Category: Slice ‘o Life

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Handkerchiefs and Whisks and Chicken and Marriage

If you are young and in love, don’t read this post.  Seriously.  Don’t read this. You won’t get it.  The words will all sort of flow together, or look like Mandarin or Sanskrit or something.  They will disillusion you and make no sense whatsoever.  Go grab an US Magazine and call it a day.  I think Rhianna and Chris Brown are back together.  Pffft.

Today was my husband’s birthday.  I asked him yesterday what he wanted.  I kind of suck sometimes.  He told me roasted chicken.  Dammit.  I meant what did he want that I could buy.  I think he knew what I meant, but he still said roasted chicken.  I am not a roasted chicken kind of a gal.  I mean I love chicken.  I eat a lot of the stuff.  I just don’t prepare food that requires me to deal with bones and carcasses.  See?  I told you I suck.  I live in a world where beef and chicken grow on trees and have no relationship whatsoever to animals with faces.  Hashtag hypocrite.  I know.

Moving on.

My man asked for a roasted chicken.  He doesn’t ask for a lot.  Very little, actually.  Roasted chicken it would be.  Sigh.  I looked at a few cookbooks this morning then called and floated the idea of roasted chicken cutlets.  “It’s a Bittman recipe,” I sheepishly offered, certain he would agree.  He didn’t. Nope.  He wanted roasted chicken and wasn’t gonna let me off the hook.  I made a list and headed to the market.

Alright, let's do this.
Alright, let’s do this.

On the way I started thinking about what to give my man, the father of my children, the love of my life.  Handkerchiefs was what I came up with.  He really, really needs handkerchiefs.  I know this because I wash his handkerchiefs.  I think I just might be married to the only man in America without hair growing out of his ears and nose that uses a handkerchief.  I love this about him.  It’s charming and old-fashioned with a splash of eco-chic about it.  Did you know that it’s really hard to find handkerchiefs these days? True story.  It took me three stores, but Nordstrom did the trick. Nordstrom’s is the bomb.

But you can’t just give the love of your life handkerchiefs for his birthday.  I mean come on.  THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE DESERVES MORE.  Like a whisk.  Yes,  a whisk!  That seemed like a brilliant idea this afternoon.  The sun was shining, the light was brilliant, and my man needed a whisk.  He did. I have transitioned to the silicone variety and he hates them.  Hates them.  For months he’s been stubbornly whisking away with thinly bent rust with a handle.  Honestly.  It couldn’t have been healthy.  Well I marched into Crate and Barrel and bought my man the Cadillac of whisks today.  Two whisks, in fact, big and small.  And the gal behind the counter wrapped them up all pretty and that box looked a lot more expensive than it actually was.  Score.

At this point I was just avoiding going home because I knew that what awaited me was that chicken.  Ugh.  The damn chicken.  Surely my man needed something else to open up on his big day.  What could it be?  What. Could.  It.  Be.  Ahhh, yes!  Undershirts.  Much like the handkerchiefs, his undershirts had seen brighter days.  It was time.

My poor man.  This birthday would be the trifecta of middle-aged accoutrements as gifts.  Nothing says, “I love you,” like your wife gifting you the necessities of life.  The cheap necessities of life.  That got me thinking. Birthdays and anniversaries make me wistful.  Whiskful, too.

We were 31 when we got married.  It will be twelve years this May.  A dozen years of marriage.  That’s a long time.  Somedays it feels like yesterday, and somedays it feels like I’ve never not been married.  “Come Rain Or Come Shine” was sung at our ceremony.  If that’s not foreshadowing, I don’t know what is.

We had a beautiful wedding.  Small, simple, do it yourself before DIY was it’s own thing.  It was lovely.  I had our wedding vows laminated and we each carry a set in our wallets.  I take them out a couple times a year to remind myself.  Our words were simple and earnest.  A lot like us, I suppose.  We also had a friend read a poem called True Love by Judith Viorst.  

I read it now, twelve years later, my husband inches away playing Candy Crush Saga on his computer, and I laugh out loud.  What were we thinking?! That is who we are, my friends, and Lordy am I grateful for it.  “Despite cigarette cough, tooth decay, acid indigestion, dandruff, and other features of married life that tend to dampen the fires of passion / We still feel / something / We can call  / True love.”  Yes, these were some of the hallowed words spoken at our wedding.

The thing is, marriage is hard.  It is acid indigestion and dandruff and bad smells.  It is a lifetime of those things.  It is also a hand when you need it, a thumb wiping away a tear on your cheek, a roasted chicken on your birthday.

