Even when we’re not trying to be funny.

Marie says that the coating on my Teflon pans mixes with my food and causes cancer, and that the manufacturers have known about this for years. She sent me an article by email about the whole thing.

She has time to read all this stuff online because, unlike me, she has no house, no three cats, no 15-year-old daughter who needs to be nagged all freaking week just to get her makeup homework done just because we all went on vacation to Belize, and now she’s flunking Spanish.

She’s a perfectly good kid, but she’s a kid, and vacation went just the way I knew it would, the way all family vacations go. Which is to say that, at times, it was less like a respite and more like having all our family issues placed on the sidewalk and magnified with a glass until you could just about start a rolled up newspaper on fire, like we used to do in Science class. Science class, in which she is missing two lab assignments and a quiz.

So, Marie recommends the old fashioned stainless steel kind just like Mom used to have, and danged if I haven’t found a nice one right here in the Goodwill store. It’s kind of small. I could just cook one omelet at a time, which is fine I guess because nobody seems to get all excited about my cooking anyway. Like tonight, with the stir fry, which, I swear, you’d think I’d asked her to sit down and eat her own intestines. Maybe she saw the email about the Teflon pans.

I’m in the Goodwill because it’s too cold to go for a walk. Normally, if I’m pissed off enough about family stuff, I just take a long walk with my old dog, but it’s 15 degrees out, and some Minnesotans are tough enough to get out there and take it, but I’m just not, and neither is the dog anymore.

In Belize, it was 85 degrees every day. Some days it was a gentle 85 with the ocean breathing sweet nothings at the back of your neck all afternoon. Some days it was a still, hard 85, and the only way to get some relief was to jump in to the water down at the split, put your snorkel on and dive, which is also, of course, lovely. One day, mom and I snuck off to get massages while the others went fishing. Heaven.

So, walking is out. And I’m in Goodwill and not somewhere better like Target because Jim got laid off.  Fired. Whatever.  One week to the day after Belize.

How do you fire someone? How do you say to someone, “You know how yesterday you had an income? Well, today, not so much.  Why? It’s just not working out.”

There’s no price tag on it, though. I hate that I have to even wonder about that, to wonder if I can afford a frying pan at a second hand store. I can’t believe we’re here again, with the uncertainty, the strain. To think, ten days ago, I was tits-up in a hammock thanking God for every little thing, despite the drama and the delayed flights. A couple of times, we even had some really beautiful family moments. Moments where I didn’t have a single worry. To think, I’d let my guard down.

“God laughs when you make plans,” Zach told Jim about getting fired. I want to know what kind of warped sense of humor He has then. Can this really be funny to the Lord, Almighty? That here we are again? That not just two days ago  Jim said, “You know, I’m really loving my life right now,” and he never says that, and it felt so good to hear, because when he’s not happy, it’s hard to be happy. The house isn’t happy.

Now, I’m curious. When God engages in this alleged laughter, what does it sound like? Is it the soft chuckle of a father who’s just watched his 2-year-old stick a crayon up his nose?  Or is it more of a diabolical cackle, you know, head thrown back, hands clutched, bru ha ha ha type of laugh?

I’m going to at least take this thing up to the cash register and find out what it costs. It’s nice and heavy. I don’t recognize the brand name, but it sure seems like a quality fry pan to me. Shiny. Mariah’s probably going to be irritated about it because she does the dishes and she already thinks we don’t have enough room for all our dishes, which becomes her problem when it comes time to put things away. And because she’s never happy because she’s 15.

Before I go, I’ll check out the book section. It’s a crap shoot, but I’m really hoping they have I, Tina. They don’t of course, but I find a beat-up looking copy of Cold Sassy Tree, tuck it under my arm, and head to the register.

Jim says I take her moods too seriously. Me? Marie says the aspartame in my diet soda causes softball sized tumors in lab animals (see article attached). Zach says his wife’s company is hiring, but the pay is crappy. Mariah says she handed in her Science worksheets today.

God laughs when I make plans.

“Dear God, I’m planning on paying the mortgage this month, and I’m thinking about buying this here frying pan. Is that plan too funny, or can we just squeeze it in anyway?”

My book and my pan come to seven-something.  I don’t feel like going home yet, but it’s cold, I have nothing else to shop for, and it’s almost Mariah’s bed time. I am almost to our driveway when a song I love comes on the radio, so I drive around the block a couple of times until it’s time to go home.

Edie Brickel and I sing:

Me? I’m a part of your circle of friends … and we … notice you don’t come around. Ha la la … la la la la la la.