You, and you, and you were there

In this tough times, I think this one is worth repeating. A good laugh, and something to think about as we struggle to make a few bucks.

Ana Maria Carmen and Ruben Sanchez sit at a very large elaborate banquet table. Maria sits to the right of God and Ruben sits to her right. They are nibbling on tiny green peppers as they talk. Ruben has a Dos Equis and Maria has a Margarita. God sips champagne.

"My mother said I could not get married until I was five feet tall, so I stood very straight and always wore two-inch heels," Maria said as she shrugged one shoulder. "I married my Ruben in a  white muslin dress with a flowing white Mantilla as soon as I was 18. You blessed us with a good life together."

"I was the luckiest man alive for 42 years," Ruben said. "Maria was my beautiful lady."

"Oh no," Maria said, stifling a giggle, "Our daughter, Giselle, is so much prettier than I ever was. She was always your favorite."

"You were a wonderful mother," Ruben said.

"Sometimes I think I loved shoes almost as much as I loved my children," Maria said. The giggle bubbles out. "I taught Elizabeth too well. She spends too much for shoes, and so many.  I worry."

"Our sons are good men, good husbands, and good fathers," Ruben said. "You don't have to worry about them."

"They yell at their children so much," Maria said. "And they work such long hours. I wish we could have done better for them."

"You had a lot to overcome," God said. "You had no education, no health insurance, you lived in a dangerous neighborhood.  Sadly, prejudice continues, even now." 

"I worked three jobs until all the kids were in school," Ruben said. "We lived with Maria's aunt in her big old house for so long she left it to us."

"Do you remember her antimacassars? She was so proud of them," Maria said. "It was so funny. Ruben went around saying something smelled bad." Maria covers her mouth with her fingers as she laughs. "I'm sorry. We're eating. I was embarrassed to admit I knew what they were."

"That smell stuck like smoke. I worked on getting rid of it for years," Ruben said. "Made the house into a nice inheritance for the children. Worth a lot more now than it was then." Ruben's belly jiggles over his big belt buckle as he laughs and pulls at his moustache.  

"This is just like Father Texerios said it would be," Maria said. "The food is delicious, family and friends are here, everything is perfect."

"Thank you," God said. "I appreciate your gratitude. I do so love providing this big party, lots of good food and wine. It's too bad those very things are what send so many here before I expect them."

And that's true. To some extent.

The Invisible Woman

Shirley Knot is the  invisible woman. She's middle-aged, pays the bills, keeps the household in check, runs errands, shops and cooks and cleans. She also entertains every Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, on birthdays and special occasions. thinks2much is her email name. 

There are two questions that plague Shirley as she drives around doing what has to be done.

#1. Do I wear some kind of weird cloak that makes me invisible like in the children's fairy tale? And, is that cloak for my protection or to protect others from me? 

#2. Did the pencil that was supposed to fill me in as I matured get turned upside down and erase me? Did I erase myself or did someone else rub me out?

Shirley Knot's lost in thought as she comes to a Stop sign and turns right. The flashing lights of a police car reflect in her rear view mirror. I guess I'm not invisible to him, Shirley thinks, pulling to the curb.

"Step out of your car," the officer orders in a God-like voice over the loud speaker. "Walk slowly toward the police car." 

"Good Lord," Shirley says to no one but herself as she steps out of her car.

Shirley peers at the officer through his car window.  He's really cute, rolls across her mind, followed by, he's young enough to be my son. The officer peers at her driver's license and then back at her. "You cut me off," he said. "I had to swerve to miss you."  

"I'm so sorry, officer," Shirley says. "I don't know how I missed you, but I really didn't see you."

"You need to be more careful. It's important to be aware of what's going on around you," he said. "You could hurt someone, Shirley."

With the moving violation ticket on the seat beside her, Shirley looks at herself in the mirror on the sun visor, pulls out lipstick, puts it on, presses her lips together and smiles.  

As she cruises back up the boulevard to Gelson's Market, the erasure question just won't go away. I used to be the center of attention at parties. I was the smartest girl in math class. That boy in high school said I had the best legs. When I walked down the street, workmen would whistle. I never needed a push-up bra, let alone breast augmentation.

