Do Ya Wanna Makeup?

When I was living in California, J and I worked in the same establishment for a little while (not how we first met, but it was where we reconnected and got together). There was a woman, Jane, who worked there at the time (she was maybe a secretary of some sort?) who sold Mary Kay cosmetics on the side.

One day she came up to J and said, "You're a really pretty girl, but your skin could use some help - I have just the product for you."

J, being much smarter than this peddler of crappy cosmetics, did not take Jane up on her offer. And if I'm going to be perfectly catty (and I am), Jane wasn't so easy on the eyes and it would behoove her to worry more about her own skin than to make subtle jabs at others in order to increase her net income.

Flash forward a couple of years when we're newly in Portland and I'm working at the small neighborhood restaurant where I presently work. I'm working lunches and I have a regular group of 16 who comes in every Wednesday(it's a networking group - so they are all about shameless self-promotion to one another and, occasionally, me) . Most people were pretty friendly to me and appreciated when I went the extra mile for them (such as knowing who drinks the same drink every time and having it waiting for them when they arrive, amongst other nice touches). I remembered all of their names pretty rapidly and would refer to each one by name and do whatever I could to make them happy. Since it was such a large group, I was permitted to add an automatic 18% gratuity to the tab - I also printed out a separate check for each person, even though the restaurant wouldn't typically do that for such a large group. Some of the folks threw me an extra dollar or two on top of that, which I thought was really thoughtful and was much appreciated. One man, Dale, would even peer pressure everyone into throwing me a little extra at Christmas time. Nice guy, Dale.

This was more than three years ago and only one out of the 16 remains a regular customer (although, in all fairness, not all of them lived in close vicinity of the restaurant). Well, one of the women in the group, Maryanne, sold Arbonne beauty products and was very eager to make some cash off of me. Being smart enough to know that I didn't plan on waiting tables at lunch my entire life (this was, of course, before I was admitted to UW), she attempted to recruit me into selling Arbonne as a representative under her guidance. For those of you who don't know, Arbonne is a multilevel marketing structure, not unlike Amway (think pyramid, think trickledown). They claim that all of their products are "100% natural" and comprised of botanical ingredients - I've heard through the grapevine that this is not so, although I can't say for certain. Maryanne showered me with compliments about my customer service skills, how personable I was and so on. I told her I'd think about it, although I had absolutely no intention of doing such a thing. Hell, she was a regular customer and I wanted to maintain a good rapport.

One day, she gifts me with a host of Arbonne samples of skin care products, including one anti-aging serum that she claimed was practically magic. Since I was perfectly happy with what I was using at the time (Lancome or something, I think) and wasn't in the market for a change, I set the samples aside figuring I would use them when I finished off my current product. When Maryanne saw me the following week, she raved about how great my skin looked (note: I hadn't even broken the seal on any of the Arbonne products). Even though I already knew that she was just feeding me fake compliments to hook me in, this confirmed it. I told her thank you and went on with my (honest) business.

She began to pressure me into ordered product (which was expensive, but no more so that what I typically use). I figured that since she was a longtime regular customer and I'd made some dough off of her, I'd throw her an order. I think I tried to get a sunscreen and maybe a bath gel (two things I needed anyway) and she upsold me into a couple of skincare products (what is it with these people and the damn skincare products?) by promising a discount. I succumbed (no, I'm not usually this easy).

She had me fill out an order form, which included a request for my phone number. I told her that I don't usually give that out and, since she saw me weekly, did that really matter? Oh no, they needed that! She gave me some reason (what if there is a problem with the order??? or something) and I wrote it in, but reminded her that I really value my privacy and don't usually give it out.

(You see where this is going, don't you?)

Not long after I received my order, I was accepted into my current graduate program at UW and, as a result, had to stop working lunches in order to have my days free for school (and blogging!). I announced to this group on my last Wednesday that I would no longer be working days and that someone else would be taking care of them in the future. I told them why and several folks congratulated me and gave me an extra large tip that day (Maryanne stuck with the tacked-on 18%). I told them I'd be working evenings and to come in and see me. Since then, I've only seen Geoff, who has come into the bar, but mostly gets take-out.

