Divine Intervention

As you may recall, J and I were able to purchase a modest townhouse in the nether regions of lovely Portland nearly two years ago. What you may or may not know is that my malignant mother was our real estate agent. Yes, 4 realz. We really didn't have a choice - mom sells real estate and if we'd gone with another agent (which we considered), we would have put the Hatfields and the McCoys to shame.

True, mom was willing to forgo her commission (THIS time, she told us...which, I guess, means that next time - when we are more able to afford a more glamorous abode - she'll make some money off of us), although that is not the only reason we went with her. The horrid horrid aftermath of going through someone else (even someone we would have had to have paid THIS time) was far too foreboding. And so it was that mother dearest became our de facto real estate agent.

And, while mother's knowledge of Portland and its environs can barely rival that of a fifth grader (despite that she has lived in the Portland Metro area HER ENTIRE LIFE, although the last 30 or so years have been in the suburbs), we did receive excellent and attentive service from her. I presume, however, that she is like that with all of her clients, being a workaholic and all, and that we were not receiving preferential treatment (well, THIS time, anyway). She even handled it pretty well whenever she showed us a place that she seemed pretty jazzed about and wanted us to get all googly-eyed and proclaim it the one and, instead, we'd shrug our shoulders and say "meh" in unison. She didn't know what 'meh' meant, but she could tell that it meant we wouldn't be signing any papers any time soon.

Flash forward two months and over a hundred houses later (oh, the stories I could tell about some of those houses!), we stumble upon the townhouse where we now live. For our dollar (and that was pretty much what we had to spend, a dollar), this place was the shit. So we placed an offer. And it was declined. We countered. It was accepted. Yay! We were nearly homo homeowners!

But, ah, the details. We had to, of course, sign the papers. Oh sure, sounds harmless. So we sit with Mom at the title company, along with maybe three other people whose functions have escaped me, around a HUGE conference table - seriously, this thing was so huge that it could probably kick Chuck Norris' ass. So blahblahblah the peoples' mouths are moving and I nod as if I'm following (yeah, I know this is a tad irresponsible, so shoot me)...blahblahblah sign this...blahblahblah sign that. Eleventy gazillion signatures later, that snoozefest is finally taking its final bow.

And not a moment too soon. I was freakin' starving. A smiling lady hands us a glossy folder with an entire tree shoved inside. This folder remains unopened and sitting in our file cabinet. Mom confers with J and I and mentions her state of hunger. She is inviting us to dinner?

"Let's celebrate!" Mom says. Woo hoo! we are thinking, despite the fact that celebrating with Mom can be sorta hit and miss. What the hell, we decide, if Mom wants to treat us to a celebratory feast, why not let her? Mom asks if there is anything around the area that is not too expensive.

"It's not like I'm rich, you know," she reminds us, as she depresses the magic button that disables the alarm on her brand new BMW.

Mom is, of course, completely unaware of anything in the immediate vicinity, despite the fact that the school where she attended her freshman year (with classmate Sally Struthers!), was fewer than ten blocks from where we stood. No matter, we suggested a reasonably priced trattoria twenty blocks away. We tell her that it's on Broadway and on the south side of the street and to meet us there. Mom acts all confused and says that she'll follow us.

We pull aside at the stop sign while we wait for Mom to do whatever it is she does with her vanity mirror, some lipstick and an extensive evaluation period before she places her luxury vehicle into drive and proceeds. A couple of turns later, we have reached Broadway and J, who is driving, has her right turn signal on so that Mom will know that we will be heading west on Broadway. J halts at the stop sign, but is unable to see the oncoming traffic on her left, due to a large truck parked on the corner. She inches slowly out and then *$#!!BAM!!#$*. We lurch forward slightly as we come to the realization that my mother just rear-ended us. J and I look at each other, neither of us quite sure what to make of the situation.

Noticing that there are other cars behind Mom who didn't gun it when J inched out, J arm-motions Mom to pull into the parking lot of Broadway Auto Body to our immediate right. J's car shows no sign of trauma, but Mom's BMW is dented on its hood. It's the shape of an inverted crescent moon - a perfect arc. The spare tire on the the back end of J's Honda CRV is the convex match to the dent on Mom's car - a perfect yin and yang separated at birth...but not.

Mom looks astonished as she notices the damage to her precious vehicle.

"Oh there's no way that little tap did that much damage to my car," Mom's denial kicked in full speed. "I mean, you could barely feel it, right?"

Mom was in rare form.

"I mean, someone must've hit my car while we were in our meeting at the title company. That had to have been it; I mean, there's just no way."

J and I let Mom continue trying to convince herself that someone done wronged her.

"See, look at your car," Mom said to J, "there's no damage at all. If I'd hit you hard enough to cause this much damage to my car, your car would at least have a dent, right? I mean, I'm not saying it was God, really, but something, something in the universe, must've made me tap you like that so that I'd get out of my car and see the damage that was done...Otherwise I probably wouldn't have noticed it for awhile."

OMFG, you've got to be kidding me. It was so so so very hard for J and I not to burst into laughter. God???? Really? I've heard of blaming car accidents on other people before, but God? Like I said, Mom was in rare form.