I weigh the same, wear the same size jeans, spend a lot of money keeping my hair the same color, and thank goodness modern medicine has made it possible to erase most of the lines and wrinkles. I hate the birthmark on my earlobe. I don't care what anybody says. It is not sexy. It has to go. I'll write myself a note to make an appointment.

I used to write. I have a journalism degree. I wrote for a newspaper, worked at a financial publication, wrote a screenplay.  Oh well, that was a long time ago. It's been ages since I read a good book. I always loved Washington Irving novellas.

Shirley can still hear her mother's comments. "Everybody thinks they can write. Be reasonable, do something that makes sense. You got your degree, all right, you are Mrs. Knot." 

Shirley can hear her husband's comments. "You won't succeed if you do that. It takes too much effort. You can't balance the kids and housekeeping, let alone, working too."

Surely not, Shirley Knot thought. Surely they were wrong. I don't want to be written off. 

And that's the truth. To some extent.

Under Ware: Agent With The FBI

Shortly after 9/11, Under passed her special agent test. She'd been a computer analyst with the service since l995, her first job after graduation from the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. With a name like hers, she wanted to stay under the radar. The fact that she lived in Washington D.C. and traveled constantly was ideal. Pasadena, California, was no more than the place Under had been born. 

She was now known as U. Ware. Her twin, Arde, or Hard, as his UCLA frat brothers called him--had done the same thing in med school and now he was on staff at a prominent Midwestern medical school, Dr. A. Ware or AW.

"Say your name and be proud of it," their mother had said, when they begged to know why such names had been put on them. "Ware is an old British name, much like, Blood, my maiden name. Where do you think the term, Bluebood, comes from? I don't hear your cousins complaining about their name."

"Yeah, their first names are Jennifer, David, and Ashley," Arde said, a hardness  underscored his voice even when they were youngsters.  

The three cousins were slackers who hit the party scene first in Bali, then in Rio and finally in Hollywood. They partied away their incomes at the Troubadour, the Viper Room where they met Johnny Depp, and various other clubs that came and went. Under had ushered in the 21st century by going to bed at 8 PM and waking up at 7 AM, same as always. Arde spent that year in Japan, doing God knows what. He said he was studying Eastern medicine.

Last summer on July 4th, their mother hosted a big bash and collapsed at the buffet table, dying from a heart attack before the medics arrived. U and HW had to go home. 

"I've never seem her so beautiful," Under said, looking at her mother before the morticians prepared her for the funeral. "Peaceful and serene. Luminescent."

"The old gal's blood wasn't as terrific as she thought it was," Arde said. He took charge, made all the arrangements. Arde had fought to have an autopsy performed, Under refused. Her mother's beauty was all she had left. She sat with the open casket before the funeral.

"I'm so sorry for my disgraceful behavior," she said. A single tear slid from the edge of her eye. "I don't know why you did this to me, but I love you." She smoothed her black dress and sat quietly. "I'll start wearing mascara to make up for things," she said, looking straight forward.

"Let's get this over with," Arde said, then snapped the silk-lined casket closed. "Everybody's waiting. Did you contact our father?" 

She shook her head. "I ran a check on him. A year ago he was living in Romania with a woman named Irma Vagine. They have children and run a legitimate orphanage. Leave him alone, he has a life." 

"Don't you want to know your father?" Arde snarled at her in the same tone he used with their mother.  "We need to know what diseases he has, what we've inherited. He's the Ware. He abandoned us."

Under wept, bowing her head, covering her eyes with her hands. "I know who I am, Hard Ware. I'm Under Ware." She looked up at him, emotions in check, radiant in her truth. "I spend my days ferreting out people who change their names to serve some purpose, avoid some truth, or getting away from themselves and their families." She snorted and cleared her throat. "I'm a Blood-Ware, bright red and running strong."

"And you're so tough. FBI. You'll always be under some body's thumb," he said. "Let's get this over with."

They sat together. They gave the eulogy together. Under wept. Arde didn't. When the service was over, as they were leaving, a man tapped Under on the shoulder. When she turned around, she saw her own  pale face but with flashing dark eyes rimmed with double thick lashes. 