Within a couple of weeks, I received a phone call from Maryanne. Not recognizing the name on the caller ID (and thinking it might be one of my daughter's friends), I answered the phone. It was Maryanne wanting to know how I liked my products and would I be interested in ordering more? I said thanks, but no thanks - I was good.

Not long after her phone call, I receive an Arbonne catalog in the mail with an enthusiastic note saying that she misses seeing me at the restaurant. I skim the catalog that is littered with testimonies from successful Arbonne reps and what I recall as a very tan, very blonde executive type with a message of encouragement.

A couple more weeks pass and she calls again, but I don't answer this time. So she calls the next day. And the next. And the next. Same scripted voicemail each time, with the latter containing a somewhat agitated tone. Scary. I never return any of the calls. I never order any more scary Arbonne products.

I hear from owner-man John at work that the networking group doesn't come in for lunch anymore.

A couple of years have passed since my last phone call from Maryanne and I'd relegated the experience to merely a weird story that I sometimes told others when the subject was raised.

Flash forward to today when my phone rings and I pick it up, first checking the caller ID. I see the name and know that I know that name from somewhere, but where? Not long after I decide not to answer it, I remember exactly where I know that name. I listen to Maryanne's message and here is what it says:

"Hi, not sure if you remember me, but it's Maryanne - the regional rep for Arbonne Skincare (oh, I remember you, Maryanne). I just wanted to touch bases with you since we'd lost touch and tell you about some of our new products! And, if my notes are correct (she took notes on me?!?!?!), you have a daughter who is about 16 now and I just wanted to let you know that we have some products that she'll just loooooooove! They're younger products with exactly her age group in mind and I just know that she'll love them. I remember (you don't remember - it's in your "notes") that you said you were going to school and I want to see how that is going and catch up with you, see how you're doing. So, give me a call!"

Okay, my very political, activist daughter (who is 15) is currently sporting a Mohawk and pretty much uses no product at all, except for some Burt's Bees lip balm that is tinted. I GUARANTEE that she would not be amenable to Arbonne's aggressive tactics.

I'm really hoping that Maryanne acquires a clue.

Calgon take me away (unless you are made by Arbonne or Mary Kay).

Desert Island food

just in case

1. Unagi
2. Barely seared Ahi
3. Haagen Dazs Dulce de Leche
4. Mangos (already cut up for me)
5. Panang Curry
6. Rare Filet Mignon
7. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies
8. Artichokes (steamed, with drawn butter)
9. Tarte Tatin
10. Fresh raspberries

City Hall's first mosh pit

Can I just say...my daughter is largely responsible for the first ever mosh pit held in City Hall in Portland.

I am so damned proud.

As the student leader of her school's GSA (Gay Straight Alliance), she is way involved in the local gay activist community (particularly with regard to youth -a word she hates). She speaks at and leads workshops for local youth-oriented conferences and was even asked to be a guest speaker for a teachers' conference recently. She was also part of the planning committee for the Day of Silence/Night of Noise shindig in P-land. Somehow, they persuaded TPTB to allow them to hold a gathering/rally/punk rock concert in the rotunda of City Hall.

And my sweet baby girl was one of the emcees of the event and made sure everything was running smoothly and on schedule. Damn she was impressive. And I'm not just saying that because she might read this. Honestly, she has better things to do than read my blog.

Of course, I confess to a mini-Mom-moment when my girl jumped into the mosh pit. I felt an eensy bit panicky and feared for her safety. I know, that sounds lame and dorky to me now, too. But it comes free with being a Mom, so what could I do? I couldn't help myself. Yikes! What if she gets hurt?! I so wanted to go and pull her out (mostly so I could refrain from wincing when she fell down or when someone jabbed her petite frame right in the gut), but that would be so the wrong thing to do in that moment.

