Category Archives: Bitchfest

Back end

Posted on by
9

Object is much smaller than it appears

I found this unhatched robin’s egg on the lawn, abandoned for whatever reason. Being the person I am, I couldn’t walk away. I cupped my hand and carefully lifted the egg from the grass, nesting it on my palm for the short walk inside.  I set it in a small ceramic pinch bowl and considered it for a few minutes. Did the egg plummet from a nearby nest?  Is it a stolen egg dropped by a panicky, clumsy predator? Worst of all, did it pop out of the old girl while she was worm hunting?

The answers aren’t important. These past few weeks have been havoc on my patience and will. My husband answers my complaints of every day veering madly off course and what about all my plans and goals with ‘this is the stuff of life.’

Buck up, sister. I’m glad I have his voice of reason even if it sometimes makes me want to strangle until an egg pops out.

Sometimes it’s just too many lost eggs, too many scatter-brained middle-age mother moments, too many predators peering in the blinds, too many embarrassing moments when you’re worm hunting and something unexpected pops out of your back end.

 

Deal or no deal?

Posted on by
15

Someone I met recently shared some potentially deal-breaking information with me. The kind of information that makes you think you jumped in too fast. It was personal, but necessary, information. This made me realize how much I judge, shape an opinion, decide the worthiness of someone,  and how much of it is based on appearances.

In this case: my opinion was very high because this man is always very well-dressed,  mild-mannered, eloquent, and impossibly polite by today’s standards. It’s as if he just stepped down from a Victorian-era hansom with top hat and walking stick in hand. I mean this in the most complimentary way. He always appears to be the epitome of the true gentle man.

Then, because we are considering working on a project together, we began talking via e-mail. There came a turning point, when he had to bare a small part of his soul, something only those who need to know know,  in order for me to gauge whether I could take on the project.  I didn’t see it coming. I’ll admit I had to take a deep breath and process.  I was thankful this happened virtually rather than face-to-face because my expression may have betrayed my feelings.

The man he is today is the result of a painful process involving grievous mistakes and inescapable consequences. There’s probably a lot more that I don’t know — but might if I sign on to this one. So, what now? Walk away? Proceed with caution but draw clear boundaries? Forge ahead without prejudice?

Would I have been less shocked if he was a slovenly, ill-mannered sort of person? Why did appearances play so heavily in this matter? How well do we know anyone in our lives?

This got me thinking about my life and how I seem to others. If you don’t know my back story, you could come up with any number of conclusions about me. I’ve heard them all. I’m sure you’ve had similar experiences. I could go to the same store dressed two different  ways and receive very different treatment. If I go in a skirt, makeup applied and hair styled, I get attention. If I go in paint-splattered pants, bare-faced, hair twisted in a clip, I’m ignored. I’m treated one way when I’m with my children at the park, quite another when I’m at a concert venue in high heels. Is this fair? Is this right? I don’t know but it’s the way of things.

Recently I gave up trying to be friends with someone. I thought we clicked, that we would be fast friends. At first I think we were, then something changed. I don’t know what I did; I can only assume I committed a deal breaker. Slowly it occurred to me that she was dumping me.

She started saying things like: I thought you hated (insert name of my favorite band/food/wine/restaurant.) so I didn’t ask/invite you.  She started recalling details about me that were not my story: that I had carpal tunnel syndrome, that I was a homebody who never liked to go out, that I contradicted myself.

It hit me then: She didn’t know me at all and really didn’t want to. She just reached a hand into the junk drawer of her brain and pulled out scraps to form her idea of me. She had already made up her mind.

Deal breaker.

 

What did you just say?

Posted on by
15

People are made in China, too.

We all do it.

The brain issues the statement and the mouth broadcasts it faster than the censors can hit the bleep button.

Then, my dear, you are in the throes of an awkward moment.

Recently, I found myself on the receiving end of one while volunteering in Girl from the East’s kindergarten classroom.

In case you are new here, Girl from the East was born in China. She is an American citizen through adoption. She is the world to us.

Girl is six years old. We became a family in 2006 when she was just under 11 months old. Everyone who knows us well knows our dynamic. Although we cannot shield her from the ignorance and hate of the outside world, we are fortunate to travel in fairly educated and enlightened circles.

But when something changes, like starting a new school, we have to start fresh. We have to go through the shit — again.

So it came as a kick to the gut during a classroom holiday party when one of the volunteer parents uttered an insensitive statement for everyone to hear.