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can . . .
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can . . .

I love my husband.  I do.  I would marry him all over again today and feel really, really lucky about that.  When he asked for that roasted chicken, despite not wanting to do it, I did it.  Because that is marriage.  When I finally surrendered and gave up my anxiety over handling a dead bird, I loved it.  I loved every single second of the prep and the cooking.  I roasted the hell outta that bird and I liked it.  And it was delicious.  OMG, as the kids say, that bird was good.

And we smiled.  And we ate.  And the candles flickered.  And our boy laughed.  It was a good birthday.

That Ms. Viorst knew what she was talking about.  Marriage is not sexy.  It’s just not.  I mean, sure, it can be.  But the day in and day out is work, give and take, roasting a chicken when you don’t feel like it, and smiling when the pretty package reveals new handkerchiefs.  Work.  Beautiful, tender, loving work.

Happy birthday to my favorite husband.  I love you.  Here is to many more chickens together.

The fruits of my labor, enjoyed by both. Delicious.
The fruits of my labor, enjoyed by both. Delicious.

 

 

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Internet Hate: What You Don’t Know Might Hurt Me

Yesterday, I called “Uncle.”  I was done.  Over.  Wounded.  A tearful, salty mess on Valentine’s Day, when I thought I was long past those days.  It wasn’t my husband or long lost secret crush that brought me to that place, but strangers.  Yep, freaking strangers on the Internet.

I know, someone call the wahmbulance.  Mary Tyler Mom got her feelings hurt.  Boo to the hoo.

Truth is, I have been at the receiving end of some fairly hard core Internet hate for weeks now.  And for the record, I use the true definition of hate as it was intended, “intense and passionate dislike,” that results in malicious attempts to hurt or harm others.  Disagreement is not what I mean.  There are lots and lots of folks who disagree with me and my POV and that is always welcome.  Hate is irrational, disagreement is rational.  And welcome.

When a piece I wrote about adoption was featured on the Huffington Post last month, it attracted the attention of a particularly rabid subculture of haters.  Ones that I didn’t know even existed.  That was a wake up call.  And the hate was significant and brutal enough where I severed an agreement made with my editors over there to publish any future post I wrote about adoption.  That hurt, as I had fanciful hopes that our next child coming to us through adoption might be found through my writing, and The Huffington Post is a national platform where my words are exposed to a whole new set of eyes.

This week the hate has been much more contained, and with less volume, but no less personal and biting.  I dared write about my feelings related to the language used to describe sick and deceased children.  My feelings on my blog.  Well, 1,300 of you “liked” it, and man, did that feel validating, as many that I heard from were other parents of sick and deceased children who felt the same way.

What didn’t feel so good were the parents of sick and deceased children who did not feel the same way, and sadly, felt shamed and criticized by me.  Yeah, that was not my intent.  Ever.  What works for me does not work for everyone.  Of course, that is the case, but because I have a voice and use it and that voice is recognized, it carries some weight.  My intent with “Angels and Warriors” was to cast a bright light on words and language and to explain how the words and language most commonly used to describe my Donna never felt good or right or comforting.  End of story.

Honestly, I knew the “Angels and Warriors” post would cause a stir.  I did.  I knew it was a risk because I was removing a defense.  As a trained clinical social worker, I know that a cardinal rule of therapy is NOT to remove a defense if you have nothing to replace it.  My words did just that:  I trashed the defense that employs metaphors and romanticized imagery of angels and warriors to describe children with cancer.  I knew and accepted that risk going in, knowing that it would most likely hurt some parents I know and respect who take comfort with those metaphors and imagery.

Because I write so openly about Donna and pediatric cancer, I get a tremendous amount of support from those near and far.  Many, many of the kind notes I receive refer to Donna as an angel and me as a warrior.  Each time I read a note of support I feel grateful, but each time I am called a warrior or Donna is called an angel, it stings.  If I am a warrior, that means I am some sort of super hero that can handle each and every thing that comes my way.  If Donna is an angel, it means that she is flitting amongst the clouds, happy and peaceful as a clam.

Here is the truth.  I am a mom.  Right this very second I am sitting at my dining room table writing these words.  My dishwasher is humming in the next room, the clothes are moving through their own wash cycle downstairs.  My boy is playing with some Lego trains about ten feet away.  I am a mom.  No  more, no less.  I have no weapons, no shields, no super powers.  I am a mom with a keyboard.

