Inel: The Bizarro Leni...or is it the other way around?

My mother, who had been called Ellen her whole life decided in her late 50's to start going by the name Leni. This name change also came (not coincidentally?) soon after her enormous cat Leonard passed away. Leonard, was a female long-haired black cat who my mom had inherited from her friend Bill, who later died of AIDS. Leonard had two litters of kittens, the first of which all died due to fleas. The second litter didn't fare all that much better. Two of Leonard's kittens went to Don and Penny. Penny died of cancer and then Don, struck with grief, killed himself. Two others went to Bill, whose fate I've already explained. And one of them stayed with us, we named her Deuce because she looked exactly like Leonard. Deuce, meaning two, like Leonard II. Deuce ran away and never came back. When this first happened, Leonard would stand by the door meowing and crying. As if she were calling Deuce to dinner. Over and over again. It was heartbreaking. And as Leonard slowly adjusted to the idea that her daughter was never coming back, her once slender body blew up to about three times its original size, weighing in at around 27 lbs. She looked like one of those cats in the cartoons after a bomb explodes in its hands - her black fur puffed around her chubby face. So with a history this uplifting, it's no wonder Mom wanted to commemorate it forever by changing her name. Thus Leni was born.

I, like Jen, refused to call her Leni for a long time. It seemed ridiculous to me and I assumed it would be a passing phase. But she held on to it. It wasn't until I introduced her to my mother-in-law as "Ellen" that my mom had finally had enough. She was standing on the front stoop of my Chicago apartment smoking a cigarette and called me to join her outside after my in-laws had settled inside. "Nicky, my name is Leni. Respect that." And something clicked with me then. "She wants to be called Leni," I thought, "Who am I to tell her no?" That being said, I still wince a little bit whenever I introduce her as Leni. But then again, I've been married for over six years and I'm still battling with the idea of changing my own name. Maybe I'm just uncomfortable with name changes in general.

It was one thing to accept (and respect) that her new name was Leni. But I don't think anyone ever mandated that I respect Inel. I don't know where Mom found her, but Inel was a little doll about 1/2 a foot long, who looked uncannily like a younger version of my mother. It was frightening. My mother embraced this miniaturized form of herself and named her Inel, which is Leni backwards. We were all pretty freaked out by Inel. And that kind of fear is something my mother feeds off of. The more you tell her you don't like something, the more she will throw that very thing in your face. It's like her version of immersion therapy - which ultimately is what lands you in therapy.

I remember when we were kids and Jen hated cemeteries. Any normal mother would accept that about her child. Maybe even try to assuage her daughter's fears through talking and affection. No. My mom blindfolded Jen, told her we were going on some sort of field trip and drove her straight to a cemetery. "Okay, take off your blindfold. Surprise!"

Or there was the stinky olive incident.

We were in North Carolina on vacation. I was 13 years old. My mother was eating some olives that I believed to be rather fragrant. Something like the inside of a Port-O-Potty. And I was sure to voice my opinion about them. The next thing I knew, I was pinned down on the floor with my mom hovering over me, blowing her olive breath in my face. At one point, the pit in her mouth, landed in my hair. I gagged, freed myself from her grasp, discovered that my hair had absorbed the olive odor and immediately got into the shower. Within a minute, my mother was at the bathroom door, ready to pollute my personal space with her breath once more. I still can't pass the olive bar at Whole Foods without having flashbacks.

Never show my mom your achilles. Never.

We all made that mistake with Inel. And so for the next few years, Inel would appear at every important event in our lives. Including my wedding. Inel even wore a special outfit that my mother's friend had made for her, complete with a little hat and tights. She had become my mother's sidekick. She would appear in photographs and my sisters were instructed to bring the doll with them if they left town and take pictures of Inel in different locations. I learned to hate that doll. It got to a point where I'd dread going anywhere with my mom because I knew Inel would appear. She would sit on table tops in restaurants, on dashboards, and next to my mother's lounge chair in the sun.