I took deep breaths. I watched the amoeba-like moshpit and made note of the seemingly jubilant participants. I kept telling myself that she is strong and capable and is just having fun. I even tried looking away, but found that I was better off visually monitoring the situation from afar.

I finally found the calm place and concluded that I would have the following bumper sticker made: "My honor student can hold her own in a mosh pit!"

Happy Crappy Mother's Day

I called my mom this morning to wish her a happy Mother's Day.

She asks what we are doing today and I tell her homework, which is true. She tells me that she and hubby are going to brunch with Ann and her family to the local private country club. She adds that Aunt Sally and her husband are "apparently coming along." Mom's unsaid commentary is clear: Aunt Sally has no children, therefore she has no right to celebrate Mother's Day. Aside: Mom and Aunt Sally are very close, although Mom speaks lowly of Aunt Sally often. (I'd hate to hear what she says about me).

Natch, she'd like to see me. Natch, my Mother's Day gift to myself was not seeing her. Quelle dillemma. As is the case nearly every time I've spoken to her since late January, she asks when she can see me. Late January because she and her husband went on a vacation somewhere (don't remember where - they take a LOT of vacations) and she bought me a "gift -it's not much" (this is how she says it every time she brings up said gift. So this is how I say it every time I refer to said gift. In all fairness, I must confess that I sort stole this literary device from Frank McCourt's book, 'Tis, which I recently finished reading. In it he refers to a character as "Michael down the hall - what's left of him" at every mention of this character, as that's how Michael's mother refers to him. Okay, I'm a little bit of a copy cat. So what?

Anyway, since late January I've had the same response to her inquiry - well, I have Monday nights off or you can drop in and sit up at my bar and have a glass of wine (I comp her drinks every time - she leaves me a 15% tip every time)...if you come on a slow night, I'll have a chance to chat. Aside: the restaurant where I work is on her side of town. The ball was always in her court and she never returned it. Now, it's Mother's Day and the two-year anniversary of her mother's death - I'm feeling sensitive and guilty. I ask her if I can take her out to lunch tomorrow. (Confession deux: I'm having cocktails with my friend, H-Bomb, tomorrow evening, so I'll have the opportunity to numb and purge after lunch with Mom).

I know, now my mom looks all nicey-nice buying me a "gift-it's not much" from her vacation and wishing to see me. Keep reading.

She, of course, accepts and asks where shall we go. I let her know that I'll be in a nearby town running an errand and, for my return trip, I'll be within a mile of her office - perhaps somewhere in that vicinity. For some reason (because she's really nosy - that's a whole other post) she wants to know the specifics of my errand and where it's located. I tell her I don't know the location off the top of my head. It's not private, but it's none of her damn business either (sometimes her commentary is unbearable - she ALWAYS has commentary, usually negative). I'll tell y'all, though. I'm dropping off a bunch of clothes to donate to a women's shelter. Mom asks if it's work-related or school-related, because then she might know where it's located and can help me with directions. Huh? I change the subject and suggest a few restaurants. She counters by naming a few chain establishments. I ask if she'd mind going somewhere that isn't a chain. For some reason, when I name a few more non-chain places, she starts repeating the chain establishments, along with a few more of same. She suggests 12:30, but adds that she might have to switch it to noon, as Aunt Sally might want to join.

She asks how we're doing and then tells me about a lesbian couple she knows who just had a baby. Obviously, they had artificial insemination, she adds. Aside: she likes to throw in any possible anecdote of any random interaction she has with a gay peep, probably to make herself seem tolerant?

This morphs into a conversation about my sister, Ann's, newest baby, Ellie. She's cute, Mom says, but what a chunk!! She's the fattest baby I've ever seen! Mom continues, "Well, you know that Ann doesn't keep them on any sort of schedule and any time they ask for food, she just gives it to them."

