kitchen window (wine in hand) who took his first steps in your backyard. Wildlife in my yard consists of mosquitos and a squirrel Julian and I named Oliver.

The latest from upscale Mayberry:

Our favorite Caucasian tiger mom (do white tigers exist? I bet they do and I bet they look a lot like Heather) is trying to lobby parents whose kids are in the accelerated program to get Addy in since efforts to solicit administrative support hasn’t worked. Sydney is in that and it is the penthouse of public education, in the best way, for middle school kids who care far more about geometry than popularity. Addy cares a lot more about popularity and bombed the test, which Heather is trying to appeal. Not sure how that works, but I am sure that Addy is gonna do just fine in life: a skillset gleaned by manhandling her mother.

Sydney is also in revolt mode – fortunately against her father. She is mad that he makes her go to so many (as in sometimes 7 hours a day) double header games, scrimmage sand practices while making her literally fend for herself for her swim meets and practices. Her latest retaliatory move was to download the UberEATS app to her phone. She connected it to Chase’s account (presumably unbeknownst to him and somehow not readily trackable back to her) and started ordering Chipotle to be delivered to the field. She told me “I have to go to baseball games; he has to buy my Chipotle.” And, she has neither confessed nor denied being the benevolent sponsor that had UberEATS deliver 14 Wendy’s frosties for Julian’s team to enjoy last weekend. She just said “Dad wants me to THINK about the team and sometimes I THINK the team wants frosties.” I am both proud and terrified of her next move as I’m toast if that energy gets directed to me.

Speaking of baseball, I am writing this from the little league bleachers. I suspect folks may think I’m doing that baseball diamond scorecard thing, which is ridiculous because 1.) I’ve never known how, cared to learn, or done such a thing in my life; and 2.) am the least vested parent out here in terms of caring who hits more balls so long as Julian is happy and the kids are safe. I’m the pariah mom that doesn’t fit in with the clique. They talk about going to group dinners in front of me, knowing they’re not going to invite me. What they don’t realize is that all they are doing is saving me from having to come up with an excuse. I can buy bad sushi in good company anytime with or without their invite.

Chase is here. He’s the only dad wearing bona fide baseball cleats (he’s not a coach) and he yells at Julian when he doesn’t swing and yells when the ump (who is maybe 16 and the midwest version of Spicoli) calls a strike. He’s put on a few lbs – gotta love when the ex starts looking old and sporting the dad bod. His dad is here. He says hello and waves and seems to be eeking his collapsible chair closer and closer to mine. I was related to the guy for over a decade and sometimes was treated less well. Maybe he is hoping that if he is nice, I’ll just start letting some of my money land in his checking account as occurred often without my knowledge when I was married to his son. That whole Shephard clan is delusional (Syd&J are namesake only; at heart, they’re Earhardts).

Game is done; onto a swim meet and another baseball field tomorrow. It’s official: I’ve turned into the person I used to make fun of. Weekends used to be about booze and irresponsibility; now they’re youth sports. God bless parenthood!

Hang in there – love ya’ xox,

Stormy

See me in DC? Nope – home post work trip and ready for happy hour.

Thought you could use some happy mail. Helluva last convo we had in the DC Reagan airport. Let’s hope your weekend involves a few more MD related answers and definitive game plan to start zapping that crap out of you. Stage 4 – really? Just bypassed all the rest? You always were an over achiever.

Family in town going nuts yet? Since your mom is a lot like mine, I bet she has rearranged everything in your cabinets so it is now all “in the right place.” Which means you won’t be able to find your measuring spoons for at least a month, but also that someone other than you is cooking.

Not sure if The Rodent is already on your shelf, but this was fan fav of mine when cutting my teeth in law firm land. After all, few things rival time-honored sadistic tales of junior associates straight out of law school being big firm emotionally sodomized to lift one’s spirits. My favorite is when the newbee gets away with using the rainmaker partner’s file number to send crack shot heinie faxes to the equity committee. Hard to identify the culprit from that angle. I hope no female has that amount of crack hair – the rest of you would have to be cuh-razy hot to overcome a dude forgiving that epic wax fail. Anyhow, Enjoy! And be grateful we are no longer the junior associate plebes.