I don't know when Inel faded out of our lives. And I can't say I miss her. It wasn't so much that I was embarrassed by the doll, I just found the whole thing really annoying. And strangely enough, I had completely forgotten about her until Karen mentioned her in her last post and gave us Inel as a prompt. The details are honestly a little foggy. It's strange that this little doll, who used to cause me so much stress (really, I wanted to rip her little head off), is now a blurry memory. Perhaps my mother's immersion therapy worked - or at least I've learned to repress all those feelings and store them in a cold dark place where they will emerge in my late 50's when I decide to change my name to Cola and carry a Coke bottle around with me and make my son dance with it at his wedding.

Oh God Oh God Oh God and Other Maxioms

"Bitches and hoes better pay the man." "The girls swing on my jock, you see." ''Repetition is the key to learning." Yes, these were some of the overly-used and abused Maxioms that persisted for a few years. But there were others. Many others. Some of which are either too embarrassing or just plain disturbing. I'll spare Max some of the embarrassment. But Max, "your panties, remove 'em." (It should be noted that that last Maxiom was never directed at me or any other family member for that matter - that would take it to a whole new level of disturbing. No, just a random phrase Max would utter to an invisible lady swingin' on his jock.)

But his repetitious redundancy has gotten him into trouble. It was the summer of 1996. Max was 22 years old and living in my dad and stepmom's house in Covington, Kentucky. At the time he was working at a center for underprivileged inner city kids. And his boss was an obese black woman who ate ground meat with hot dogs mixed into it. As a snack. So I think his repetitions served as a way to soothe him and help him forget about the dreadful 8 hours a day he spent at his job. Much like a captured monkey soothes itself by running back and forth in its cage, hitting the same spot on the wall over and over again.

Max was also dating a girl named Debbie. Debbie had big boobs. Don't you think Debbie had big boobs? Debbie's boobs were big, right? Have you ever seen Debbie's boobs? Debbie's boobs were big.

Max also needed a haircut. Don't you think he needed a haircut? Oh God, was his hair too long? Should he shave his neck? Would you shave his neck? Oh God, was he "woofin'?"

I spent that summer working at the Pizza Hut up the road, a little deeper into the heart of Covington, where I waited on angry construction workers who accused me of "tiddley fartin' around" while they were in the dining room "dyin' a thirst" for their Pepsi. I also bussed my own tables, dreading the plates that had been used by customers who had visited the salad bar. It was less of a salad that they were eating and more of a Thousand Island soup. So when I would come home exhausted, smelling like pizza grease and cleaning solution, Max's repetitions and need for affirmation were not my idea of relaxing.

But that didn't stop him.

Tired of his CAS (Constant Affirmation Syndrome - in case you missed it below), I wrote a list for him.

1) No, you don't need a haircut.

2) Yes, you should quit your job.

3) No, you're not fat.

4) Yes, Debbie has big boobs.

I told him that he could refer to this list whenever he needed any sort of affirmation.

A smarter man would've thrown it away. He wouldn't leave it sitting in his bedroom and then ask his big boobed girlfriend to come over and help him clean his room. But I suppose Max only had so much space to spare in his brain, when most of it was occupied by his slurry of sayings. Needless to say, Debbie discovered the list. And there it was. In my handwriting. "Yes, Debbie has big boobs." There was really no way out of it. What is the most graceful way to say "my little sister agrees that you have big boobs?"

Their relationship didn't last much longer after that incident. But Debbie did stick around for a while. As I recall though, from Max's repeated complaints, panties were never removed and jocks were never swung upon. Luckily for all of us, this did not make the list.

Bitches and Hoes

Nicky prompted me with "Bitches and Hoes." What is disappointing about this prompt is that she doesn't even remember the whole statement. To think I spent a better part of my adolescence chanting this misogynistic mantra and she doesn't have the decency to remember the whole statement, how bitchy and hoeish is that? The whole statement was, "Bitches and Hoes better pay the man!"