Apparently upset that the plastic glue bottle would not produce a dot of adhesive for him in a timely manner, he began banging the container on the craft table. Then, he stood up, handed the glue bottle to the teacher and said something close to this:

“Another useless piece of crap from China.”

OK. I know. We are in an election year. The anti-China rhetoric is blowing around like trash in the streets. We, especially those of us in the Rust Belt, gripe about the outsourcing of manufacturing to overseas factories. We all grumble that things are not made to last.  I’m just as upset about it as you are.

As I mentioned, my daughter was made in China, quite possibly to hard-working farmers, or severely overworked and under-compensated factory workers. It is not the fault of the collective overseas workforce that products are inferior. Look to the greedy corporations, suppliers and governments. Many of these factory workers travel hundreds of miles away from their home villages to earn wages to support their whole family. Some have children they never see.  It is an ugly situation and we all suffer the consequences of it through low-quality and sometimes tainted goods as well as job loss right here in the United States. It is a huge problem.

Please direct your anger where it belongs. Boycott products and companies that take part in these practices. Write letters. Start a movement. Please do not China bash, especially in front of my daughter or your children or anyone of Asian appearance.

Telling me, oh, I thought she was Korean, does not make it OK.

Our classroom is somewhat diverse. We have a racial and ethnic mix. Open bashing of any of the other races or ethnicities is unheard of in today’s hyper-sensitive school climates. Yet, China bashing is rampant.

My daughter is proud of her roots. She is too young to understand the complicated relationship between the United States and China (heck, I don’t get it, either.)  She is too young to understand things like Communism and the Cultural Revolution and emerging capitalism. She’s just a kid.

We teach her there are good and bad people in China. Good and bad businesses in the United States. We must take things on a case-by-case basis.

I haven’t forgotten that day or those words. I’m still wondering what to do. I started writing a proactive type of letter that could be distributed via the school’s weekly newsletter, but it doesn’t seem like enough.

Why didn’t I call him out? Why didn’t I pull him aside afterward? I’ve done that before to little satisfaction on anyone’s part. Perhaps I’m not the most diplomatic. Perhaps those who say such things are firm in their beliefs and are just twitching to engage in debate.  When I approached an offending parent at toddler play group a few years back, she vehemently stood behind her words, asserting that there is no correlation between statements of inferior products and the people of a nation. She suggested I grow thicker skin because the issue isn’t going away.

I’m not going anywhere, either. The day I held my Girl from the East for the first time was the day I knew I’d taken on an extra duties, ones that require added defense and offense for the inter-country adoption community.

So, please, take a moment to think about the source of your anger. Think about your audience. Think about the innocent people you might hurt with your uncensored remarks.

Thank you.

 

 

Enhanced by Zemanta

Putting the ow in wow

Posted on by
11

Remember a few weeks ago when I mentioned my right knee made a sound like a chip bag being crumpled? Remember how I made it sound like it was a funny thing?

Even funnier is now I have a matched set. Two knees that sound like crumpling cellophane when I kneel or try to lunge or squat in exercise.

Maybe I can sell them on eBay.

Do I need new knees? I’ve saved for a good pair of running shoes. Oh, and one of those titanium sports bras. Now, it looks like knee braces are on the list. But not new knees, oh god, no.

Getting old — older — sucks just like I thought it would.

As you may be aware, I have all these goals for the summer and beyond. Goals that need a higher level of fitness. Call these things carrots or brass rings or whatever. I use them as motivators to get in the best shape of my life.

So, what happened on the sweaty road from fat to fit?

Failure is not an option is my mantra. Since October I’ve worked hard to reach a goal that seemed impossible.

Two weeks ago, the tiniest tip of my big toe lightly brushed against that goal. I was so wowed by this I lost all sense.

Suddenly I was Jaime Sommers, the bionic woman. As I ran I heard that ch-ch-ch-CH-CH sound in my head. At least until the first commercial break, then I fell down a flight of steps, bolts and screws flying in all directions, my toe miles from any goal. Back to the lab.

I pushed myself too fast, too soon. I attempted to work through the pain, like I thought you were supposed to do. Turns out there are subtle differences between a sore muscle and inflamed tissue. Turns out I do not have a degree in sports medicine or physical therapy. Turns out my journalism degree is good only if I employ the research aspect.

Sure, I downloaded training schedules, read articles on the process, talked to others.  But if the order for the day said run 2.5 miles, I said, fuck it, I’ll go for three.

Turns out that at a certain age that is not the best workout plan. Turns out my parts are not titanium like the sports bra I covet.