"I vant you to meet my vife, and zon's lit-tle shildren," he said. "They've ast to meet you for a longa time. Ve've saved money for 10 years. Come from Poland. Bad timing. " 

"Arde, I think this is our father," she said. "Look."  

"Ah, your uncle. Your fader feld offa curb in and vas hit by a truck," he said. "I'm Zilva Vare."

Arde just starred. Under gave Zilva a hug. The children giggled and his wife smiled.

More little Wares, Under thought smiling at them. I vonder vhat their names are?

And that's true. To some extent.

Under Ware: Agent With The FBI

Shortly after 9/11, Under passed her special agent test. She'd been a computer analyst with the service since l995, her first job after graduation from the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. With a name like hers, she wanted to stay under the radar. The fact that she lived in Washington D.C. and traveled constantly was ideal. Pasadena, California, was no more than the place Under had been born. 

She was now known as U. Ware. Her twin, Arde, or Hard, as his UCLA frat brothers called him--had done the same thing in med school and now he was on staff at a prominent Midwestern medical school, Dr. A. Ware or AW.

"Say your name and be proud of it," their mother had said, when they begged to know why such names had been put on them. "Ware is an old British name, much like, Blood, my maiden name. Where do you think the term, Bluebood, comes from? I don't hear your cousins complaining about their name."

"Yeah, their first names are Jennifer, David, and Ashley," Arde said, a hardness  underscored his voice even when they were youngsters.  

The three cousins were slackers who hit the party scene first in Bali, then in Rio and finally in Hollywood. They partied away their incomes at the Troubadour, the Viper Room where they met Johnny Depp, and various other clubs that came and went. Under had ushered in the 21st century by going to bed at 8 PM and waking up at 7 AM, same as always. Arde spent that year in Japan, doing God knows what. He said he was studying Eastern medicine.

Last summer on July 4th, their mother hosted a big bash and collapsed at the buffet table, dying from a heart attack before the medics arrived. U and HW had to go home. 

"I've never seem her so beautiful," Under said, looking at her mother before the morticians prepared her for the funeral. "Peaceful and serene. Luminescent."

"The old gal's blood wasn't as terrific as she thought it was," Arde said. He took charge, made all the arrangements. Arde had fought to have an autopsy performed, Under refused. Her mother's beauty was all she had left. She sat with the open casket before the funeral.

"I'm so sorry for my disgraceful behavior," she said. A single tear slid from the edge of her eye. "I don't know why you did this to me, but I love you." She smoothed her black dress and sat quietly. "I'll start wearing mascara to make up for things," she said, looking straight forward.

"Let's get this over with," Arde said, then snapped the silk-lined casket closed. "Everybody's waiting. Did you contact our father?" 

She shook her head. "I ran a check on him. A year ago he was living in Romania with a woman named Irma Vagine. They have children and run a legitimate orphanage. Leave him alone, he has a life." 

"Don't you want to know your father?" Arde snarled at her in the same tone he used with their mother.  "We need to know what diseases he has, what we've inherited. He's the Ware. He abandoned us."

Under wept, bowing her head, covering her eyes with her hands. "I know who I am, Hard Ware. I'm Under Ware." She looked up at him, emotions in check, radiant in her truth. "I spend my days ferreting out people who change their names to serve some purpose, avoid some truth, or getting away from themselves and their families." She snorted and cleared her throat. "I'm a Blood-Ware, bright red and running strong."

"And you're so tough. FBI. You'll always be under some body's thumb," he said. "Let's get this over with."

They sat together. They gave the eulogy together. Under wept. Arde didn't. When the service was over, as they were leaving, a man tapped Under on the shoulder. When she turned around, she saw her own  pale face but with flashing dark eyes rimmed with double thick lashes. 

"I vant you to meet my vife, and zon's lit-tle shildren," he said. "They've ast to meet you for a longa time. Ve've saved money for 10 years. Come from Poland. Bad timing. " 

"Arde, I think this is our father," she said. "Look."  

"Ah, your uncle. Your fader feld offa curb in and vas hit by a truck," he said. "I'm Zilva Vare."

Arde just starred. Under gave Zilva a hug. The children giggled and his wife smiled.

More little Wares, Under thought smiling at them. I vonder vhat their names are?