"Bitches and hoes" meant many things to me. Obviously, it was a call for bitches and hoes to fulfill their fiscal responsibility. It also provided me with a convenient way to fill silence. Most importantly, like all of my "maxioms" (cause I don't believe they qualify as axioms), it got funnier each time I said it, thus fulfilling the "repetition is the the key to learning" standard I carefully crafted for Nicky's edification.

The Bitches and Hoes mantra, like all my repetitive statements, had contextual powers that provided me cover for cruelty, boredom, and insecurity. How can you stay mad at somebody when all they say is, "Bitches and Hoes better pay the man"? If that didn't make Nicky happy, I could always whip out, "The Girls swing on my jock, you see!" or "Repent for your sins against your lord," or "'Fraid not my feline friend!"

As I have aged, I have crafted special statements for all the people in my life. It is my gift. I remember Karen and I singing, "Friend or Foe let me know or else this relationship will never grow" in our adulthood. To build a deeper relationship with my family I shared my "I have feelings and emotions" mantra. When I was 29 I went to complete stranger's New Year's Party and pretended to be a record producer for MC GOLIS' debut album More Original than the Aboriginal. When I wanted my friends to keep throwing disc with me, I tried to keep it entertaining by screaming ABC's one-hit rap wonder "Ieasha!" with every throw or I would go on about "Taking it to the next level" which eventually got whittled down to "elevation!" Somehow my friends tolerated and actually embraced these statements. I still bust out, "These guns stormed Normandy." When nobody is around I can't resist rapping my sixth grade classic, "My name Margolis, my look that of Ralph Lauren, the ladies are on their knee before I utter the word bend," which brings me back to my two current mantras, "Thorry!" and "Please Help Me!" Perhaps I have some form of tourettes. Anyway, Sesame Street is ending, I will explore this further soon.

A prompt for all my bitches and hoes: What is your favorite Maxiom and how has it changed your life?

WTF: Why have you left me out of the project?

So last week I was visiting my brother Max and his wife’s blog to view pictures of my niece and I noticed a new blog listed in the blogroll: The Margolian Project. I click. Up pops a blog that my brother Max has apparently been keeping for three weeks. “Ah,” I think, “Mr. stay-at-home dad has decided to start his own blog; one not about his daughter.” I read. He writes about his first obsessions, the ones before his daughter—that is, his pet anxieties: Am I fat? Am I happy? Am I wearing the right shoes? Is the house messy? Should I quit Facebook?

The Margolian Project tagline is “We are seeking brilliance, this is our project.” Yes, brilliance, I think, and then, wait, OUR project? I scroll down, past the list of anxious questions, and see a list of contributors. It reads: Jennifer Margolis, Nicky, Karen, Max . These are my siblings. All of them. All the Margolians, except me. I call my brother. No answer. I write an email.

Subject: WTF

Why have you left me out of the project?

He invites me to join, without explanation. Amusingly, my email with the WTF subject line gets forwarded to the rest of the family and every email we send the following week is tagged Re: WTF. Even the sweet emails between my little sister and brother full of excitement about reminiscing on the new blog begin Re: WTF. I laugh because I remember another series of emails full of f-bombs ands reminiscing that circulated between me and my siblings years ago. We ranted for about week before we realized the Karen Margolis on the list was not our Karen. The other Karen sent us Margolians a terse response, “I don’t know you and I don’t want to know you.” Bitch, we collectively thought, and probably sent her a few more emails before deleting her. I believe this was when Karen first got email, maybe a year or two ago. (Prompt for Karen: My analog life).

My next bit of amusement was the first prompt I got from Max:

Abby’s prompt: I was left out of the project.

Really? I need to come up with reasons you left me out? Honestly, it feels a little cliché for the middle child. Yes, perhaps I have the syndrome, no Max, not your CAS (constant affirmation syndrome), but the Middle Child Syndrome. According to MCS observers and sufferers, middle children often lack a sense of belonging, feel left out of the family, and forgotten. So, yes we slip and fall into cliché, while the rest of the family writes about being Margolian, I, Abby, middle child, am to write about being left out. Here I am stuck in the middle with you.

