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You're reading an old entry from Michelle "Lexi Kahn" DiPoala's online diary, formerly called Jungle Sweet Jungle. Blog name changed to Low Budget Superhero in October 2005. Now I mostly go by SuperLowBudge. You can call me Lexi, Michelle or SuperLowBudge, or if you're my mom, then Shelly. Enjoy these old posts (except if you're my mom.) Please follow on Blogger at superlowbudge.blogspot.com. From there you can follow me on Twitter and some other platforms. Thanks!



Better Make It a Double

(December 27, 2001)

"Merry Christmas, Gram!" I chirped extra-cheerily into the phone. Synthetic cheer. I'm a big fat faker and I'm going to hell. In reality, I should have had a good belt of Tequila just to make this call. It was Sunday, December 23rd, and I'd been trying to reach Maggie all day. Since she is always either out (a lot, though she takes great pains to have us believe she's pitifully housebound) or on the phone (a lot, though she wants us to think she's lonely and friendless), I'd been getting either no answer, a busy signal, or my Uncle Tony. He only answers when Maggie's not home. That's always a pleasant call.

    "Hi Uncle Tone, it's Lexi. How--"
    "Sheej na'home. [click]"
Finally, Sunday afternoon, Maggie picks up and "Merry Christmas, Gram!" I say. "So!," she shrieks. "You're not coming at all!" Sure, because that's the only logical assumption when someone says Merry Christmas to you. Some people have a way, equally intriguing and infuriating, of responding not to what you actually said but to what they think you mean. In my day job as Process Manager I get that a lot. In order to gather enough information to create a flowchart of an existing process (so as to yank it apart and re-design it for efficiency) I have to interview the users of the process. Often I find myself in an I Love Lucy-like burlesque of non-communication. "How many line items do you expect to see on this report?" I ask. "We've only been running it for a few weeks," comes the reply. I'm sorry, was that my question? Did I speak another language in which it sounded like I asked, "How long have you been running this report?" Because in my language, the only answer would have been a number: Ten line items. Five. None. My new method is to look evenly into their eyes and ask the question slower. I'll ask it slower each time until I get my answer. Bitchy? Bite me, I got work to do.

For eight years we've been seeing Maggie on Christmas Eve day, then on to my mother's for Christmas Eve night, then to Hub's parents on Christmas Day.

If it's bearable and we're not deathly sick of our families, sometimes we'll stay Christmas night too.

It's been years since we've stayed Christmas night.

"Gram, we're coming tomorrow. You'll be home?"

"Where am I gonna go!" This is Number 62 out of Maggie's Super Ultra GuiltMaker 2000, right after Number 61, "All I do is sit here all day" and before Number 63, "What's the use of talking."

"Okay, so we'll leave Massachusetts around 8 and be there about 11. But I don't know where you live." In any other family, this might seem strange. To not know your grandmother's address. But historically, Maggie, rather than clean her house, opts to move out. It's one way to cope, I guess. In November, my father moved her. Again. To where I do not know.

"You know where Goody's is?" she asks.

"Just give me the address, Gram. I don't know the stores in your neighborhood."

"Your husband knows where it is." Husband, good lord. I let that one go.

"Gram, if you just give me the address, we'll find it."

"You know the church with the clock? Then Goody's! Your husband knows, ask him."

"Gram, there's no way Hub is going to know landmarks in your new neighborhood. We've never BEEN there. What's the address?"

"Get your husband!"

Oh my sweet Jesus.

I put the phone down because I am about to shriek like a wild woman "WHAT'S THE FUCKING ADDRESS YOU OLD BAG!"

"Hub!" I stormed out to the hallway where Hub was peacefully trying to transplant a plant that Chloe the cat had tried to kill. On his knees, his hands full of soil, he was unaware of my building frustration one room over. I burst into the hallway, furious, and yell, "Son of a bitch, CAN YOU PLEASE COME HERE AND talk to my fuckin' crazy grandmother who seems to think that having TITS makes it IMPOSSIBLE to get DIRECTIONS!"

After a few minutes, which I filled by furiously scrubbing my tub, Hub came out and wanted me to get back on the phone.

"Okay, so we'll see you tomorrow." I said into the phone.

"You know where it is now! You go past Goody's..." I let her tell me the whole thing, which is all meaningless because I don't even know what town she moved to, and then I say, "Okay, but we can't stay long. We'll have our cat with us."

"Do I want a cat!" Good god, she thinks I'm offering her a cat. People, I'm going to post a picture of Maggie. If you ever see her go near an animal, tackle her. Save the animals. Maggie once threw a kitten out of a third floor window. She's got no concept of taking care of another living thing.

"No, I said that we'll have OUR cat with us. He's got diabetes, so he needs--"

"WHAT! The CAT'S SICK! GET RID OF IT! Whaddaya want a sick cat for! People don't keep sick cats!"

".........."

"Honey! Does it shit in the house?!"

".........." I have literally never been so speechless.

"Take it to the Humane Society, they'll take care of it!"

"We love the cat," I finally stammered.

"You're crazy!"

The rest of the conversation? I don't even know.

I hung up the phone. Christmas, oh god.

I haven't even left the house yet...

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