Now I get that that can be a powerful thing.  Clearly, or neither of us would be here, right?  And I work hard to honor the power my words hold for folks.  I always employ respect.  I have grown that way.  I used to trash Gwyneth Paltrow for fun.  It’s not fun anymore, since I realized that when I trash Gwyneth in a clever and pithy way, others take it as a cue to call her a word used to describe female genitalia that I choose not to use.  Me making fun of her calling Chicago BBQ “meat heavy” was suddenly translating into a whole lot of heavy, ugly hate.  I stopped that.  I am happy I did so.

Me writing about the defenses we use to cope with pediatric cancer also lead to a whole lot of heavy, ugly hate.  My beautiful Donna and other children whose parents had commented to offer support were being exploited and called horrible, twisted things.

That is not okay.  And, yeah, dammit, I have feelings about that.

Apparently, having feelings about Internet hate that is being heaped and piled on me is a silly thing to do.  I am told time and time and time again to ignore the hate.  Move on.  Embrace my supporters.  Rise above.  Don’t let the haters win, blah, blah, blah.

That’s all fine and good.  Honestly, I wish I were a better, stronger writer that could do that.  Truth is, as already pointed out, I am a mom at her dining room table.  Not a warrior.  Not a super hero with deflective powers.  When people suggest I am a cold, thieving, narcissistic, heartless, self-righteous, baby stealing mother of worm food, yeah, guess what?  IT HURTS.

Don’t feed the beast, I am told.  Don’t respond to the hate, is the rule.  Here’s the deal.  I don’t make the rookie mistake of feeding the trolls.  I never responded once to the Huff Post hate, which is it’s own premium, top shelf brand of hate.  Not once.  I was, though, guilty of reading the hateful things about me.  Yep.  Guilty of that.  And made to feel stupid and weak because of that.  Just walk away, I was told.  Don’t read it.

I gots to say, I have a whole new level of empathy for kids bullied through social media.  It pulls you in, it does.  I am trying and learning, but my first time as a target of lots and lots and lots of hate, I failed.  I read every sick and twisted word about me.  Yep, I did.  And I kept it to myself for the most part.  Just me and the hate.  Opted not to write about it.  Opted not to send the amazing followers of this here blog and Facebook page to the site to defend me.  Nope.  Didn’t do any of that.  I am guilty of just reading it and carrying that shit around with me until it wears off.  My defense with Huff Post was to opt out of publishing anything that makes me or my family too vulnerable.  The sad truth is that I haven’t written a single thing about adoption since.  I am still feeling bruised and battered.

In my own safe place, here at MTM,  I ban and delete when I see offensive remarks,  as soon as I am near a device that will allow me to do that.  But if I am out with my boy and waiting for him to get out of school, and happen to check my comments in the car and see some hard core, hateful garbage written by a pathetic stranger taunting me?  Well, I have no way to deal with that on an iPhone.  This here MTM enterprise is me.  Just me.  There are no other admins, no one managing the fires at home.  Just me.  And as has been made patently clear, I lack the super hero street cred and yep, have pesky feelings that get hurt.

But damn if I will stop.  Writing is release and connection and probably the single healthiest thing I do for myself.  It hurts like freaking hell when people shit on that.  It does.  My go to response is to withdraw, hole up, and seek comfort in chocolate and a down comforter.  My haters would love that, wouldn’t they?  Such is the price I pay for exposing my vulnerabilities on this here Internet.

Cowardly haters love to say that when you put yourself out there, as I do, you best expect folks to have a response, and it won’t always be pretty.  Problem with that logic is that the same rationale is used to blame the victim in rape cases — “She asked for it,” “She was dressed provocatively,” “She was walking alone at night,” yada yada yada.  That is not acceptable.  I do not mean to diminish the pain and suffering of rape victims, nor to equate my hurt and bruised feelings with those of a rape victim, only to demonstrate how hate works in our culture and on the Internet.  People who violate others, either tangibly or intangibly, will always suggest they were provoked, that their hateful actions are justified.

By writing about my family’s wish to adopt and by writing about how I cope in my grief, I do not ask to be sliced and diced on the Internet.  But I am and it hurts.  My words cost me, expressing my opinions and POV cost me something.  The question, then, becomes, how much am I willing to pay?  How much am I willing to share?  How much am I willing to expose?  I hate that the onus is on me, but truth is truth.  The onus is on me.

I am figuring it out.  In the meantime, fuck you, haters.  Seriously, fuck you.