Well, no need to exchange infos here, although Mom did inform us that she would call her insurance company first thing in the morning. I couldn't help but wonder if she would be explaining the part about rear-ending her daughter-in-law because God wanted her to notice that someone had hit her car while she was in a meeting.

J and I got into the restaurant before Mom found a parking place - she wanted to drive around and get a spot where nobody would hit her. Why bother? I say. With God on her side, nobody will ever be able to pull a hit-and-run over her eyes.

J and I asked our server to bring a glass of Pinot Gris right away so that Mom could begin sedating immediately. Dinner was awkward as Mom continued to practice her story about the anonymous hoodlum who hit her parked car (must've been the neighborhood) and didn't even see fit to leave a note. J and I sedated and nodded, sedated and nodded.

I didn't even know my mom believed in God.

I wonder what else she blames on God?

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.

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?

If we're gonna play house, I get to be the mom, ok?

So, apparently, at work I am the mother/nurturer figure. Who'da thunk it? After all, in the restaurant biz, 40 is actually pretty old. So, being the oldest one there pretty much sets me up for such a role.

Tonight I came into work, then started bitching about things not being in their proper places in my bar. A couple of hours later, a 20-something waiter(ess - a term I hate, but perhaps the sex of the waiter matters here) came up to me all proud of herself for being assertive with a customer on a power trip. I validated her ability to stand up for herself.

Later in the evening, the owner's son, who is trying to grow his hair long and is a line cook, came to me for assistance with his bandanna/'do rag - he just couldn't get it situated or tied right. I tied the back nice and tight and tucked in the sticky-outy parts. I know how to rock a bandanna.

Then much later, one of our other line cooks, who recently split up with his baby momma and is now dating Ginny, our pasty chef, was having an epic telephone conversation with his ex while I was cleaning up the bar. We were the last ones in the restaurant and, since I still had plenty of work to do, I didn't mind that he was having a lengthy, emotional and very Spanish conversation on the kitchen telephone. He knows that I don't know enough Spanish to decipher what was being said, but I didn't need to - I know enough about his situation to get the gist of his conversation.

I kept working and, as I was in the wine room unloading a new shipment of wine, I saw him heading over toward me. He didn't look so good. I asked him if he was okay and he said no. Then he just hugged me and started sobbing. I held him and told him that it was going to be okay. I told him that he had many friends here at the restaurant and that we cared about him and were there for him. Poor thing - my heart ached for him, as he was clearly ripped apart by the events of his life at the moment. Yet, at the same time, I was so impressed that he wasn't too macho to cry in front of me. I already knew that he was a good guy, but this confirmed it even more.

I offered him a drink and put my work aside in order to sit down with him. Pretty common scenario: Ex loves him and wants him back and is sorry for treating him like shit and vows to change; he wanted out of his relationship with her for a long time, but stuck around because they had a daughter together, who is now five, and because Ex had an older daughter (now 16) and he got on well with her; Ex pulls every guilt trip out of her bag of tricks, including putting each of the kids on the phone to tell him to come home; he feels like he must return to her because she says she'll change, but he started a new life with a new apartment a few months ago and is really happy - he and Ginny are great together and it's not too serious or anything, they're just having fun. He was so distraught. I listened to him and told him that I thought he should think about it for awhile before he makes any decisions about anything. I reminded him that he has many friends who care about him. I don't want to see him hurt by Ex and I don't believe that she'll change.

After he finished his beer and left, I went around the building turning off lights and turning the heat down. I notice that the closing waiter took a few shortcuts and left a stash of dirty dishes in the waiter area. I'll have a talk with him tomorrow.

Next time he does that, he's grounded.

what a tangled web we weave

Right now I'm really, really hoping that my mother is not having a rendez-vous with my bio-dad. Oh sure, it doesn't look so bad on paper, but it would be pretty mortifying.

I know I haven't spoken of my mother much here (and it's not for lack of subject matter) and maybe now is the time to start.

Every time I speak to bio-dad and he mentions having spoken to my mother or having lunched with her, I cringe. Funny thing is, mom NEVER mentions him. This makes me very suspicious. There have been other tidbits of potential 'evidence,' which I won't delve into right now.

There are so many reasons why mom and bio-dad need to stay away from each other. Sure bio-dad is almost single, but he still has some issues to work out over losing his wife of 20-something years to cancer four years ago; plus, he needs to lose that 'almost.' I mean, I get it. Dude just wants to be loved and likes having a chickadee around - can't blame him for that. But he's soooooo sniffing the wrong bitch butt. And, granted, I didn't so much care for his most recent girlfriend/fiancee/not-fiancee any more/roommate/not-roommate any more. She was the mother of a friend of mine from high school and that was weird enough for me.

My mother, on the other hand, is not so free to roam and should be home tending the fire instead of lunching with bio-dad. I mean, I get that her ailing (advanced stages of Parkinson's) husband of 21 years is not easy to take care of right now and demands a lot of her time and energy. And I know for a fact that my mother does not do well with being in the position of being needed or depended upon. I also know for a fact that when my mother is unhappy in a relationship, she tends not to opt for the healthiest means of addressing that unhappiness.