So what to say more? I’m in. WTF.

How UnMargolian of you...

Max said he was starting a blog but he didn't invite me until I asked. I think my family knows I am not a creative writer. I can write a killer business memo, but when it comes to something creative and funny, that is not my strong point. I guess that is one of the many ways, I differ from the Margolians.

My mother always called me the "white sheep" of the family or her Protestant daughter. I rebelled by being "good". I got my MBA and the biggest fear of my family was that I was going to turn into a Republican! OH NO!!!!!! Don't worry, it didn't happen.

I have to admit something - I hate the term Margolian. Just like I hate that my mom changed her name to "Leni". I can't introduce her as Leni... I just can't. I always say this is my mom and let her say her name. If I have to introduce her, it is Ellen. Who changes her name when she is in her 50s? Are you kidding me? I remember I didn't know she changed her name to Leni and she got mad b/c I didn't talk to her on the phone. Who the hell is Leni? I think Karen had to call and explain to me who Leni was. Huh?

I am a Margolis and am proud to be a Margolis. I want to be my proper self. I cringe when I meet people in Portland and they call me a Margolian. UGG! Why can't we be ourselves? Is it just another way for us to get the attention we always crave? I can't do it. I never refer to myself as a Margolian. If you look at me when people say it, I just give an awkward smile. I guess that is me, following the rules and being good. I was given the name Margolis, dammit I am going to be a Margolis! Maybe that is why I am still single - can't lose the name!

Okay, this is my first blog entry ever. Hope I don't get kicked out of the club!

The Margolians: Patrick Plants the Seed

December 26th, 2001.

I drank at least one entire bottle of red wine last night and do not feel even the slightest bit hungover. Nor do I feel that I've slept, although I must have because I feel incredibly well rested. Nor do I remember getting into bed. I can't seem to wrap my mind around how last night ended. At a certain point I just disappeared. I stood there in the kitchen, drinking glass after glass of red wine and felt like a ghost, an invisible witness to my own life. Maybe that's why it feels as if I'm melting into this mattress. It's like I've re-materialized into my own skin. I have only one image. My brother, Max, standing in the corner of my office, pressing his forehead into the wall, "I hate my life. I hate my life. I hate my life..."

My brother also hates buttons. Really hates them. Becomes almost physically ill by the sight of them, which brings us to our first important tangent.

The first time my boyfriend, Patrick, meets my mother he arrives at my house clean and fresh, dressed in light summer khakis and a white linen shirt. A boat neck. With three buttons going down the chest. My boyfriend has only met Max on a few occasions so he may not realize the great sin he is committing by wearing such a garment. Picture this. You've been dating this woman for close to four months. You arrive at her house to meet her mother. Her brother, who has just had knee surgery, comes hobbling into the kitchen from the back porch, takes one look at you, winces and says, "Whoa, man! That's a high risk shirt you've got on." He holds his hand in front of his face to block out the hideous display of your chest, begs you to please, please change your shirt. His nerves are already rattled. Have you seen what his mother is wearing? It's what most people call a slip. The straps keep slipping off her shoulders. One gust of wind and you are likely to catch a glimpse of her underwear. Her underwear tend to hang rather loosely. This is stressful enough. He can't be expected to go out in public with her in that outfit AND Patrick in those ridiculous buttons. Plus there's no barrier. There's just the linen fabric of his shirt against his bare chest. Nothing in between. This is yet another intolerable sin. "Please, please I beg you. Can't you just borrow one of Karen's shirts?" You can't figure out if you're actually supposed to take this request seriously. You meet Mother. She is on the back deck sitting on a big pillow, a lit cigarette, a full ashtray, only one sip into her second glass of white wine. It does, you will admit, look like she's wearing a slip. You say something like, "Hi, how are you." To which she replies, "I'm fucking drunk. How are you?" Then she laughs and starts coughing. The wind blows. Max asks again. "Please. I am begging you. Can you please change your shirt?" You change into a purple t-shirt. You go out for sushi. You do not break up with your girlfriend.

