Invisible Ink

First, let me start by saying I'm thrilled to have married into such a large, wonderful, conservative, Irish-Catholic family. I'm also reassured (and more than a little bit relieved) that I am not the only one to have a few bones laying around, just begging for the doggie to drag out.

As I'm sure you all may know, I came into this family with not just a carry on . . . I brought a full array of fancy-pancy luggage. Let's see . . . I lived-in-sin and had not one, but two children out of wedlock. There's the crazy ex, an evil step-mother the likes of which Disney could not even conjure up, and an Irish/Italian mom (no further explanation there). Lastly, I have, as my mom would say, "a sick appreciation for art" . . . Body art that is.

Now, before you all jump to conclusions . . . I do not have a copy of a 70's Rolling Stones cover running down the length of my arms. I do, however, have a very pretty sunset (designed by yours truly) with a few scattered birds in flight. Very tasteful. The birds represent loved ones I have lost that have had a profound impact on my life. The tatoo is a reminder for me of just how precious life is, how short it can be, and how I have to live my life to the fullest.

That being said, my symbolic body art was for me, so I had it placed where, really, it's only seen if I'm wearing a bathing suit. The very last person I ever wanted to find out about it was my very loving, but ultra-conservative mother-in-law. Now, I know she would not disown me for my love of art. Afterall, I do love her David very much. However, I was sure she wouldn't be jumping through any hoops to have a look-see either.

Now, it just so happens, I do go to the beach from time to time. Many of these moments are spent with my new family. I can't say I ever really worried about any of my hubby's siblings (or spouses) freaking out over my tatoo. But someone, and I am not sure who, let the proverbial cat out of the bag. I never mentioned I didn't want mom to know . . . I just assumed we were all on the same page. (wink-wink)

So one bright, beautiful morning at the bike shop a young lady came walking by. It wasn't until she passed us, going up the ramp to the boardwalk, that we all took notice that she was covered in tatoos. I kind of felt a little ashamed, considering my little secret (which I thought was kept in the "circle of siblings"). It was then, a voice came rising up from behind me, "Look, that's going to be Debbie in a couple of years!" You guessed it! It was mom!

Now, looking back on that moment I just laugh. Mom knew . . . My little secret was out. I could now stop fretting over how to pull off a "retro" bathing suit and just be myself. To mom's credit, she never brings up my tatoo. I guess she just wanted me to know that she knew. That, and the fact that she also knew how much I do love her David. I love him so much, in fact, that I decided to get another piece of art to commemorate it.

So now, no more secrets. I feel loved and accepted into this wonderful family. In return, I love each and every one of them. Just the other day Mare-bear (Marybeth) gave me a great big hug and said, "Thank you for loving my brother." Of course, that goes without saying. I have waited a long time for David. I have honestly loved him since I was 19 years old. So, I gave her a great big hug back and said just that. Then I gave her a wink and said, "I had better love your brother, I have his name tatooed where only his eyes can see." Just don't tell Aunt Kathy!!!!!

Don't Trust Anyone Over 30

Okay, first a disclaimer. I'm putting my full trust in the confidentiality of Don't Tell Margaret. I don't mind all the cuzin's out there hearing some dirt. But if the information contained in the following post ever got out among the assorted Aunts and Uncles, well, lets just say I'd deny everything, blame it all on Jenni, and head for some secluded island where I could earn my living playing happy hours under my new stage name, Master Davidson.

In my family, we've always had a no snitching policy among the siblings. This is a major problem on the streets of Philadelphia these days (my east coast readers should get the reference), but it's always served us siblings well. In fact, in all these years, not one of the four of us has ever violated the pact. Not to my knowledge, anyway.

As a teenager, I believe I benefitted the most from our no snitching pact. Ann was already older and on her own, Ed pretty much did whatever he wanted to anyway, and Mare was still a baby and years away from any kind of shenanigans. So that left little ole' me, 14 going on 40 and up to my eyeballs in all things trouble.

Which brings me to our family vacation to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, in the fall of 1982. Ann was going to college at The Art Institute of Fort Lauderdale (located on the beach on the bottom floor of the Holiday Inn! It's true, you can ask her), and my Mom and Dad decided to visit for a few days. They were probably worried sick about Ann's living situation and wanted to see for themselves what she had gotten herself into. Of course, this is only speculation on my part. My parents never revealed their true motivation for our vacation destination.

Anyway, our traveling party consisted of me, Mom, Dad, and Marybeth, who was only about 17 months old at the time. Ed was 17 and stayed home to have a party on Palm Road (but you didn't hear that from me - remember, no snitching). So there I was, a teenager stuck in a hotel room with his parents and his baby sister. Needless to say, I was restless and bored, not to mention suffering from nicotine fits as I had taken up smoking the year before. I was desperate for a little freedom and looking for any excuse to break away from the pack. I found the perfect opportunity one night when my parents were dropping Ann off at her apartment after dinner.