And that's true. To some extent.

Gilda, Gilda, Gilda

Gilda's cousin mailed her a joke. She left out the pictures that went along with it. Here is the joke.

The Eulogy. She married and had 13 children. Her husband died. She married again and had 7 more children. Again her husband died. But she remarried and this time had 5 more children. Alas, she finally died.

Standing before her coffin the preacher prayed for her. He thanked the Lord for this very loving woman and said "Lord, they're finally together." One mourner leaned over and quietly asked her friend, "Do you think he means her first, second, or third husband?" The friend replied, "I think he means her legs."

Gilda (pronounced Gee-l-da) has always been married to the same man. She has two boys, two girls. Once upon a time, she had a half-baked career as an actress, but so many other women did too, that she began play-acting at home and for her friends. Not charades, more like, creating drama and comedy to get it out of her system. Drama, mostly.

"Who do you think you are?" she'd scream at her teenage daughter. "If you don't like what I bought, just say so, but don't talk to me like that." She'd stomp off, usually to wash dishes or put in laundry.

"You have to go to school, get up," she'd bellow at her son, shaking him, jiggling his shoulders like he was a bowl of jello, touching his face--which caused him to roar at her like a lion since he had zits and everyone harped at him not to touch them.

"I'll get up, I'll get up," he'd say as he turned his head toward the wall and fell into a deep sleep.

Gilda announced to her husband that she was going to stay at her cousin's house for awhile. She had to think things over. Things weren't going well, he didn't help out at home, and well, enough just might be enough. What she really wanted, was to learn how to get along with her children, and for that matter with her husband.

She packed a suitcase, her pillow, the laptop, and drove away.

At first, it was fun. They watched a subtitled French movie, sat in the patio and drank tea. They ate pasta primavera. They went to a movie. They talked. They worked crossword puzzles together. Gilda chopped up carrots for her cousin's pet tortoises and watched them waddle over to their food, eating slower than slow. The tortoises made a tiny little hissing sound once in awhile, otherwise, they were quiet.

Her cousin studied a lot. She was getting an MBA. Gilda slept in the guest bedroom that had a futon on the floor, matchstick blinds and a large bright white tiled bathroom with one bath towel and one face towel.

Finally, on the fifth night, Gilda called home. Her husband answered the phone.

"Is everything alright?" she asked. "I haven't heard from you."

"You left in a huff, so why should I be eager to talk to you?" he said.

"How are the children?" she asked, her voice all quivery like she was going to cry any minute.

"Same as ever, doing fine," he replied. "What else do you want to know? I have things to do."

Gilda hung up. Devastated. They didn't care. They didn't miss her. Everythingwasfine, everythingwasfine, every-thing-was-fine. The house was probably a huge mess.

She told her cousin who laughed. Laughed out loud.

"I remember what your mother would say to you that made you furious," Gilda's cousin said, as she put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips and spat our the words. "Who do you think you are young lady, Mary Astor's daughter?"  

Gilda had to laugh even though she really did not want to. "I hated it and slammed a lot of doors," she said.

"When she left the house in a tizzy, you were glad to see her go," her cousin added. "Things quieted down for awhile."

"All I ever wanted was lots of kids, and a loving husband," Gilda started to cry as she said the words. "I've had the same stupid man all these years and four infuriating kids."

"I have tortoises," her cousin said without emotion, looking Gilda straight in the eye. "You got what you wanted."

Gilda packed up and drove home. The house was tidy, dishes in dishwasher, clothes in hamper. It was the middle of the day. The children were at school, her husband was at work. The dog welcomed her at the front door, jumping around and weaving around, between Gilda's legs.

"Are you trying to murder me?" she barked at him. "Stay out of my way."

This time, she heard her own drama. A cup of tea worth-of-time-later on the patio, she spied a green praying mantis on the tip of a rose leaf. Then another one, this one was brown.

In a brillant moment, Gilda recalled that last year her youngest son had brought home a container of tiny praying mantis to keep pests off the rose bushes, as her birthday gift. Both of the large, mature praying mantis sat quietly, gently, peacefully magnificent on their perches.

Gilda, Gilda, Gilda

Gilda's cousin mailed her a joke. She left out the pictures that went along with it. Here is the joke.

