The front door flew open. I looked up just in time to see him toss his helmet on the couch. “Mom! You got the house phone, right? Did dad call?”
“Not yet, Will. You sent a bunch of texts and a couple voice mails. He must be busy. He’ll get back to you.”
Against all odds, Will had invited his dad to check out the remaining snow on the ski hill. It was the sort of outing that Mark usually suggested, so there was a good chance he might consider going. In fact, Mark had said that it sounded like a good thing to do on a Sunday since he’d be done with work. Later, when Will realized what he was in for, he said, “What did I do that for? Why did I invite dad? I always think it sounds like a good idea, but it’s never that great when we actually go.”
That’s how it is for the child of a narcissist – they crave the attention of that narcissistic parent like any kid craves attention from a parent, only when they get the attention, they usually end up hurt, rejected or dismissed. Or, they get hurt when the parent doesn’t show up, even if there’s a sense of relief that they are spared another unpleasant visit. Continue reading →
Last week I got a 
Gawd!
I haven’t been in a hurry to get back to this place. My brain still feels like it’s coming off of a shot of novacaine.
My grandma called it goulache (goo-lah-key). She didn’t use paprika like they do in a genuine Hungarian Goulash. My version is more of a whatever’s-in-the-kitchen-pantry variety. It’s a take on spaghetti sauce only the vegies are chunkier and the sauce is wetter. I always make a big batch so as to have some to put in the freezer. It’s great to have extra on hand for ski days or those days when I’m not wanting to go to the store, which happens to be just about every day.
I walk by this chair multiple times a day. I’ve swept the dust bunnies of cat hair away from the rolled paper legs. I’ve straightened the legs after one of us has cut the corner too tight and clipped the edge of the chair on our way to the kitchen. Each time I walk by, I wonder what it might be like to be light enough to sit down on this delicate chair.
“Mom, will you help me make a bunch of paper airplanes? I’m making an Army of Love.” Jenny showed me how to fold the paper, told me the color order and where the gas tank went, and we made 13 paper jets. As we were folding and coloring and giggling and talking of paper cuts, I asked her how she came up with the idea. “I dunno,” she said. “It’s a good idea. I think they should fly over the world dropping candy hearts, like little love bombs.”
I can’t deliver a swift ass-kicking to Mubarak, save all those children and spread a blanket of calm and peace over Egypt.