For those of you who are regular readers, you may recall my mentioning that my dad is a regular reader of my blog. My bio-dad and my dad are not the same person. Essentially, my bio-dad may as well have been a sperm donor and he may or may not have helped tend to me when I was an infant. He then left my mother (and likely for good reason) when I was a toddler, continued to see me on the occasional weekend, and then ceased contact with me. My dad, on the other hand, started dating my mother when I was approximately late four/early five and, upon marrying my mother a few months before my sixth birthday, adopted me. He continued to raise me as if I were his own biological child. I have fond memories of him reading to me and of him bringing home a doll to me when I was sick once. I've always felt close and connected to my dad and I enjoy the time we spend together now (and I'm not just saying that because he might read this). He has been a true father to me: loving, non-judgmental, encouraging, open minded, engaging and just the right amount of rigidity. I see him as a father and as a person. Bio-dad and I were just reunited about three and a half years ago (we'd been in contact a couple of times over the years, both at my initiation). I'd sent him a sympathy card when I heard that his wife had passed away. He responded and wanted to get together for lunch. Since then, we've seen one another on and off and have had several phone conversations (this is the most contact we've ever had, to my knowledge), but they always feel forced, empty and full of anxiety for me.
I guess I'm coming to terms with my anger at him. When we were first in touch with one another, shortly after I returned to Portland, I wanted to 'meet' him and learn more about him, figure out where/what I came from. I also wanted to learn medical history and family lore. Bio-dad seemed genuinely remorseful for the lost time between us and offered many an apology for his absence. At the time, I told him not to worry about it and that what was important was that we had time now. I can't really say if I believed that when I said it - I thought I did - and now I'm finally feeling the anger and resentment that should have kicked in years ago.

Did I respond to him without anger initially because I was fearful that he would abandon me again? Was I under the impression that if I was super friendly and accepting of him and not at all judging him as an absent father, he'd stick around and get to know me? And the thing is, he was initially on 'really good behavior' when we first were hanging out. He expressed an interest in me and in my life. He paid attention to my likes and dislikes and purchased gifts for me that reflected that. He was timely with his holiday and birthday wishes. Now, not so much. But it's not like he owes me or anything - it's just the lack of consistency that I have a hard time with.

So, am I hoping that he and my mother are not seeing one another (despite my suspicions of the contrary) because I fear that he'll abandon/hurt my mother? Absolutely not. In fact, aside from the fact that it would just be too weird and uncomfortable, I am certain that my mother would grow intolerant of bio-dad and his common ways and then dump his ass. You see, Mom prides herself on 'having class' and has choice words for anything/anyone she deems as lacking class or, worse yet, being 'tacky.' Yep, she's a joy to be around. She likes her 'status' and all of the symbols that go along with it. She likes to boast about the vacations she's been on and has been known to name-drop the designers whose clothing she wears. Bio-dad is nothing like that. He's very blue collar, loves music (especially 70s rock and the blues - Mom doesn't listen to music), likes old cars (Mom likes BMWs) and is not flashy in any way, shape or form.

I'm going to be paying very careful attention to this situation.

Because I like to "torcher" my peeps: Putting the "fun" back in dysfunctional...

In honor of the pending Christmas holiday and the fact that I will be spending it NOT with my mom (where icky nasty bad disfunction abounds), and because I am thoroughly convinced that there is good dysfunction and bad dysfunction (the good being the ones with my chosen family - aka my friends - and my work family), I present to you some fond memories from Thanksgiving last.

I annually spend Thanksgiving with my "chosen family" instead of my biological family. This is a little bit selfish, since I have biological family in town and I'd rather be with my friends and where the food is better than going to my mom's or aunt's house for the holiday.

My chosen family pretty much consists of one of my dearest friends, Kara, her partner Patrizio, her mother Ellen, three of her four siblings (Audrey, Liz and the youngest, Mateo, who comes with his wife, Liz ), some Thanksgiving orphans who are also friends, "honorary" members of the family (such as myself, my partner and my daughter) and random other friends who either have nowhere else to go or don't want to go anywhere else. The total guest count is always somewhere in the twenties and everyone contributes to the meal (all are good cooks and none cut corners or buy pre-fab or store-made items), the fixins are predominantly vegetarian (about a third or so of the crowd doesn't eat meat), but with the requisite organically fed and conscientiously raised turkey as the star of the show.

This year, we brought: homemade bloody mary mix (with extra garlic) & the pepper vodka & garnish for said cocktail (garnish consisted of five inch wooden skewers speared with olive, hearts of palm, grape tomato and a spear of celery for stirring), carrot ginger soup (vegetarian, but not vegan), roasted beet salad with goat cheese and toasted pecans and topped with a balsamic reduction, and a dessert that disappears rapidly every year: a chocolate bourbon pecan pie. We also brought two bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau and plenty of games.

While I thoroughly enjoy the genre of family dysfunction, particularly in literature and film, I must admit to feeling partial to a certain flavor of dysfunction in my presence (let's just call it "good dysfunction") and avoiding the sort of dysfunction often found at the functions at my mother's house (we'll call this one "bad dysfunction"). Now, it could just be that these two types of dysfunction are actually one in the same and I have more teflon when I am in the company of someone else's family, as opposed to immersed in the dysfunction of my own family, in which it all feels so personal and harmful.