The Eulogy. She married and had 13 children. Her husband died. She married again and had 7 more children. Again her husband died. But she remarried and this time had 5 more children. Alas, she finally died.

Standing before her coffin the preacher prayed for her. He thanked the Lord for this very loving woman and said "Lord, they're finally together." One mourner leaned over and quietly asked her friend, "Do you think he means her first, second, or third husband?" The friend replied, "I think he means her legs."

Gilda (pronounced Gee-l-da) has always been married to the same man. She has two boys, two girls. Once upon a time, she had a half-baked career as an actress, but so many other women did too, that she began play-acting at home and for her friends. Not charades, more like, creating drama and comedy to get it out of her system. Drama, mostly.

"Who do you think you are?" she'd scream at her teenage daughter. "If you don't like what I bought, just say so, but don't talk to me like that." She'd stomp off, usually to wash dishes or put in laundry.

"You have to go to school, get up," she'd bellow at her son, shaking him, jiggling his shoulders like he was a bowl of jello, touching his face--which caused him to roar at her like a lion since he had zits and everyone harped at him not to touch them.

"I'll get up, I'll get up," he'd say as he turned his head toward the wall and fell into a deep sleep.

Gilda announced to her husband that she was going to stay at her cousin's house for awhile. She had to think things over. Things weren't going well, he didn't help out at home, and well, enough just might be enough. What she really wanted, was to learn how to get along with her children, and for that matter with her husband.

She packed a suitcase, her pillow, the laptop, and drove away.

At first, it was fun. They watched a subtitled French movie, sat in the patio and drank tea. They ate pasta primavera. They went to a movie. They talked. They worked crossword puzzles together. Gilda chopped up carrots for her cousin's pet tortoises and watched them waddle over to their food, eating slower than slow. The tortoises made a tiny little hissing sound once in awhile, otherwise, they were quiet.

Her cousin studied a lot. She was getting an MBA. Gilda slept in the guest bedroom that had a futon on the floor, matchstick blinds and a large bright white tiled bathroom with one bath towel and one face towel.

Finally, on the fifth night, Gilda called home. Her husband answered the phone.

"Is everything alright?" she asked. "I haven't heard from you."

"You left in a huff, so why should I be eager to talk to you?" he said.

"How are the children?" she asked, her voice all quivery like she was going to cry any minute.

"Same as ever, doing fine," he replied. "What else do you want to know? I have things to do."

Gilda hung up. Devastated. They didn't care. They didn't miss her. Everythingwasfine, everythingwasfine, every-thing-was-fine. The house was probably a huge mess.

She told her cousin who laughed. Laughed out loud.

"I remember what your mother would say to you that made you furious," Gilda's cousin said, as she put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips and spat our the words. "Who do you think you are young lady, Mary Astor's daughter?"  

Gilda had to laugh even though she really did not want to. "I hated it and slammed a lot of doors," she said.

"When she left the house in a tizzy, you were glad to see her go," her cousin added. "Things quieted down for awhile."

"All I ever wanted was lots of kids, and a loving husband," Gilda started to cry as she said the words. "I've had the same stupid man all these years and four infuriating kids."

"I have tortoises," her cousin said without emotion, looking Gilda straight in the eye. "You got what you wanted."

Gilda packed up and drove home. The house was tidy, dishes in dishwasher, clothes in hamper. It was the middle of the day. The children were at school, her husband was at work. The dog welcomed her at the front door, jumping around and weaving around, between Gilda's legs.

"Are you trying to murder me?" she barked at him. "Stay out of my way."

This time, she heard her own drama. A cup of tea worth-of-time-later on the patio, she spied a green praying mantis on the tip of a rose leaf. Then another one, this one was brown.

In a brillant moment, Gilda recalled that last year her youngest son had brought home a container of tiny praying mantis to keep pests off the rose bushes, as her birthday gift. Both of the large, mature praying mantis sat quietly, gently, peacefully magnificent on their perches.

Sometimes it is all about how we SEE things

My husband can be so annoying. He has these all-knowing illusions.   

For instance, tonight my son called asking how to get mold off of his linen pants. He'd stuffed gym clothes in the hamper (where they should go as opposed to on the floor) and forgotten about them for a few days. One entire pant leg had grown mold. 

