The British Invasion

Dear Zen Mother,

I have a family reunion coming up and I am dreading it! Any advice to help me survive the weekend?

Sarah from Newburyport

Dear Sarah,

Cry me a river, you big baby. You can’t spend 48 hours with people who love you and are interested in you? Well, Boo Hoo!

I’m sorry; you’ll have to excuse me. Grammy Z, the High Priestess of Insulting Behavior, moved in with us recently and it has been quite an adjustment. We took her in because the kids have grown fond of her the way they’ve embraced the stray dog that hangs around at their bus stop – smells odd, bites sometimes but is kinda fun to have around.

My husband and I, on the other hand, view Grammy Z like the navy blue sock that lives in the back hallway. It’s always there but nobody wants to claim it.

“Isn’t she related to you?” I asked my husband.

“No, I thought she was your relative,” he replied.

Puzzlement abounds.

And then there’s the accent. When Grammy Z drinks (early and often) she adopts a British accent (by way of Trenton, New Jersey) and dons a tiara. She believes her husband is dead (alive and well living in an undisclosed location) and thinks everything is better with Lipton onion soup mix. But that’s not all. Last night, we received a call from Scotland Yard.

“Mrs. Z, this is Inspector Reynolds. I’m calling to inform you that your houseguest, Grammy Z, has been sending naked pictures of herself to Prince Philip. And quite frankly, these are the most disturbing images we’ve ever seen here at the Yard. Her Majesty the Queen would like Grammy Z to stop immediately or we will have to take action.”

I called my sister for emotional support.

“She needs you and you need her. There is a lesson to be learned from this journey and we will all be better for it,” my sister said.

“Well, then, why doesn’t she come live with you? Hello? Hello?”

Puzzlement abounds.

I searched out my husband but not before seeing a camera flash from beneath the bathroom door. I tried the doorknob but it was locked. Another flash.

“I’m on to you, woman! You need to stop sending those pictures!”

“How dare you address the Queen in her privy chamber,” Grammy Z yelled back. I continued searching for my husband determined to get a blood sample.

“That crazy nut is from your side of the family,” he said to me. “And I have the proof.”

There it was. An old photograph of me in a tub being bathed by Grammy Z, a cigarette deftly balanced on her lower lip, her tiara sitting askew on my head. I took the photograph and walked upstairs to find Grammy Z giving my kids a bath. The boys were taking turns wearing her tiara as she washed their hair. They were singing “God Save the Queen” and “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts” at the top of their lungs. I became filled with happy memories. The puzzle was solved. And later that night, as I pulled bits of onion soup mix from my children’s hair, I realized everyone in the family has something to offer.

Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.