Now, instead of sweating and feeling the burn, I’m on the couch icing my legs and losing the battle of willpower with those boxes of Girl Scout cookies in the pantry.

What is the sound of patience? Better yet, can I buy it on eBay?

 

 

Enhanced by Zemanta

Sorry …

Posted on by
34

Sorry, I'm a bit of a flake.

“Can’t you just e-mail me with this stuff?”

Words coated in ice, slippery with sleet, sliding down my sensitive little back. They don’t roll off and shatter at my feet. They stick at the small of my back.

My ex-husband — father of my Girl from the West, a beautiful young woman now who reached legal age this week — chose these words in response to my phone call on our daughter’s birthday. This is what he had to say when I summoned the courage to call him to say, Hey! Our baby is all grown up. Imagine that?

I was being maudlin, thinking of that winter-storm level snow day in 1994, tethered to that hospital bed, hooked up to countless monitors and a pitocin drip, waiting for this unknown quantity to blast into our lives. And now, here she is, fully grown and ready to take on the world.

Of course, I know better than to just dial up without a good reason. He is not a chatterbox type. I called to discuss what to do about her medical insurance, college loan applications, and the like. I thought I’d lead in with the obvious, to rise above the politics of our divorce.

Sorry …

I retold the story to my mother a few days later, as a way to illustrate how people can be so disappointing and how we have to move on. She harbors her own disappointment with me, apparently, and grabbed my words mid-air and lobbed them back at me. She does not and never will support most of my choices. She’ll always think I could have done better. It’s useless to complain to her about a messy bed when I am the one who tangled the sheets. She is of the school that you take your licks or you rewrite the story in your head until you believe it.

Sorry …

And here is where I have a small epiphany. Maybe the one who was the physical abuser was the least of the matter. Emotional/verbal abuse slithers around me almost continuously and I am color blind to its stripes. I’m rewriting my story, too.

Sorry …

Last fall I had a long phone conversation with my brother, who lives thousands of miles away from all this. He was telling me why he decided not to come home for the holidays. He felt the message he was getting was one of disappointment. That his choices, his lifestyle, were unacceptable to my mother and that he was tired of justifying his life to her.

“I think, sometimes, that she’s upset because she can’t brag about us at the knitting circle,” I said. It was a bonding/healing moment for us.

I’m sorry — sometimes — that I returned from the estrangement arrangement.

I am sorry I didn’t accept your gift of baptism. I’m sorry you can’t understand my need to question the existence of a god or for doubting so-called sacred texts.

I am sorry you don’t notice I have a brain and that I use it to question everything.

I am sorry that no amount of perfection will ever be perfectly perfect enough for your level of perfectness.

I am sorry that I often model this behavior with the ones I love.

I am sorry that I don’t take more of my advice.

I am sorry that it takes me so long to recognize abuse.

I am sorry that I allow others to decide what makes me a good person.

I’m sorry I’m not warmer, more huggy and kissy, and loving and giving.  (I want so badly to be that person.)

I am sorry I am born of such cold people.

I am trying to thaw.

Sorry it’s taking so long.

Edenland's Fresh Horses Brigade
I am hooked on Edlenland’s weekly Fresh Horses Brigade. That woman challenges me every week. Cheaper than therapy, I tell you.

Dealing with disappointment

Posted on by
11

by anon de plume via creative commons

Ever since the first time a boy said, “I’ll call you” and didn’t, I’ve had trouble coping with disappointment. I figured like other things in life: learning how to balance a checkbook, checking the oil in your car, knowing what RSVP means, I’d get better at it.

Yeah, not so much.

The past six weeks have been the ultimate “I’ll call you, babe.”

Instead of a phone call, we’ve been waiting, waiting, and waiting, then losing hope, then worrying, then wondering what legal action we might pursue, to get money owed to us. Money earned for hard work. Money that was to finance our Christmas. Big money. Money to pay bills. Money for milk and cat food and gas for the car. Money to get us through the lean, post-Christmas weeks.

While I waited for the mail every day, I moved through the spectrum of emotions: denial, anger and depression. I suppose I’m at acceptance. Maybe.

Isn’t this The Most Wonderful Time of the Year? Aside from the first Christmas after my father died (which felt hollow and forced as we went through the motions) and the one following my divorce (not having my only child on Christmas Eve was hard), this has been a bleak season.

Before we knew, we began planning an amazing Christmas. We plotted one really nice gift for each family member. We ordered tickets to Greenfield Village, we decided to host dinner on the 25th, something we haven’t been able to do in a few years due to our financial hardship. We even talked about getting away for a few days.