Regardless, allow me to share with you some of the dysfunctional highlights from this year's event:

• Botox - Outed at Last! Kara's sister, Liz, had previously confessed to her sisters and mother that she is regularly submitting to Botox injections (Liz is the middle child of the five, yet appears to be the oldest) as an attempt to curb her visible aging. Needless to say, the family is somewhat appalled and consider Liz vain. However, neither Mateo nor Liz's friend, Nathaniel, was aware of this indulgence until a somewhat lit Kara cattily outed Liz at the dinner table, just after Liz called her "ugly." Mateo stood, aghast, begging his sister to say it isn't so. After the initial shock from Mateo and Nathaniel subsided, Liz blew it all off in a "so what" sort of manner and poured herself another glass of wine.

• Liz (the sister-in-law, as opposed to Liz the sister) brought her mother, Marge, who was visiting from Alaska. Both Liz and Marge are deathly allergic to cats and Kara sequestered her new kitten, LuLu, and cleaned especially well for their benefit (this was, of course, something of a big deal as it was requested to Kara that the kitten be relocated to another house entirely in order for them to avoid an allergic outbreak). As we were going around the table proclaiming what we were thankful for, mother Ellen, a very political and left-leaning woman, lauds the "takeover of the Democrats" and stands and cheers. The rest of the room erupts in cheers and a raised glass. Except for Marge, who looks mortified at the taboo subject of politics being raised at the Thanksgiving table. She does not applaud. She does not raise her glass. Her sour expression speaks volumes and you can feel her discomfort.
  

• But that's not all! At some point during the giving of thanks, it is mentioned that there is gratitude that Ellen never married any of her less-than-desirable boyfriends of yore. Kara mentions her shock and awe when Ellen's boyfriend at the time bestowed upon her as a gift for her 21st birthday a "1/4 lb. bag of weed." Laughter erupts from the table and, again, poor Marge is horrified. One can practically read the thought bubble over her head proclaiming, "what kind of family have I allowed my precious daughter to marry into?" Shortly after this incident, Marge pulls the oh-look-at-the-time card and exits the festivities without even tasting the dessert. No doubt, she was thoroughly convinced that the frosted brownies were laced with hashish.
  

• After dinner, the remaining guests engaged in a lively game of Celebrity Password. Now, one of the problems of playing games with Kara and her family is that they can get really competetive. It's almost as if they are under the impression that there might be a giant cash prize awaiting the winner - things can get a little intense. And since Celebrity Password is played in teams, we typically do not allow family members or significant others (unless they are newly dating) to be on the same team. Audrey had brought her new beau, Alphonse, who was blending in well so far with this group. However, since Alphonse was not born in the U.S., his knowledge of American pop culture was not quite up to par for playing Celebrity Password. We explained the rules to him and he was in - a good sport, indeed. However, when it was his turn to give clues, he found that he didn't always know the people he was supposed to describe. This was driving the Botoxed Liz, who was on his team, batty and she wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it. Although Alphonse tried to describe several different names ranging from polititians to pop stars to historical figures to sports figures to local celebs, he was only able to get his team to guess one correctly. When his turn to give clues came around again, Liz, clearly in an attempt to offer support, says to Alphonse: "C'Mon, you can get more than one right this time!"

• And there was also the moment during the drumroll part, just before dinner was served, when Patrizio was moving all swiftly and shit all about the kitchen like a whirling dervish or something and he opens up the oven and somehow the shelf was not secure and he goes to pull out Audrey's root vegetable hoo-ha and the shelf got all diagonally topsy turvey and the roasted potatoes that someone else made (maybe Liz?) did a little flippity flip and landed in the root vegetable hoo-ha (hey! you got your root veggies in my potatoes! well you got your potatoes in my root veggies! let's make a candy bar! ok.). Suffice to say, the original chefs of the dishes getting all comboed up were not the least bit pleased about this fusion. Dudes, have another bloody mary, it coulda been SO much worse!
  

• Lastly, there was the tipsy Ellen walking around with her dry vermouth on the rocks while the rest of us were having vodka martinis (the logical follow-up to bloody marys) and talking about how she loooooooooooves dry vermouth and it's been so long since she's enjoyed just a simple dry vermouth on the rocks. Ah the memories, she tells us. In fact, she continues, she used to drink vermouth when she was preggers with Mateo, then she'd go and throw up so it wouldn't hurt him. Mateo's facial response to this was priceless.
  

Kids Say the Darndest Things - Preschool Edition

I was recently reminded of a time when my mother was frequently babysitting my wonderful daughter, K, many years ago when I was working on my Bachelor's Degree and sometimes worked in the evenings.

My mother would continuously attempt to pump K for information of any sort that she could get. I was in my mid/late-twenties at the time, but my mother seemed to still be under the impression that I was under her charge.

I remember when I dyed my hair a luscious shade of maroonish pink (which looked fabulous, by the way) and K (then 4 years old) decided that she, too, wanted pink hair. I couldn't see any reason why not, so I promptly dyed her blond bob pink, albeit a slightly lighter shade than my own. Pink hair became all the rage at K's preschool and Olivia, a 4 year-old with long blond locks decided that she also wanted pink hair. Olivia's parents sorta ended up kinda hating me as a result.