December 26th, 2001. My boyfriend lies beside me. He is wide awake on his back. It seems as if he's been lying here like this all night. We've been dating for over eight months and I still feel content to lie in bed and stare at him for hours. His eyes are never quite the same. They drift from green, to gray, to blue, to all variations in between. Today they seem almost silver as they skim from side to side, absorbed by some sort of slide show that seems to sift across the white slant of my bedroom ceiling. He has not yet noticed that I'm awake. Whatever he's watching has him mildly amused. I drift into my own slideshow. The mushy corn noodles Max overcooked. A weird creamy clam dish his friend Mike made. Cameron Diaz screaming, "I swallowed your cum!" My sister, Jen, and I waiting in line for the bathroom, averting our eyes as people bitched about those "awful people" who practically ruined their enjoyment of Vanilla Sky. The wooden skeleton jammed between the doorjamb and the doorknob. Inel on its shoulders. Inel, my mother's "name" flipped backwards. Inel, the little doll with the plastic head, plastic limbs, and a bean bag belly - an incongruous sin that affects my sister, Abby, in much the same way certain buttons affect Max. Inel, an entire story in and of herself, a prompt for another time. But there she was, my mother flipped backwards sitting on the shoulders of a wooden skeleton. So we screamed and we panicked and we unraveled in front of two non-family members.

We thought she might be hiding out there in the dark. Behind the couch? Under the porch? In the back yard? We called her name. We racked our brains for any explanation of how Inel could be here if our mother was still in Mexico. We were scared to walk in the house, scared she might be hiding in there, scared she might leap out at us. As soon as we walked in, before we even had a chance to turn on the lights, the phone rang and we screamed at the top of our lungs.

It was our dad calling to say Merry Christmas. My sisters, Abby and Nicky, were there as well. We got them all caught up in the drama. Where was mom? Had they heard from her? Did they think she had come back to Portland? Did she get one of her friends to do this just to freak us out? We were all pretty sure she had come back from Mexico, but why like this? Then again, what other way is there but this? No one has ever accused our mother of being too straight forward. Before she followed Max and me out to Portland, she hemmed and hawed for months about how she wasn't planning to live in the city. She was going to live on the coast. That way she'd be near us. She promised she wouldn't be a burden. She loved the idea of living in Florence. We could come visit once in a while. Wouldn't that be great? Every conversation was some variation on this same theme. I would listen and pretend to go along, knowing full well that she was deluding herself, until I finally just snapped. "The coast, ma? Please. This is not North Carolina we're talking about. Do have any idea how freezing you will be? How emphatically un-tan you will get? Why don't you just say the words. Admit it. I'm coming to Portland. Stop pretending and say the fucking words." That was less than a year ago and we've been trying to adjust to her on again, off again presence ever since. She keeps setting up mini adventures for herself, so she doesn't have to admit that she's really moved out here. That's part of the reason this whole stunt of hers has us so rattled.

We are too agitated to sit still. We cook dinner. We pace. We open the front door and call her name. We search the skeleton and Inel for a note. A note, maybe with a phone number or some other little"hint" as to where she is, is that crazy of us to expect? Is that too much to ask? Finally, the phone rings. There's no "surprise!" There's no "Ha-ha! Gotcha!" There's just, "Don't worry. I'm only here until Friday." She is at the Travel Inn down on Burnside. It's dark and it's raining. She needs someone to come pick her up. But not if it's going to be a burden.

When she walks in the door I am startled as I always am when I have not seen my mother for a long time. She seems smaller than I remember and even beneath those ridiculous layers I can tell that she's spent way too much time starving herself and cooking her skin in the sun. There is a scabby growth on her nose. We berate her because of it. And that's where it all fades away. That's when I dissolve into the background of my kitchen and open a bottle of wine. That's when the evening turns into an out of body experience. I cannot recall anything that happened after the moment my mother walked in the front door. There is just that lone image of my brother with his head pressed into the wall.