My husband bore the brunt of this disappointment, as he’d planned it all out so carefully. I bore the brunt of the added stress, as I’d spent so much of the money before it arrived. Neither of us could have predicted this outcome. Anyone who has ever been on shaky footing financially knows that one bad turn of luck picks up speed at a scary pace, especially when you are slowly rebuilding your safety net. It doesn’t take much  to rip it to pieces.

I said yes to social events, but I felt myself entangled in the growing web of white lies. I lied to spare other people the story during this happy time of year. I lied to protect myself because such stories are inadvertent invitations for constructive criticism and suggestions on how we might “do it next time” or worst of all, some veiled appeal for money. I was very careful to stay sober. Once not too long ago, lubricated with alcohol, I talked.

I retreated to reflect. I was all over the place. One day happy that I could have a simple, low-budget holiday, relieved of shopping mall and tree trimming duty. The next day I was bitter with disappointment. Every Facebook post, almost very blog entry, was of something wonderful happening to someone else.  I felt like I was watching it all through a one-way glass.

Finally, we had to concede defeat. We called to cancel, reschedule, decline. We pared the holiday down to its roots: candles and stockings and gifts only for the children (thankfully I’d shopped in advance). Our hosted dinner became a potluck. We confided in our closest relatives and they came through for us. I suppose that is the real meaning of Christmas. I have gratitude for these acts of kindness.

Throughout all of this, I’ve been reminded that it could be so much worse.  This is true but it has not helped ease the disappointment.

I’d like to say I was able to take the long view here and see that this is just a blip on a continuum of constant change. I think both my girls sailed through OK. One is old enough to understand; the other still young enough to enjoy the simple pleasures. Even my husband seems to have moved on.

So much more could be said about fiscal responsibility of families as well as businesses, the excesses of the holidays, unrealistic expectations and my own stubborn behavior.

But I am done. For now.

 

Enhanced by Zemanta

Just say it

Posted on by
Reply

There is nothing subtle about this. The cat knows we are leaving and he wants to come along.
Cats don’t mess around. Give them what they want and they are pleased. Mess up in the delivery of water and kibble or forget to scoop the litter box clean and you’re bound to step in a warm surprise on the staircase.

It’s the same with children. Slip some water wings on Girl from the East, let her splash in a hotel pool until her fingers and toes turn to prunes, feed her a plate of macaroni and cheese, let her have a sugary dessert and all is right in her world.

Children let us know what they want. They ask. We answer. Sometimes there are tantrums. Unpleasant as those outbursts are, we know how they feel and they know where we stand on an issue.

Then we grow up and become vague adults. We assume things. We talk in riddles. We hold grudges and pile on the baggage. We don’t say what we mean or ask for what we want. We allow ourselves to be manipulated or attempt and fail to micro-manage the lives of everyone around us.

Then, one morning, someone stands up and shouts: Enough!

The morning after that someone else wakes up alone, with no plans for the day and asks: Why? What did I do?

 

No-fight club

Posted on by
1

Despite what my husband thinks (*ahem*) I do not like fights. I end up in them sometimes because I lack a filter. I let things tumble out of my mouth.  I react first and think second. So, yeah, there are those clashes that build and erupt like thunderstorms on an August afternoon.

What I like even less than the one-on-one encounters is going up against the Goliaths. A few years back, I engaged in a legal battle with my former employer. It was stressful. I did not prevail in the end.

Now, it looks like something simmering on the stove has potential to boil over. I cannot reveal many details; I don’t want to hurt my chances.

I’ll say this: We pay dearly for this product and now the company is saying it doesn’t want me as a customer anymore because it feels I have withheld information on my initial application. Further, had it known these “things,” it wouldn’t have touched me with a long, sanitized pole. It has done some investigating of my past, it says, and found things it doesn’t like. If I cannot document and justify these “things” in a convincing way, they are pulling the plug. Fighting words.

All this came out of nowhere.  It makes me wonder. There are many battles in progress out there. I wonder sometimes, on a larger scale, what it really means.

A few weeks ago, when I told my story to a stranger at a forum on issues about this industry, she looked me in the eye and said, “You are screwed.”

I didn’t believe her. I don’t now. But that doesn’t mean I’m not scared. There will be a fight. Large or small I do not know. Win or lose, I have to try.

Unless it’s all a dream.

 

Just say no to buzz kills

Posted on by
2

The problem that really keeps me up at night is feline AIDS.