"Please Mom, please can I stay at Ann's tonight" I begged. "I don't want to stay at the hotel. The bed's not comfortable and Marybeth wakes me up in the morning and Dad snores and I'd love to catch up with Ann some more and ..." or some such shit. I really don't remember what I said to convince my parents it was a good idea to stay at Ann's that night. All I know is that Ann (God bless her) said it would be alright with her, and my parents relented and agreed. And this is where the story gets good...

Surprise # 1 - Ann did not live alone. My parents had come in briefly to see Ann's apartment before returning to the hotel. This is when I did all my begging and pleading. When they finally left, to my utter astonishment, a man jumped out of the bath tub screaming "What the fuck!!". It turns out that Ann was living with her boyfriend, Tim (who later became her first husband), and had neglected to tell anyone. When Tim heard all of us coming down the hall, he panicked and jumped into the bath tub to hide. Everything was cool, though. Tim turned out to be an awesome guy, he offered me a beer and a cigarette, and I thought "Thank God I escaped the prison that was a hotel room with Mom and Dad!".

Surprise # 2 - Ann was expecting company. We were hanging out for about an hour, drinking beer, talking, and listening to music, when we heard a knock at the door. Tim seemed excited, jumping up saying, "There he is!". Ann went to answer the door, and a moment later came walking into the living room with - wait for it - Uncle John Thomas! (I'll pause a moment to allow you to pick up your jaw from the ground .......okay) It turns out that Uncle John had been in Fort Lauderdale for about a week at a convention for Scott's Paper and had hung out with Ann and Tim the previous few nights. They made plans to hang out that night, too, but they hadn't counted on a certain 14 year old kid crashing the party.

Needless to say, Uncle John acted weird when he saw me. He didn't really know what to do or say, and the first fifteen or so minutes that he was there were awkward, to say the least. There was a lot of eye contact and hand gestures between Ann and Uncle John when they thought I wasn't looking, and I could hear hushed whispering between them all when I went to the kitchen for another beer. Ann was the one to finally break the tension. "This is ridiculous", she said out loud, "I'm telling you, he's cool". Uncle John looked skeptical. "Are you sure?", he asked, and I could tell he was nervous. "Trust me, he's cool". And before I knew it, Uncle John pulled out a big bag of weed and started to roll a joint on the coffee table.

What a fun night. After we smoked a couple joints, Uncle John loosened up immensely. He was actually very cool to hang out with. Warm, funny, engaging, he didn't treat me like a kid at all, which meant alot to me. The night ended with handshakes and hugs and promises to keep this night just between us. I left Fort Lauderdale with the impression that me and Uncle John had a new understanding, that our relationship had somehow reached a different level.
Boy, was I wrong.

The next time I saw Uncle John was about a year later. We came to Prospect Park to visit Grandmom and Grandpop (big Bill was still alive then), and Uncle John came by the house. I knew something was wrong right away, just by the way he acted around me. It was the same way he acted in Florida when he first arrived; nervous, cagey, unsure. I wanted to reassure him, to put him at ease, to promise him once and for all that I wouldn't tell Margaret. I waited until he went out to the garage by himself, and I followed him out. "Uncle John", I began, "about that night in Florida....". That was as far as I got. He turned around, grabbed me by my shirt, threw me up against the wall of the garage, and got right in my face. "Listen, you little shit. There was no night in Florida! Got it? Never happened. And if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll find you and kick the shit out of you!".

Well, I never did breathe a word to anyone. Until now. My relationship with Uncle John was never the same. He tried more than once since I became an adult to warm up to me, but the damage was done. I can forgive, but I'll never forget. Years later, at Jimmy O'Malley's wedding, in fact, I was standing at the bar with Ann, Ed, cuzin' Marty, Uncle Mike, and Uncle John, when Uncle John himself told the story of that fateful night in Florida. When he was finished, Ed and Marty both said in unison, "I never knew that". Uncle John looked at Mike, and he just shrugged his shoulders. "I never knew that either". Uncle John was incredulous. He leaned into me and said, "So you really never told anyone?" I simply said, "No", and walked away. I wanted to say, "No asshole, I can keep a secret. Didn't Ann tell you I was cool?", but I didn't. I had learned my lesson from this a long time before. Sometimes, a 14 year old kid is more trustworthy than a 30-something adult.

don't tell aunt kathy...