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Selling Pantyhose and Other Indignities of Life

My first job after college was selling pantyhose for Carson Pirie Scott at the River Oaks Mall in Calumet City, Illinois.  I was crushed.  Selling pantyhose was not what I had signed up for.  I had a degree, yo!  I had done everything I was supposed to do, yo!  I was better than this, yo!

Ha!  I look back now and want to tell my 21 year old self to cry me a river. Boo hoo, sweetie, life is rough.

Sometimes I think about those years and how lost I felt.  Entitled, too, to be sure.  Lost and entitled is the plight of most 20-somethings, isn’t it?  I would stand behind the counter and ring up the sales and wonder what on earth I was doing there.  On a good day, I got to switch to the Coach counter and sell handbags to the fancy ladies.  Then, inevitably, I would trudge back to legwear and listen to the excuses the gals would make while handing me their worn hose with runs in them, “This had a run coming out of the package!”  I never believed them, but what did I care?  It wasn’t my money I had to return.

Pantyhose suck.

After a year of that nonsense, I followed my Dad’s advice (my Dad whose roof I was living under), and found a secretarial job in “the City,” as surburbanites like to call Chicago.  What an ego blow that was.  Yet again, another attack of, “I have a degree!  I am smart!”  As if secretaries are not smart or degreed.  My 22 year old self had a lot to learn, too.

Turns out, my Dad was the smart one.  “Getting my foot in the door,” as he used to call it, was the best thing I could have ever done for myself.  I had some $ for the first time.  I got a sense of how little I knew about the world.  I got a thirst for the City and living an adult life independent from my parents and family.

My eyes were opened and I liked what I saw.

There were clubs and crushes and socializing and a first apartment.  I spent too much money on a DKNY top that I called my “magic sweater,” cause when I wore it out to the clubs, I magically never had to pay for a single drink.  I took a four week vacation and tramped through Europe with my college roommate, flopping in hostels and oogling Italian men.  I was still a squirrel then, so I didn’t take advantage of the fifty cent beer in Prague, and was shocked (shocked, I tell you) by the proliferation of semen stains on the thin hostel mats.  Come to think of it, I didn’t take advantage of the Italian men, either. Pffft.

Life was good.  Life was great.

After a while, though, I wanted something more.  I wanted meaning in my life.  Meaning was very important to my 24 year old self.  I applied to three graduate schools of social work and was rejected by all of them.  Sigh.  But, dammit, I wanted meaning and I would have meaning!  I spent some time volunteering — adult literacy tutoring and rape crisis counseling.  I applied again.  I was accepted.  Hooray!

The cheap thrills and expensive shoes were no longer so important to me.  I was a grad student, serious and committed.  My admission essay was about the parallels between me and Jane Addams.  Egads, I was insufferable.  I cut my hair super short and started wearing glasses instead of contacts.  I fell in love, really fell in love.

Life was good.  Life was great.

I left my secretarial position to focus on school completely.  Twenty years later, I am still paying the student loans for that year of intense focus. Graduation came bearing down and I got nervous.  Transitions always make me nervous.  Would I be selling pantyhose again?  I accepted the first job that was offered to me, a month before graduation, as a therapist in an outpatient group program for mentally ill older adults.  Glamourous.

A close friend from graduate school accepted the same position and we wonked out together as newly minted therapists.  She was amazing, this gal.  Really smart, really driven.  We would “process” together every day after group therapy.  She made me a better clinician.  But still, I was unhappy.  I wanted out.  After two years in graduate school, I had accepted a job where not only was I responsible for the mental health of a bunch of older adults, but I also helped them in the toilet and drove them home in the 15 passenger van we used every afternoon.

Again, I was crushed, lost, and entitled.  (Are you sensing a theme yet?)  What I was doing did not resemble the therapy position I had imagined for myself.  It was my dear friend who set me straight.  She educated me about the significance of wiping your elder’s bottom, them sitting across from them in a group therapy session — if you could gain that person’s trust, BAM, you could gain any person’s trust.  She was right.  But I was still pretty miserable.

Sometimes, folks, life is not what we want it to be.  We think life betrays us, that we don’t deserve the circumstances we find ourselves in.  That we are due better, more, different.

I am so grateful for my time selling pantyhose and wiping the bums of mentally ill older adults.  I deserve nothing.  I only deserve what I make, what I create, what I strive for.  Those years of feeling resentful and betrayed by life were a better education, by far, than my college or graduate degrees.  Those years taught me about humility and patience and strength and weakness and compassion and empathy that all existed within me, but I hadn’t quite yet tapped into.

I hope I am smarter now, and less entitled.  More found than lost.

Regardless, pantyhose still suck.