Aside: one of Ann's daughters appears nearly anorexic and the rest of her children are slender and average sized for their age. But Mom has more to say about Ellie, "Seriously, she's in the 105th percentile! You should see her legs - they are SO chubby."

Mom goes on talking more about Ellie, using the words 'chunk'/'chubb'/'chubby' at least three more times.

My silence (thank goodness she can't see my face) prompts her to change the subject. She tells me that she spoke to my sister, Haley, who is flying up from San Francisco to attend my graduation (since we were only permitted four tix, which I'd already assigned to Dad and his wife, as well as J and K, I had to jump through hoops to obtain tix for Mom and Aunt Sally (who is very sweet, by the way) - Mom doesn't travel alone - and then even more challenging hoops to procure a ticket for Haley). She tells me that Haley can't decide if she is going to bring her friend, Kristin, to the event, as that is who she will be staying with in Seattle. I inform Mom that there is no way that another ticket is possible (she's already been told that it wasn't easy for me to get her a ticket and even more difficult to get one for Haley) and I re-explain why.

She's somehow content to continue talking about my graduation. She asks if we'll be going out to dinner beforehand or what. I tell her that I'll have several grad-related errands to run all day prior to the ceremony (which is mostly true). I'm having lunch with my dear school friends and our families - no way in hell I'm letting Mom ruin that. She begins complaing about what a waste of her time it'll be to drive all the way up to Seattle (have I seen the price of gas?) just to see me walk across a stage and not even be able to see me in person.

Her cell phone then rings in the background and she "has to take the call." I can overhear her end of the convo, which of course is work-related.

She returns to the phone and I remind her that there is a dessert reception prior to the ceremony. This isn't good enough because I won't have much time to spend with her on account of my need to socialize with everyone there. Aside: I have asked my mother, on numerous occasions over the years, for alone time with her - it never happens, as she always invites hubby or my aunt or my sister along. I tell her that perhaps there'll be drinks or something afterward, but that will likely involve several others. She frets, informing me that breakfast the next morning is out of the question because she needs to leave by noon and, according to her, I never wake up until after 10am. Aside: this was true on non-school days in my teen years.

I apologize to her that I'm not able to spend more time with her [over the 24-hour period that she will be in Seattle]. She adds that she has no idea where the ceremony is being held and, since she doesn't know where she'll be going, I'll need to send her an address with directions and, if possible, a map. Aside: I emailed this info to her about a month ago, albeit sans map.

Later this evening I received an email from her stating that Ann might want to come along to lunch and that she says that Stanfords has good salads, so let's go there (slender Mom is perpetually on a diet - always remarking if I've lost weight and saying nothing if I've gained...although I'm certain that she reports this to others). She only has email at work, which means she spent the post-brunch part of her Mother's Day at her office - likely alone - working. This makes me a little sad for her.

I can't wait for lunch tomorrow.

My mother is so FUBAR.

feeling like the underdog

In honor of my birthday, I'm posting a rant that I wrote in early February, 2007...

Dear Lizzie B.,

You fuckin' pissed me off tonight.

When I first saw you many months ago, I thought you were amazing! So accomplished! So articulate! So well read! So beautiful! And you play on my team! Welcome aboard!

But your maneuver of the celebrity-author-handler equivalent of cock-blocking was inexcusable. You seemed so incredibly phony and unlikable when I was initiating a conversation with S-L P as I was reflecting on her previous visit to Powell's reading from her not-a-play novel, complete with guitar and accompanying songs. You whisked her away while I was in mid-sentence, completely disregarding that my conversation with her mattered a great deal to me and might have even mattered to her, as well. All the while, you smiled that fakey pasted on grin, decked out in your white wool coat, trying to look pure, pristine and untouchable. I don't really admire you anymore, for the record. I don't care if you're so young to be holding such a prestigious position in the Portland cultural scene. I don't care if you've published your writing in literary journals. I don't care if I'm the only one who doesn't think you're no longer all that great.