Okay, clearly this whole Don't Tell Margaret thing is off to a slow start. But that's okay. I'm not giving up. I understand. I barely find time to maintain my own blog, and I have all the time in the world. And I recognize that not every family was raised to over-share as my own family does. Further, I totally get it that certain things just should not be broadcast over the internets. Right now, my own clan is weathering a bit of a juicy crisis, but it will just have to wait for the Christmas letter. Even there I will have to choose my words carefully. Talking to my mom, I told her I was begged to leave this particular topic out of the letter, and she responded adamantly, "Oh, no, it's going in the Christmas letter, all right!"

Anyway, I can't wait until the day I discover the first post from the East Coast. In the meanwhile, perhaps I can entice you with some appalling evidence about just how under informed your West Coast cousins are.

For instance, though I knew that Aunt Mary's recently had back surgery, I had no idea that Aunt Jane's been fighting thyroid cancer - that is, until my parents decided to mention her recent efforts to address her brain aneurysm. This, of course, I also knew nothing about. I figured she got all of her health troubles out of the way with her whole breast cancer thingy. And even that I scarcely followed, I just know it was more of a duct issue than a classic tumor situation. I feel particularly bad I am so behind on the details as I've become a bit breast-centric myself, having just recently joined the ranks of the mammogrammed.

Anyway, thanks in part to Aunt Mary's incapacitation, it seems that Aunt Kathy has been spending more time taking care of our beloved matriarch, Margaret. This is where today's story begins.

As most of you know, my dad is the family Democrat. I know, it's kind of strange, as so many Catholics remain staunchly Republican if for no other reason than that whole pesky abortion angle. But my dad, he's very good at compartmentalizing. So it works for him. And frankly, it works for me. I have not been bitten by the political bug like my dad and my brother (who mock me for my very loose association with current events), but I went to Berkeley. I love myself a good liberal.

So, of course, this is a very exciting time around the Thomas household. If my dad and Kevin could will Obama into office using their very large brains they would totally do it. In fact, I sort of think they believe they can, cuz trying to talk to them about anything else is pointless these days.

What you might not realize is that Margaret herself is actually an Obama fan. I know. Shocking, right? Except it's not shocking to me at all cuz I swear I once interviewed Margaret (18 years ago when I was an undergrad) about her opinions on women's rights and, specifically, about abortion. I was surprised then to find that she was more than a wee bit pro-choice. My dad insists I must be wrong about my recollection or that she must have misheard the questions, but I swear to you it was very clear at the time. Perhaps my dad got his compartmentalizing skills from Margaret? Besides, even if Margaret totally openly embraced abortion, I'm sure God would forgive her. She's totally on his good side. Anyway, I suspect the truth is that my survey questions were inherently flawed. I'm pretty sure they were structured in such a way that you either had to answer pro-choicedly or come off sounding like a total douche bag.

Whatever.

So, as the story goes, my dad recently mailed his mom a photo of Obama. When he called her (as he does, I think, practically every night), he asked her if she'd received it yet. She was, it turns out, in the presence of Aunt Kathy. Not wanting to upset her daughter, Margaret answered that, yes, she had gotten it, but she, "had to H-I-D-E it." Um, don't tell Margaret, but I'm pretty sure Aunt Kathy can spell. And if she can't spell, well, then don't tell Aunty Kathy, but Margaret's voting for Obama.

better late than never?

Greetings, cousins.

I'm sure you all recall our beloved matriarch's 90th birthday party? But only the precious few who made it to the after party will recognize this blog's name. For it was there, in the Philadelphia Holiday Inn, that the idea for Don't Tell Margaret was born.

At its inception, Don't Tell Margaret was meant to be an elaborate private website with various password protections (to keep the parents out) and festive graphics (such as the widget that would count down the number of days of living in sin Mary Beth had left before her wedding). It was meant to be a clearinghouse for all sorts of cousinly information - complete with family tree, favorite quotes, and a private confessional. What fun is it, after all, to be part of such an entertaining extended family if you don't have a forum for sharing your secrets?

Though my enthusiasm for the idea never faded (I even bought the domain name right away), as it turns out I don't actually know how to build a website, at least not one worthy of not telling Margaret about... Never one to be deterred by a lack of talent, I held on to my dream. In fact, I still have the original plans - though some are simply illegible thanks to all the wine we were drinking - and thus, when I stumbled across the team blog feature this evening (while actively avoiding my law school applications) I said to myself, "aha," or, more in tune with that fateful evening, "aarrrgggghh!"

I do hope you'll join me in posting here. All matter of content is more than welcome. As your far off California cousin, I feel particularly removed from your everyday affairs...

Seems like, as the administrator, I've got to send you an invite to contribute. I have a handful of cousinly addresses (or "numbers" as my mom has been known to call them), leaving me, oh, only about 39 cousins shy. So spread the word (email me at justjenni@gmail.com to get listed) and get to posting.

Perhaps Kevin will get us started with a photo of the other great idea spawned at the after party - the Margaret tattoo? After all, he's got law school application essays to avoid too.