My husband overhears our conversation, and intervenes with well-intentioned information about lemon juice and salt and putting the pants in the sun to dry. Instead of shutting up at that point, he makes a comment alluding to how careless and irresponsible our son is. He points out that car keys have been misplaced, a cell phone crushed, and now linen pants damaged. 

 My husband then hangs up the phone, with no illusion whatsoever as to his hurtfulness. I hit redial, and calmly remind my son that his father might be allusive since this is his assessment, and perhaps there is something more going on that we need to discuss and correct.

His girlfriend has been giving him a hard time for forgetting things. He gave her a birthday card (not a gift) two weeks late. FYI: Alluding to a poor memory eludes the fact that she will have no illusions about you.

He added that she has been "picking on him" this weekend. My son continued to elude his forgetfulness claiming a hundred good reasons. 

I decide to ask him directly why he is being so elusive suggesting  that this is actually about his illusiveness. 

Sometimes, things slip his mind, he says, like the gym clothes and giving her a gift, not to mention the card. He doesn't understand why his dad and girlfriend are upset with him. He just wants to clean up the linen pant, and get along with them both. He's one sad fellow.

So, it falls to me, the mother to point out to him that he is under the illusion that there are no consequences for actions. You put sweaty gym clothes on linen pants in a closed place, and mold will grow. You fail to give your girlfriend a gift, or at the very least a card, for her birthday, and she will be unhappy with you. Your dad isn't going to be sympathetic, he's going to point out the obvious, matter-of-fact.

It is illusory of him to pretend otherwise. That illusiveness could well be what is eluding him from properly caring for the sweaty gm clothes and the girlfriend. It even might be why he lost his car keys. It is time, I alluded to him gently, to be open to meeting new girls.

And, I added, keep in mind that your father only alludes to being right all the time because he has illusions about himself which trip him up on a regular basis as he eludes the obvious, which is that I am the one who is usually right. 

Sometimes it is all about how we SEE things

My husband can be so annoying. He has these all-knowing illusions.   

For instance, tonight my son called asking how to get mold off of his linen pants. He'd stuffed gym clothes in the hamper (where they should go as opposed to on the floor) and forgotten about them for a few days. One entire pant leg had grown mold. 

My husband overhears our conversation, and intervenes with well-intentioned information about lemon juice and salt and putting the pants in the sun to dry. Instead of shutting up at that point, he makes a comment alluding to how careless and irresponsible our son is. He points out that car keys have been misplaced, a cell phone crushed, and now linen pants damaged. 

 My husband then hangs up the phone, with no illusion whatsoever as to his hurtfulness. I hit redial, and calmly remind my son that his father might be allusive since this is his assessment, and perhaps there is something more going on that we need to discuss and correct.

His girlfriend has been giving him a hard time for forgetting things. He gave her a birthday card (not a gift) two weeks late. FYI: Alluding to a poor memory eludes the fact that she will have no illusions about you.

He added that she has been "picking on him" this weekend. My son continued to elude his forgetfulness claiming a hundred good reasons. 

I decide to ask him directly why he is being so elusive suggesting  that this is actually about his illusiveness. 

Sometimes, things slip his mind, he says, like the gym clothes and giving her a gift, not to mention the card. He doesn't understand why his dad and girlfriend are upset with him. He just wants to clean up the linen pant, and get along with them both. He's one sad fellow.

So, it falls to me, the mother to point out to him that he is under the illusion that there are no consequences for actions. You put sweaty gym clothes on linen pants in a closed place, and mold will grow. You fail to give your girlfriend a gift, or at the very least a card, for her birthday, and she will be unhappy with you. Your dad isn't going to be sympathetic, he's going to point out the obvious, matter-of-fact.

It is illusory of him to pretend otherwise. That illusiveness could well be what is eluding him from properly caring for the sweaty gm clothes and the girlfriend. It even might be why he lost his car keys. It is time, I alluded to him gently, to be open to meeting new girls.

And, I added, keep in mind that your father only alludes to being right all the time because he has illusions about himself which trip him up on a regular basis as he eludes the obvious, which is that I am the one who is usually right.