Signed,
bk

and, at the same time,

Dear S-L P,

I wanted to talk to you tonight. I really did. But I was feeling shy and unworthy of attending a reception in your honor in a fancy-pants post office lobby with supersized portraits of Dubya and Dick looking down on me while I consume the complimentary chocolate chip cookies not-from-a-box and wine that doesn't suck at all.

And it's not that I really had anything that compelling to say to you or any burning question about what it's like to be a writer or how did it feel to win a Pulitzer Prize or - wow - what was is like to take a writing class from James Baldwin? I just wanted you to keep talking.

And I don't even fully understand why you couldn't keep talking as long as you were on the stage and the people were listening and enjoying themselves. I mean, what was up with them flashing that blue light at you, trying to hurry you up? Hurry up for what??? It's not as though there would be a late night cabaret or anything and they needed to make way for that. You were happy talking to us and we were happy listening to you talk to us and answer random questions, even ones from young and naive writers-to-be who are seeking a panacea for writer's block.

So what would have happened if you had ignored the blue light and just kept on talking? Perhaps it could have been the literary equivalent to the old Portland story about Prince showing up at the Roseland theatre at the conclusion of some show or another and then playing until 2am. Were the blue-light blinkers telling him 'no'? Of course they weren't.

At the beginning of the lecture, when you were introduced by mean-lady-who-shall-not-be-named, we learned that you entertain even your most far-out ideas and breathe life into them to see what they hold. Would it have been such a far-out idea to just keep talking?

Perhaps the reception at the funky post office had a limitation on the hours permissible for using that space? After all, it is a government facility and there were two bonafide police officers guarding the chocolate chip cookies. And I would have been perfectly content listening to you talk at the reception but, the young man in the hat (who I gather is the aspiring writer with writer's block) seemed to have a great deal to discuss with you.

And by the time we were close enough to say hello, mean-lady-who-shall-not-be-named caught the eye of my friend, Kara, who works with her. Kara had just been talking about how mean-lady is kinda icy and phoney. But I was able to squeeze in a friendly hello and you so warmly returned my greeting. What I was starting to say, before you were so rudely whisked away in the middle of my sentence, was just that I thoroughly enjoyed your lecture /songs/personable book-signing event at Powell's some time ago and your warmth and clear interest in the individuals in your captive audience were so impactful - I have such fond memories of that event.

Here is, in particular, what I wanted to say to you about that event: The way you read your characters from your book and then pulled out your guitar and sang songs from the book and then every single person in that audience obediently nabbed a copy of your novel and stood in line for a moment of your time and perhaps a signature in their new book. The fact that you spent time actually saying hello and speaking to every single person in that line was so kind and generous - I'm certain that I'm not the only one who looks back fondly on that reading for that exact same reason. I left that reading feeling really fantastic.I couldn't believe that, while signing our books, you asked us questions about ourselves - that you seemed to care who we were as individuals. I appreciated that.

And that, even though tonight's event was much larger and less intimate, your warmth, humor and approachability still emanated through your anecdotes and reflections.

That was really all. I know it wasn't important or insightful or brilliant, but I just wanted to express my appreciation. You're a wonderful artist and storyteller and a beautiful woman - inside and out. Please continue to visit Portland regularly!

With warmth and admiration,
bk

My mom = not a mom

As those of you who read regularly might know, I have Bipolar Disorder and, when diagnosed last fall, was in a quandary as to whether or not to tell my (insensitive) mother and, if so, how. You might also recall that I have promised some 'mom posts' and I think it's high time I delivered on that promise and got some of this shit out of my system. Nah, my mom never beat me or anything; she never forced me to take drugs or to obtain them for her (actually, she did send me to the convenience store at age 7 to buy cigarettes for her - yes, they used to permit this in the early 70s); she never forced me into a prostitution ring or dropped me off on the side of the freeway (although she often told me to "go play on the freeway" when I was little when she perceived me as 'bugging her'). Her abuses were more subtle and of the emotional and the psychological variety.