I should also mention that K's bob was a result of my mother thinking K's hair "too messy" and not liking my attempts at growing out K's bangs. One time, while babysitting for me, my mother brought K to my sister's home (sis is a beauty school dropout) and had sis cut K's hair into a very tidy bob, complete with bangs. I was not happy about this.

Anyway, the lovely K with her pink-haired bob is at my mom's and is making some teasing reference to imposing some sort of preschool evil upon mom's husband, Papa. My mother then says to K, "be careful that you don't upset Papa - or he might call you bad names."

K thinks about this.

"My mom calls people bad names when she's driving," K says, volunteering this info to my mother, who was continually attempting to catch me at less-than-stellar parenting.

"What sorts of bad names?" my mother asks, obviously trying to trap K into dropping an F-bomb so she can confront me about swearing in front of my daughter.

"Gramps," K says, revealing my insult for the drivers in front of me who seem to subtract 15 at every Speed Limit sign.

"And Idiot," K continues, clearly with no sense of loyalty whatsoever.

"And Clown," K finishes, making sure my mother has them all down.

"Oh, those are bad names," my mother assures K, "are there any others?"

K thinks on this another moment and then, fortunately and miraculously, tells my mother no.

What Kind of Fool am I? Or am I?

I recently learned that a friend of ours has a crush on my lovely wife, J. Let's just call this friend Gertrude. J was also unaware of the affections Gertrude held for her until just the other day.

Can open. Worms freakin' everywhere.

Interestingly, J and I met Gertrude through mutual friends, the Shapiros, another lesbian couple we hang out with frequently. At the time we met her, Gertrude was dating a cute and funny gal from New York, who I'll call Len, and upon meeting them both, J and I both found Len quite charming and fun to be around, but agreed that Gertrude seemed less approachable and that something about her caused us to see some red flags...although neither of us could put our finger on it.

Gertrude is an amazing singer, though, and if American Idol had been around ten years ago, she coulda been a contender. J and I both appreciate music pretty enormously and gave Gert many kudos on her fine set of pipes.

But, when I later learned that Gert had once made out with my boss (um, eww) many years ago and that she'd dated a friend of Alison's and stalked him after they broke up a few years back, the red flags started to make a little sense.

I'm not that good at having really casual friends. Amongst the friends that I do have, there are far more things that I like about them than things that I don't like. When the reverse is true, I just feel that it's not worth my time or effort to maintain the connection. J is different than I am in that respect and is great at hanging out with most people, even if she doesn't have that much in common with them or they don't interest her that much. I admire that about her, but it could never work for me.

When I had to work last Sunday night and we realized I wouldn't be able to attend the soccer game for which we hold season tickets, J decided to call Gertrude, as she enjoys soccer also. Gertrude, of course, wanted to go to the game with J, and then they hung out afterward and Gert decided she wanted to get her first tattoo and asked J to come with her. I later learned that J held a frightened Gert's hand as the needle pumped ink in and out of her skin. No big deal, though, as J would do that for most anyone and has excellent calming skills when others are freaking out. At the time, J had no idea that Gert had a thing for her, nor that Gert was under the impression that it was reciprocal. No doubt the nurturing, comforting and hand-holding fueled that impression.

So when C. Shapiro called J on Wednesday morning to discuss their (the Shapiros, J, Gertrude) camping trip this weekend, she felt it was time to let J know how Gert was feeling. Why was this important? Because, even though I was originally invited on the camping trip, I couldn't get any of my shifts covered and had to stay home. I'd encouraged J to go anyway, since she loves camping and C. Shapiro's birthday would be celebrated on the trip. Problem is, J gets a little bit frightened of "the woods" (I think she watched too many horror flicks as a kid - that or her older brothers convinced her that the woods were scary). I grew up in Oregon and think that trees are lovely - the more the merrier...I have no problem whatsoever with being in "the woods" and the fewer other campers there are around, the better.

A week or so ago, when we realized that I wouldn't be able to be a part of this trip, J asked if I'd have any problem with her sharing a tent with Gertrude, so that it wouldn't be as frightening for her.

"Nope, I don't have a problem with that," I told her.

And then I thought nothing more of it...until C. Shapiro called with her revelation and suggested that maybe J might want to bring her own tent, after all. C. Shapiro also warned J that Gert is convinced that J feels likewise about her - is it because she was selected to use our extra soccer ticket and received nurturing support during her first tattoo (during which, I later learned, she freaked out extensively)? is it because she perceives J's kindness, charm and enthusiasm as being directed at her personally? is it because she perceives unrest between J and I, since J shows up to a lot of parties and group events alone (since I am ususally at work)? or is it just wishful thinking on her behalf?

Since J and C. Shapiro are pretty good friends, I'm certain that C. Shapiro's motivations in telling J about Gert's feelings are purely to avoid any awkward situations that may arise from sharing a tent. I appreciate C. Shapiro for this and am glad that she was forthcoming about this as well.