Girl from the West used to call me Eeyore, because I tend to have lowered expectations and accept bad outcomes as if they were my destiny.

Then, Saturday Night Live gave us Debbie Downer.  Now, Girl from the West gives me a figurative kick in the shins  – followed by a loud “wah waaah” (the sad trombone)  – when I turn down certain conversational roads. So when someone remarks on how the sunlight feels so good on their skin and I get all:  better put on SPF 250; those ultra-violet rays will turn you into a walking melanoma, she gives me “the look” and a quick sad trombone. Hint.

Debbie Downers. Buzz kills. No one likes them. No one wants to be one. Yet, it happens. Do we know it when we are being one?

Sometimes I slip into the role, generally when my mom pants are notched too tight, when I think I’m being helpful, or wise, or worrying every little thing to shreds.

Recently I was on the receiving end of a Double-D Debbie Downer. It was a sad experience and a good reminder to check myself.

Someone I’ve known for many years invited me to lunch for my birthday. She encouraged me to pick the place. So I chose a fabulous breakfast/lunch diner in town that I thought she might like. The first sign of trouble came as she began snapping the one-page menu back and forth with such force it created a stiff breeze. It was as if all her anger over my choice of restaurant was compressed in that laminated slip of paper. It was as if the chef personally designed a menu to alienate her digestive tract.

I could feel a perfect storm brewing. I made a few menu suggestions. All were rejected. I said maybe she could ask the waitress for some ideas. Instead, when the waitress asked for our orders, I placed mine and she quickly ordered the same thing, handing back both menus before I could protest.

(You know how this is going to end, don’t you?)

The complaints started coming two bites into the Tex-Mex breakfast burrito. It was too spicy. It had onions, too many onions. And too much cheese; do you know how bad cheese is for you? Why didn’t I tell her the burrito had this stuff in it?

All the joy I felt being in my favorite diner eating my favorite meal, drinking my favorite coffee drained out of me, quickly replaced with guilt: for picking this restaurant, for not helping her find something on the menu she’d like, for not knowing all her dietary restrictions and issues, for having the audacity to be hungry, for not conveniently dying during the year so we wouldn’t have to celebrate my birthday.

In one final act of rejection, she set down the fork, pushed away the plate and grabbed her napkin.

She’d just have coffee, she said, dabbing her brow, but that ended up being too caffeinated, too hot and in too big of a mug. Also, the restaurant was loud. And the plates were too round. As I continued eating in silence, she got up from the table and went to the restroom. For a long time.

Fuck.

We’d have to leave soon, she said when she came back.

She paid and we parted ways. I went home; she, I suppose, began a three-day cleanse.  I made a mental note to keep tabs on my negativity and the need to have things my way. I also promised myself I would spend less time around people who pick apart everything to the point of being a destructive, negative influence.

Buzz kills. Debbie Downers.

I started out my day on a happy note. But one Tex-Mex burrito and coffee later I was depressed.

Wah-waaaaaaah!

 

Enhanced by Zemanta

The new normal

Posted on by
4

rshartley via creative commons

Forget about setting schedules, syncing calendars, or crafting some semblance of normalcy in my life. It’s not going to happen. Even though my soul craves order and organization, the universe thinks otherwise.

After giving myself a month to just relax and enjoy life home alone, October was the month of getting back into it — whatever “it” is supposed to be. I was going to polish the résumé, network a little to find freelance jobs, go to the career center for advice, research graduate degree programs, sign up for job retraining, reinvent the wheel.

Yeah, right.

Here it is Nov. 3 and none of those things happened. The networking event? Ended up falling on one of those teacher planning days. Training session last week? Had to cancel when Girl from the West’s car died in a far-off subdivision. I’ve been the go-to parent for the last few weeks while husbands and fathers traveled to far-off regions for their work. Seems as though every time I make a plan to move forward, the universe makes another plan.

Did I mention I took on a big project with a short deadline?

My inner wonder woman refuses to concede defeat. I keep thinking if I do things differently, they’ll come out in my favor. Is it any surprise that I have relapsed?

This is my new normal and I’m just going to have to accept it for now. Swimming against the current just gets me sick and crazy. I don’t want to be sick.  I have two sick kids in my house now. I don’t want to be crazy. I want to buck the family trend.

So, in a big middle finger to the universe, I’m participating in National Blog Posting Month for the second time. My first NaBloPoMo began while on a junket to Vegas with full-blown pneumonia, why not do it again with a raging case of the hives?

Life is good.

 

Enhanced by Zemanta