I've spent many therapy hours, much $ and quite a bit of personal anguish trying to adapt to the impact of her insensitivity. I even spent about a year and a half or so not speaking to her and asking her not to contact me so that I could have some space to work out my issues with her. She did not respect these boundaries and called and emailed me with a stalker-like fervor (when, ordinarily, when I AM in contact with her, she maybe - maybe - contacts me about once a month, oftentimes to forward me some inane email of jokes that aren't funny or internet phenoms about women being attacked/raped/preyed upon and I have to send her the Snopes link debunking such hype). I've done everything in my power to mother my daughter in a drastically different way in which I was mothered.

About a week ago, and since it was weighing heavy on me and distracting me from other things, I decided to tell my mother about my diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder. I sent the following email to her on a Wednesday and then heard NOTHING from her until Sunday. The pain, paranoia and rejection I felt over those four days sent me spiralling downward.

What was she thinking? What would she say when she finally did contact me? When would she finally contact me? Does she realize that no contact whatsoever - not even a quick note or phone message to acknowledge receipt and tell me she needs a couple of days to digest - freaks me out a lil?

Following my email to her is a synopsis of her response.

Hi Mom,

There's something I've been needing to tell you for a little while now and just haven't known how to do it because I wasn't sure how you'd respond. Last fall, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and have been on medication for this ever since. I was started on a pretty low dose and have already noticed a tremendous difference in my mood stabilization and my sleeping habits. I still am somewhat symptomatic, though, and am just now raising the level of the dose that I'm on.

Although Lithium is the most common medication prescribed for Bipolar Disorder, my doctor opted not to prescribe it to me due to my Essential Tremor (shaking of my hands - turns out Essential Tremor is the same thing that Katherine Hepburn had...many people thought she had Parkinsons, but she actually had ET). Apparently, Lithium would make my hands shake even more (which I wouldn't be able to tolerate because of the ridicule and humiliation I already endure because of it). The medication that I've been prescribed is Lamictal, which is a drug that is also used to treat seizure disorders.

I believe that the onset of the Bipolar Disorder was approximately in my mid to late teens or as late as my early 20s, maybe sooner, as it's hard to know for sure. Knowing the symptoms and thinking back, that would be my guess - maybe you remember times before that when I exhibited similar symptoms - I don't know. It's not at all uncommon, though, for Bipolar to go unrecognized, unreported or untreated by those who have it for various reasons. In my case, I was reporting (and being treated for) Depression, as the symptoms of that were noticable to me and didn't seem normal to me. However, although I've had symptoms of Mania for some time, I didn't think much of it and always perceived them as normal or "that's just how I am" and that it was no big deal. In my many years of being treated in therapy, I've had several practitioners ask me if I have manic episodes. Not fully understanding what is meant by this in psychological terminology, I replied with an adamant no. My thought process to that question went something like this: manic? mania? who has mania? maniacs do. who is a maniac? Hitler, Charles Manson, etc. I'm not a maniac, what a ridiculous question. Hence my response. I never asked what they meant by that and none of them ever pursued it any further (probably either due to my adamant response or because they perceived me as relatively intelligent and it never occurred to them that I might not know what that means in that context).

This is something that often has a genetic disposition (i.e. it runs in families and can be passed down biologically). Anyway, since I've learned that those with Bipolar often have family members with mood disorders (which are a result of a brain dysfunction) - not always Bipolar, sometimes Depression or other mood disorders, I've begun to wonder if there are other members of the family who may have had Bipolar or Depression that went undiagnosed. My suspicions are that perhaps grandma or grandpa may have had a mood disorder.