I've teased J a little about this and planted a few conversations with a little bit of bad kitty propaganda...not that it was necessary or vital to keep J honest, but just to make light of what will likely become an awkward situation in the very near future. Plus, it didn't hurt matters to make sure I look fabulous, smart, witty and studly by comparison.

Furthermore, though, this revelation explains some of Gert's frequent phone calls and text messages to J, including asking to borrow a sleeping bag and an early morning call (these I do not like - from anyone) today to our house to see "how things were going."

Should be an interesting camping trip.

I trust J enormously and don't worry in the least that she will betray me. I know that she loves me and don't worry that she's at all attracted to Gertrude. I guess it bugs me a little that Gert has been pining away for J for some time (despite C. Shapiro's attempts to dissuade her) and would love nothing more than for me to be out of the picture. If I were a sucky partner, that wouldn't bug me so much...but I'm not, so it does.

Of course, what bothers me more than anything about this whole scenario is the flashbacks it conjures up of The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup.

my mom is not amazing

She's actually kinda mean. But that is a rant for a different day.

So I was just having a little snack-attack and decided to bust out the Pineapple Coconut Haagen Dazs that was purchased just this last week. I put a scoop and a half into a medium-sized bowl (I know, in my last post I claimed to "almost never" eat my ice cream out of a dish...here's the sitch: if said ice cream is being consumed a la carte, then it is done so with a teaspoon directly from the carton; when said ice cream is on something or with something, it goes into a dish. kthx).

I then nuked me some Dulce de Leche sauce, busted up some pecan halves, and sliced up a banana for on top. (You think this is a glamorous snack? Ask my mean mom about the time I came home from school, in the seventh grade, and cooked myself up some lobster tails with drawn butter for a snack...).

But as I'm slicing my banana for the top 'o my snack fest, I have this really vivid memory of my mom slicing bananas for the top of my cereal and how I used to marvel at how incredibly fast she'd slice that banana and how she never cut her thumb that she'd use to stop the knife with (nevermind that it was a butter knife - I was pretty wee and all I knew was knife). My mom might have done some good stuff during my childhood, but what I remember when I think of her being amazing is how supah dupah fastly she'd cut that banana and how each and every slice appeared to be the exact same width and how they'd be so perfectly evenly sprinkled across my cereal.

Man, I seriously thought my mom was a culinary genius!

But then I grew up and became kinda culinary genius-ish myself. And I am sad to report that my mom ("whatsa risotto?" "is it EYE-talian?") don't know so much about cooking stuffs.

I am also sad to report that the superfast slicing of a banana is really fucking easy.

I was just thinking that the world is my oyster and you are my chauffeur

For sale: one teen

Brainy, but spacey; will occasionally do chores if asked; remarkable eye-rolling skillz; can go from exuberant to mad/sad/bad in less than two seconds; likes animals (but none of the responsibilities that come along with having one); will consider all offers on some days.

Curses! Mother’s Day!

I hadn’t really forgotten to get my mom a Mother’s Day gift; I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. And never mind that it was 10am ON Mother’s Day – I wasn’t going to her house until around 4pm anyway.

So I run to the Fred Meyer to pick up some vegetables to grill that evening at my mom’s – since my daughter, K, is a vegequarium* and I guarantee that the non-meat offerings will be minimal and carb-heavy, rather than fruit/vegetable heavy.

As I start to drive past the garden center, I notice all of the lovely fuchsia plants hanging from the eaves. My mom loves those and I get her one every year, so I make a note to self to stop by there after picking up my groceries and pick out a nice fuchsia plant for Mom.

With about $20 worth of grillable vegetables filling two plastic grocery bags, I roam the aisles of the garden center comparing each and every fuchsia plant so that I can give my Mom the best one there. I narrow it down to two: one of the purple and white color scheme and the other is purple and fuchsia. I decide that they call ‘em fuchsias for a reason and opt for the purple and fuchsia combo. I head toward the makeshift cashier area and stand behind a tall older gentleman with a shopping cart, who is being assisted by the cashier. I put the heavy and awkward fuchsia plant down on my left side, but continue to hold my two bags of groceries on my right.

After about five minutes, the older gentleman in front of me begins to steer his cart away back into the garden center and I realize that I should be standing on the other side of the makeshift cashier stand in order for the cashier to ring me up. I pick up my fuchsia plant and begin to walk toward the counter. But before I can do so, a man of 60 or so hanging onto his last smidgeon of hairline and what appears to be his teen daughter step in front of me with their purchase. When I notice that the cashier is helping them first, I decide to speak up for myself.

“Um, excuse me, am I invisible?”

“No, you’re a pushy bitch.” Receding Hairline clearly has an issue with women standing up for themselves.

“I was waiting in line long before you got here,” I asserted.

“No, you were standing over there,” he gestures to where I was originally standing, “and the line is supposed to be here,” he moves his pointing finger to indicate the spot about a foot and a half from where I was actually standing. Then he adds, “deal with it.”

Now, I have been on both sides of this equation and my experience has pretty much always been that when someone accidentally takes cuts and it’s pointed out to them, they apologize and gracefully allow the person who’d been waiting to go ahead. This has happened to me when I’ve spoken up before and it’s happened when I was oblivious to someone waiting before me. I was really astonished that this guy was not only determined to be helped first, but was calling me names and chewing me out. I just had to speak up.