Patrick and I seem to snap back to reality at the exact same time. He smiles, opens his mouth as if to speak, shakes his head and sighs. His eyes drift back to the ceiling and he smiles again. "The Margolians," he says, "That's what I'm calling you now. Seriously. Y'all are beyond just crazy. You're like your own alien race."

And thus, the Margolians were born.

What Does it Mean to Be Margolian? (Nicky)

When I was growing up in Pittsburgh, I used to walk down the street and people would often stop me and say "Are you a Margolis?" It was always someone who went to school with one of my sisters or brother and he would say that I look just like Jen or Abby or Karen or Max. And I always felt so proud and excited that people knew who we were. I was so proud to be a Margolis. I felt famous when people would stop me. I always felt like were such a special family. Full of personalities and funny stories. And I love that we were even given our own adjective, Margolian. It sounds like its own culture. And it was (and is).

We were that crazy Jewish family in the predominately Jewish Squirrel Hill neighborhood with five kids, 2 dogs, 2 cats and a mother who smoked 3 packs a day. Who lived in a duplex across the street from Temple Sinai, whose house was passed by many hasidic Jews as they made their way to the more conservative temples in the neighborhood on Saturdays, the family whose seder plate was graced with a milk bone when there was no shank bone to be found. The family whose only son could be seen just up the street outside the Jewish Community Center making lewd gestures that not-so-politely suggested what the JCC could go do to itself. And then there was the Christmas tree in the basement every year and the Hanukkah candles that were melted by the heat from the pork kielbasas that were cooking on the nearby kitchen grill.

We were that family whose eldest daughter liked to use her younger siblings for her own amusement, like living dolls or slaves. At seven years old, I was made to look like a prostitute; donned in my mother's lingerie and a mole drawn with eye-liner just above my lip and (for some reason) a turban. I was told that my mission was to approach strange men on the sidewalk and say "Hello. How are you?" I was given no further instruction and was thrown for a loop when one man replied "Fine. How are you?" If I'd only had the improv training and skills I have today, I could have answered. But instead, afraid of saying the wrong thing (lest Karen be disappointed)I simply stared at the man for a few seconds, turned around and ran away.

We were the family that used their crossing guard, Mrs. Fesden as some sort of babysitter. My brother and I were often separated at the bus stop in the morning because of our fighting. Many times, if my father had left for work early that morning, we would run down to the corner to Mrs. Fesden to tell on each other and ask her to settle our arguments. Once, when we were freaking out over a loud intermittent chirping sound in the house, Mrs. Fesden calmly informed us that our smoke detector needed new batteries.

The thing I loved (and still love) about being a Margolis is that we never felt the need to apologize for our quirkiness. We never felt ashamed of any of our antics. We've always appreciated the humor in it all and we've felt proud. And sometimes I find it strange living in Chicago, where no one really knows who we are as a family. When my siblings come to visit, I realize that I expect people to be just as excited as I am that they get to meet one of my sisters or my brother. A part of me feels like they should think they are meeting some kind of legend. Another member of the elusive Margolian tribe. But instead, they just treat us all as they should, like normal people. But if only they knew our history. If only they'd been there, then they would know how truly special the Margolians are.

A New Prompt for Max

Max's wife, Jennifer, suggested that we post our next prompt on the blog so that our loyal readers can anticipate the next essay.

Max's new prompt:

Bitches n' Hoes.

Enjoy.

Why am I Sweating?

As you have probably read (though Max is the only example thus far), we Margolians tend to worry and stress. And sweat the small stuff. I mean really sweat. Fret and sweat and worry and sweat. And I don't think it is the healthiest trait that we have. I feel like there are moments in my life where I can just be okay. Meaning, I'm happy with what I'm doing, satisfied with my contribution to my family and to society, and I feel generally fulfilled by my day to day. Right now is one of those times for me. I am truly in love with my little baby boy and I love getting to spend every day with him. But I always have that fear lingering in the back of my mind, the one where suddenly I worry about being okay. Is it okay that I'm content? Is it okay that I'm not stressing out every single day? Is it okay that I have a loving husband and a wonderful baby and a great family and that I don't have to work a 9-5? Am I too spoiled? Maybe I should suffer more? Is okay that I'm okay?