I'm sure you have a lot of questions, probably some that I can answer and some that I might not be able to answer as well. I've done a fair amount of reading on the subject in order to learn more about it. I have a friend whose sister has Bipolar and I've spoken to her about it. A friend of mine (from when I was an undergrad at PSU) who committed suicide about four years ago had Bipolar and she never told any of her friends (not sure how many in her family knew). I wish I'd known so that I (hopefully) could have been more tolerant of her behaviors that often seemed irrational to me. Largely because of this, I think it's important for me to be out in the open about it and seek support when I need it, rather than trying to deal with what I'm experiencing on my own. Also, children of those with Bipolar have around a 25% chance of having it, as well. I'm giving you a link to a website that I think explains the disorder relatively well and might answer some of your questions and in a language that isn't riddled with much medical jargon. In my opinion, this site doesn't fully address my experiences (whereas I've found that some others do), probably due the brevity of the explanations here and that it's intended as a quick and simple overview. I can give you additional sources, if you want. Anyway, here's the site:
http://psychcentral.com/disorders/bipolar/

If you're interested, and if it's reassuring to know, there are many famous people with Bipolar Disorder (many of them writers, which comes as no surprise to me - I've often had all-night-long writing binges, something I've always thought was normal) and here is a website with a pretty comprehensive list: http://www.mental-health-today.com/bp/famous_people.htm

I'm sorry that I felt compelled to do this via email. I have found that I do much better expressing my thoughts in writing and I had a lot to say and wanted to get it all out, so this felt like the best means of achieving that. I don't want you to take any of this information personally or feel like it's your fault in any way. My upbringing and the parenting I received has not impacted this condition in any way, according to what I know about the disorder. I'm telling you this because I think that, as my mother, it's important for you to know and I hope that you don't see it as any sort of attack or something I'm doing to make you feel bad. I love you and I need your support.

Thanks for listening (and for taking time out of your busy day to read this).

Love,
(insert my name here)

When she finally contacted me on Sunday, she informed me that she got my email and not to worry because she still loves me. (Um, I hadn't even considered that not loving me as a result was an option). (Yes, my mother tells me that she loves me, although it feels more like a rote thing - especially since she once told me that she"loves me, but she doesn't like me." Upon hearing this [some 20 years ago], I began to wonder how I could ever love myself if my own mother didn't love me). She then asked me if I'm taking medication for it and whether or not it's helping. (Um, yeah Mom, read the email I sent you). She tells me that she doesn't know if any of our relative had it, but that's probably because people used to have cancer a hundred years ago, but they just didn't call it that. She says that Grandma "had depression," but that is probably the only mood disorder in our family history. I asked her about Grandpa, who I thought exhibited some symptoms of Bipolar. Mom says that Grandpa didn't have it, he was just a procrastinator. I asked her to elaborate. She tells me that he always "got these grandiose ideas about doing huge projects, like painting the house, and then would start on them really enthusiastically, but then never finish them." Sounds like Bipolar to me, I tell her, especially in conjunction with his late night energy and dalliances with his many mistresses. No, my mother counters, that was just procrastination. She then tells me that SHE is not a procrastinator, that SHE always completes tasks from start to finish and hates leaving things unfinished, like her father did.

Mom continues, telling me that she doesn't know much about it, but she knows a lot of people with it and they just take medication for it. (Um, did you get the links I sent?).

She then changes the subject, asking if she will see us on Mother's Day. She reminds me (disgruntledly) that she hasn't seen my daughter, K, since last Mother's Day. I get that she misses K, she just doesn't go about expressing that in a very constructive manner. The changed subject continues and revolves completely around her and how busy she is. She never brings the discussion back around to 'it' and eventually has to go, because she is at work (she owns the company).

Interestingly, my lovely wife, J, predicted that I would hear from my mother before Mother's Day because of her need to be acknowledged on that day.

During my entire conversation with her, she never once used the word 'Bipolar,' it was always 'it.' Does she realize that her discomfort with this news was shining through her words, despite the fact that she 'still loves me'? Does she realize that her constant reference to Bipolar as 'it' and the brevity of our conversation about Bipolar in general felt marginalizing to me?