“I feel really sorry for your wife.” Oh-oh, did I just say that out loud? I must’ve because all of a sudden, Receding Hairline was in my face.

“You know what you are?” clearly this was a rhetorical question, “You are a fucking cunt!”

Holy shit. The wife pity comment must’ve really hit home. I can’t believe he just called me that. I didn’t want this clown to escalate any further and, clearly, it doesn’t take much.

“Get away from me with your filthy mouth.”

He continued with his colorful expletives. Man, I must’ve hit the jackpot – the wife must really hate him and he knows it.

“Can’t you see there are children around here?” Still, the guy wouldn’t stop. I raised my voice at least one decibel.

“Shut up and get away from me. NOW.”

I don’t know if I caught him off-guard with my raised voice or if he just ran out of expletives to sling at me, but he finally turned around and stomped off. His teen daughter was already in the parking lot waiting for him. Was she embarrassed? Or does she think that this is how one resolves a conflict? The sad thing is that I really did feel sorry for this guy’s wife! Imagine being married to someone who can’t admit to being wrong, considers women who stand up for themselves to be pushy bitches, and is rather quick to spew a string of expletives at anyone who calls him on his rudeness…

I was a little bit addled after this. Not how I imagined my Mother’s Day to begin. Perhaps next year I’ll get my mother something different for Mother’s Day.





*Vegequarium = One who is pretty much a vegetarian, but also eats fish. K was in preschool when she decided to become a vegetarian because her best pal, Fritz, was a vegetarian and she didn’t want to hurt animals. Shortly after this decision was made, we asked her what she wanted for dinner one night and she said, “sushi”! I asked her if she’d decided not to be a vegetarian after all and she looked at me quizzically. I reminded her that sushi is fish, which could be considered an animal. She thought about this for a minute and then said, “since I love sushi, I guess I’ll be a vegequarium then.”

one. two. three. jump!

The other night, my boss’ recently-come-of-age son, B, was bellied up to my bar drinking margaritas, for lack of anything better to do. B is an odd bird. A very odd bird. And not in the cool, interesting, artsy way either. B has horrendous social skills and an ill sense of boundaries. He is also unaware of the physical space he consumes and when he invades the physical space of others. At 21, he still lives at home with “Ma” and “Pa” (yes, he really calls them that), works part-time at the family business and has no aspirations to do otherwise. In other words, he is a little on the green side and, while curious about the world in which he lives, there is a lot out there that he just doesn’t get.

While I already knew this about B, this became even more clear as he attempted to converse with me on the subject of strippers. Now, anyone who knows me, knows that I am very much in favor of the sex industry and firmly believe that women who make a living stripping and such are simply working a job and deserve not to be judged or labeled or presumed about. In my earlier days, I would frequent the neighborhood strip club for a beer after work before heading home. I don’t go so frequently now, but only because of time/money/school and not because of some sort of moral opposition.

Like most American males, B was taken, by his father, to a strip club on his 21st birthday. Naturally, he had a ball and proceeded to spend subsequent evenings at similar clubs. Pretty normal stuff. Imagine my surprise, then, when, upon telling me that his best friend used to strip for four years (this, I already knew), he tells me how much this saddens him because it’s so disturbing to imagine her stripping across the street from where he would shop at the Target with his grandparents. I told him that I wasn’t too clear on what was disturbing about that and asked him how it was any different from if she’d been working at the Burger King across the street (except that she would have made less money at the Burger King).

B proceeded to “explain” to me that women strip because they are “forced into it” and that they “come from bad families” and that if they could take a different job, they would. Wow. What a crock of shit. At this point, I wasn’t certain that this was a conversation I could/should have with him. How can he go into their bars and watch them dance and then regard them as second class citizens with all of these assumptions about their families and their job/intellectual skills? How quick I was to become the angry feminist!

I asked B if he ever considered that perhaps women strip for a living because they want to? Or that perhaps they are paying their own way through school and stripping enables them to make the most amount of money in the least amount of hours worked? Or that they simply enjoy it? I surmise that women strip for quite a variety of reasons, including some not so savory explanations (to attend to a fierce drug habit, because they come from a screwed up family). I just don’t understand the moral backlash against strippers, as I see them as merely doing a job like anyone else. Is it because they are seductive? And isn’t that part of “their job”? It is part of my job to be friendly to folks I might not otherwise give the time of day. And maybe sometimes I may use charm and flirtatiousness to increase my gratuities – does that make me morally bankrupt? Or just a savvy bartender/businesswoman? If I went to watch a stripper dance and she was being all surly and “just going through the motions,” I might conclude that she was not doing her job well (unless I found her surliness and robotic behavior to be appealing, entertaining or somehow engaging). I just long for a time when women will be able to do with their bodies as they see fit and not be judged or construed to be lacking morals, common sense, intellect, personal freedom or otherwise.

Come again???

I've found that there are some people in our lives who ask us the same things again and again. Why is this? Are they not paying any attention to the responses the first time (or the second or the third, etc.)? Have they no other topics they can discuss with us? For how long will this continue? Should I say something? Would it seem rude if I did? Or do I just go on, answering their question for the zillionth time with the same response I always give them and marvel as their expression appears as though they are hearing the information for the first time?