It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous. There is nothing wrong with being content. But for me, it's wrapped up in so much guilt.

So I try to glean lessons from my seven-month old. He is truly content with being content. And he never questions his own happiness. He lives in the moment. And I wonder where and how we adults became so damaged that we forgot how to just be. I've often said that I think when we pursue self-confidence and being at peace with ourselves, we are really just trying to get to back to who we were as children. It's refreshing in so many ways to talk to kids because they don't question who they are or feel self-conscious about asking questions or about their ideas. They just boldly say what they're thinking and do whatever they feel like doing. I realize that as adults our responsibilities grow and that we become more aware of social mores, but at the core of it, kids have a better understanding of the meaning of life. It's knowing that you don't have to go very far to pursue happiness. It's usually right in front of you.

Define Margolian

One of the non-contributing writers (Karen) to this blog asked me to explain how the word Margolian came to be. It has been used in our family vernacular for so long, I just assumed it grew, as everything in Portland does, organically. I was wrong. The Term Margolian was coined, Christmas 2001, by my future brother in law, Patrick Farinholt, after he experienced our over-reaction to our mother signalling her unplanned return from Mexico with a wooden skeleton on my sister Karen's front door. In some families, people are actually happy when a relative comes by unexpectedly, we are not one those families. We had just returned from seeing Vanilla Sky( we wanted to see The Royal Tenenbaums, but it was sold out), which was about Tom Cruise being attractive then ugly, Penelope Cruz showing her boobies, Cameron Diaz being crazy sexy hot, and I remember Kurt Russell wearing a white suit at the end--The movie sucked.

We saw the skeleton on Karen's front door, and we started freaking out.
"Is she here?"
"Why didn't she fucking call us?"
"Why can't she just be a normal person and tell us she is she here?"

I went into Karen's office and rhythmically banged my in the corner chanting my array of fearful sentiments. I owed my mom a bit of money from my unemployment spell in 98 and feared she wanted repayment. I also feared that I would again be burdened with driving her around to do her errands or take her to the doctor, etc. Being 27 I just didn't want to hang out with my mom that much.

The phone soon rang and my mom wanted us to pick her up at the Travel Lodge. After berating her for having the audacity to show up on X-mas unannounced and hearing her tears, I drove over to pick her up and bring her back to Karen's house. We ate take out Chinese and spoiled my mom's"surprise" by being overly dramatic and annoyed with her arrival.

In retrospect, it was way over the top. Ten years later the details of my behavior are blurred, however, I believe reacted like that because I hate my mom's surprises. One of my more painful childhood memories is my 13th birthday, when mom "surprised" me by walking out on our family and asking me if I wanted to help her find an apartment. My mom's surprises are deluded fantasies. When she bought a new house, she sprung for a new a pool table believing that would be enough to get me to move in. In the rare moments when I anticipated seeing my mother, she would surprise me by not showing up. During my year abroad in Swansea, Wales, my mom was suppose to come visit, but an ear infection forced her to cancel her trip. I remember following my sister out to Portland to get free from the family only to get a call a year later that my mom (SURPRISE!) was moving to Portland. I think all of my sisters and I have inherited a gene that is highly reactive to our mom's whimsical instability. Patrick witnessed our reaction and rightly labeled it "Margolian." Identifying and naming this gene has helped me understand why I tend to ruin seemingly happy events like marriages, weddings, birthdays, and vacations with selfish worry. There is no cure, but through exercise, counseling, meditation, and communication I have managed the gene. It's a good thing, too, because the most perplexing thing about being Margolian (or having Margolian?) is that no matter how mean, reclusive, or overly reactive you are you stay connected. I'll leave this stream of consciousness here---

It will be interesting to read what my sisters remember about the Margolian label!