I ran out of card space so had to resort to this farthest cry from Crane’s stationary. In my defense, I’m at Sydney’s swim meet. The fact that this is written on paper and not in the margins of a heat sheet is almost impressive.

Being a fellow geek lawyer, I hit the internet after our call (best most reliable place to find information to no actual doctor’s chagrin ever) to research what kind of stuff I could maybe do to help you right now. It’s weird to type “What to say when your best friend has cancer.” It’s also weird that the search results all start with “what NOT to say when your best friend has cancer.” And it is ESPECIALLY DISCONCERTING to realize that I said all the things you’re NOT supposed to say in the twenty minutes we connected this week.

In case you are wondering, here’s the top 10:

1. My other friend had that.
2. That’s a good one to get, right?
3. Cancer isn’t as bad as it used to be.
4. I’ve always wanted to shave my head.
5. I know how you feel (I think I missed this one).
6. Have you considered [insert circa 1642 homeopathic remedy ala leeches).
7. If anyone can beat this, it’s you (aka passive attempt to guilt immune system to work overtime).
8. You’re so brave.
9. Now you get lots of free time.
10. One heck of a weight loss plan.

I am guessing a lot of folks are committing these oral offenses. Maybe we can make some mental bingo cards: you can reward folks with Mr. Yuck stickers every time someone gets three in a row? Sure, that’s 1.) kind of mean because even ill spoken people are usually well intentioned; 2.) a little funny; or maybe 3.) me being a sadistic asshole making sport at the good will of others.

Really hoping it’s not just the last one.

On a completely unrelated note, Pete and I are going to Punta Cana tomorrow. He got a long overnite there. On international trips, commercial flight crews get put up at (no joke) an all-inclusive four-star resort which comes with a complimentary 20-minute massage and bottle of rum – because we do not want those charged with aircraft worthiness and passenger safety to be thirsty. Supposedly the crew gets to fast track clear customs at the hotel. Which is good because now we know where to headquarter home base our drug smuggling operations; we just might have to dress like flight attendants. Wonder if the costume store has any that look more Dr. Spock than naughty nurse so they take us seriously? Or will customs be less suspect if we HAVE the low cut high slit slut factor? Good thing I was never a spy because the covert operation would be done by the time I decided what to wear. Sorry – diversion.

The flights are open with tons of extra seats because there have been some tourist deaths attributable to tainted booze consumed by foreigners from resort mini-bars. No fear here:

1. I am WAY too cheap to touch a mini-bar fridge as you know those are NEVER included even in the all-inclusive. You’ll pay $12 for a minican of flat coke;
2. I am no amateur. I am packing my own and if Pete’s crew can’t raid the drink cart before deplaning (allegedly), I will do my best to make sure we all get Stormy’s version of a doggie bag. I’ll be sure to toss in a few mini-fireballs to toast ya’.

Hang in there – love ya’ xox,

Stormy

What do you do for a friend with four young kids, who is 48 and dying? You don’t live close enough to stop by or deliver meals. You don’t call often for fear that you’ll interrupt a special family moment or the one time she was able to catch a nap. Resources are no issue: she has access to any treatment available, able to pay for whatever help was needed, a support system and house big enough to let family move in to aid indefinitely. When you ask what you can do, she says keep writing me letters. I’d really love to get some mail. So, this is what I did for 18 months. In 45 letters I used the defense mechanism of humor to share what I could with my fiercely private friend grappling with the heaviest of burdens in the most light-hearted least intrusive way I knew how. And in – what I did not know would be – my second to last conversation with her, she says I have got a gift and to do something with it. This is me honoring that request, heeding the advice of someone far smarter than me and taken far too soon.