Conversely, there are people who pay such careful attention that they catch me off guard with their retention of the things I have told them. Alison, who I work with, is one of those people. The other day when I told her that I spent the day helping my ex-husband move, she said, "Again? Didn't you just help him move?" Wow! That was about nine or ten months ago! And I'm certain I only mentioned it once in one of those "what are you doing this weekend?" conversations we sometimes have at work. I'm impressed with her ability to remember the insignificant details of the stories I tell. Does she remember things so well with everyone? She probably does - she works with the public a lot and I'm certain she hears many stories.

But of those who seem to fail to remember anything they are told...should I be offended? I usually am, just as I am impressed with those who remember what I have told them. Or should I just let it go and chalk it up to them being overwhelmed or having better, more important things to remember?

happy holidays?

My lovely wife completely digs on the holidays. Me, not so much. I'm certain I can attribute my lack of enthusiasm for all days send-a-card-worthy to my many years of working in the restaurant industry and having to contend with the fact that I'd be working on Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas, New Year's Eve, Valentine's Day and sometimes my birthday (as it falls on Mother's Day every six years). Thus, rather than bitching, moaning, and whining about my obligation to my employer, I decided some time ago that if I didn't care about the holidays, I wouldn't so much mind working during them. This tactic proved quite effective and, while I haven't been required to work Thanksgiving or Christmas since my days as a waiter and bartender long ago at the Heathman Hotel, I'm still expected to serve the hungry and thirsty masses on all of the other aforementioned holidays. Although I still never really look forward to working on these days, so infamously known in the restaurant industry as "amateur nights," I soldier forward nonetheless.

But, as I mentioned before, J loves the holidays. I'm not sure why, but she really really looks forward to them and enjoys making special plans to commemorate the day right down to a special meal and gifts commensurate with the theme of that particular holiday. She gets angry when I make fun of the holidays, particularly the ones I refer to as "Hallmark Holidays," such as Valentine's Day. There's no reason in my mind why we need to feel compelled to dine out exactly on February 14 and exchange tired roses and red-wrapped boxes of chocolates to prove our love to one another.

Easter is one of those holidays that I can pretty much take or leave. In fact, I could actually do without it. As an atheist-ish Buddhist, I can't wholly get behind the Christian sentiment of Easter and have yet to figure out what baskets and bunnies and marshmallow Peeps have to do with it all. Furthermore, why does everyone seem to go out for brunch on Easter? Needless to say, I haven't really been the model of what J had in mind when it comes to "how we should celebrate Easter." As far as I'm concerned, it's just another Sunday and should be treated as such. J, an avowed pagan, not only wants the candy-filled basket, but wants said basket hidden so that she can search relentlessly until she finds it. Partaking in this manifestation of how to do Easter just doesn't work for me, doesn't feel natural. Every year it seems we debate this and so rather than spending Easter my way (as if it were any other Sunday) or her way (as if the Easter Bunny had paid a visit), we typically spend the day arguing about how to spend the day...

This year it seems I won the argument, despite never actually having one, as we had a lovely morning enjoying our coffee and then went downtown to see a movie. At the conclusion of the emotional ringer that is Million Dollar Baby, we headed over to the Veritable Quandary for a stiff libation and a good burger and then came home and enjoyed a quiet evening playing cards. As there was no mention of the Easter Bunny or any of his/her tendencies, I thought I was finally free and clear, off the Easter hook until

this morning when J carries a package upstairs and I notice that it's decorated appropriately for the "holiday" with a basket, eggs, and even fake grass. Upon opening the package, J was delighted to find a "basket" of sweet and salty treats, Peeps and all. Without really thinking first, J then exclaims, "Oh! It was a good Easter after all." And who do we have to thank for making Easter happen in the most Easter appropriate manner??? Was it the Easter Bunny? No, it was J's Jewish (step)mother. The world works in funny ways, indeed.

is it bad to care only a little?

The last time I spoke to my grandma, she hung up on me. This was about three or so weeks ago when I was asking her to please stop attempting to convince my vegetarian daughter to eat meat and she denied ever having done so. It is likely that I will call her, possibly tonight when she is out to dinner with other family members (although I was not invited to that soiree...). This way I can leave her well wishes without having to speak to her. It's not that I'm holding a grudge. Really, I'm not. It's just that I refuse to do this anymore. They (mom, grandma, Angie) will say something hurtful to K and K will tell me. I will, in turn, explain to them that they have hurt K's feelings and that -intentional or no, it STILL hurts her feelings- I would like them to stop. They deny ever having done anything in the first place. I do not like this dance.

I still resent that my grandmother tricked me into believing that she was a kind and tolerant person. I think that she may be under the impression that I still believe this, yet whenever she fears that it is waning, she will spend just a little extra money on me to attempt to distract me. There was a time when that actually worked. I hate the evil things she says about her own daughter's husband's child and also about my sister's kids...who knows what she says about me behind my back? Well, actually, some of it has found it's way back to me: that she thinks I will "outgrow" being a dyke since it is just a phase I'm going through. Gee, grandma, what do you *really* think?