Strange and Beautiful

My friend's first child was born tonight. She is a perfect soft pink bundle of limbs and cries and is strange and beautiful in the way that only new life can be. I watched with her grandparents as she was measured and prodded and wiped and swaddled. Her first moments taking place under shocking bright lights while her father stood in hospital scrubs and held her tiny hand and tried to comfort her with the gentle touch of his soft, wrinkled fingers skimming her fuzzy little head.

He is a feminist filmmaker, former member of an otherwise all girl punk band, and has been married to this tiny person's mother for 14 years. He was made to be the father to a daughter. He will be amazing at it. She will feel empowered and supported and have a unique confidence in her interactions with men that will come from the perfect security she will always know in the love of her father.

I'm incredibly happy for him and for his wife. I am in awe. I am shaken. I am joyful.

_____________

It is strange to find in myself conscious thought about something I normally don't question. But I cannot help but think about this now. Today. In this moment.

I will never be a parent. No one will ever call me mama. My uterus will always go unused, never fulfilling its biological purpose. This strange organ that can make life, can create a dizzying miracle, will labor through only the motions of it's cycle until it gives even that up altogether.

I have chosen this, so I have no justification for this odd moment of inner conflict. After 20 years of being sexually active and having never so much as a scare, I may not be able to conceive - this potential for anything else may only be an illusion to me, a sorrow I will never truly have to confront. But I had a harrowing childhood. A childhood of hurt and hollow and scars that never completely go away. The kind of childhood that seems a bit like a gothic novel or a horror story when I forget to forget it. And I have struggled in my own relationships with the several parents that have been a part of my life, and watched their struggles with the children they have raised. So by the time I was ten years of age, I had decided. I could never be a parent.

My whole life people have told me how good I would be as a mother. But the truth is I'm scattered and fragile and always rushing to catch up and never financially stable enough, never grown up enough, have never become the person I would want to be in order to have a child. And if I want to be really honest with myself, brutally honest, the men in my life have always been scattered and fragile and rushing to catch up and never financially stable enough, never grown up enough... or if they were? They didn't want a child with me.

In some quiet part of myself I imagine a version of me who is like my grandmother. She was short like me and sharp like me and gregarious like I sometimes can be. I adored her. She had one girl and five strapping boys. Clever, varied, driven, interesting men. Men who, like me, adored her but also felt like she was their friend, their ally. Men who made something of themselves. She was a force of nature and I always felt as if she willed them into full lives. I imagine that if I'd taken a different path, maybe I'd have been like her. Surrounded by sons. I'd have been good at it, I think. Wise and loving and a little bit stern and a little bit crazy. Good at holding them and good at letting them go, which seems like the trick with raising boys. And I would have been. I think. Good at it. This other me I never turned into. Never found the right man or the right moment or enough healing or enough security to let myself find out.

I was engaged years ago to a man who had a son, a wonderful man who wasn't ultimately the right man for me (both of us too scattered), and his son started to call me "mom" (His "other mom"). We bonded. We were close. I kept up with his son for a long while after I had to leave that relationship behind, but I would mourn every time I had to say goodbye to him. I would babysit him or even just run into the boy in the street with his mother - also my friend - and whenever he left I would cry like the wound was new. It was like that for years. This hollow awful ache I never expected I could feel. Didn't let myself think I might have the capacity for. A kind of broken heart I'd never before experienced, never imagined.

So I have chosen this. I know that. I think it's the right decision. I'm remarkably strong for someone who has been through so much but I would never take the risk that I'm not strong enough or healed enough to hold it together for a child. My mother took that risk with me. It didn't turn out well. I won't make the same mistake. Most days life is hard enough as it is. Recovering from so much death in the past several years. Trying to make my life stable enough just to sustain the long term romantic relationship I am in. Finding ways to fulfill my need to create art and trying to do something with my life. Some days I find even pet ownership to be a challenge. And I have (yes, if you've been around long enough, you'll know this) bunnies. Not typically considered a high stress pet.

So I'm doing the right thing. I know this. But on a day like today it hits me deep in my gut and twists a little. In there under the happiness. That I am feeling. God I am. But I need a few minutes tonight to exorcise this. To acknowledge it. That this little kernel of regret lives somewhere deep in me.

Most days impossible to find at all.

_________________

My friend has wanted to be two things in life. His whole life. A husband and a father. And he has been a husband since his very early twenties, but in many ways he was her husband before that. He knew he would never let his wife go from the moment he first kissed her roughly 17 years ago. Being the best husband and partner he could be has been his great goal in life and he's wonderful at it. He worships her still. When he plays guitar he inevitably sings to her, even if she's in another room. Even when he doesn't realize it he turns toward her so she can hear his voice. He cannot help it. His love for her is a part of everything in him. It is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

So I know how completely and perfectly this girl will be loved. And how fortunate she is to be born into the midst of this great love that is already there. She is so wanted. That is the best thing a child can have. She will have the devotion of two clever, creative, amazing people who are ready and prepared to give her everything. I'm excited to be around for it. To watch as it begins.

A few hours ago a new life came out of my friend's wife (who, I should say, is also my very dear friend). This is amazing to me.

I am feeling a lot of things tonight but more than anything, I am joyful. I am shaken. I am in awe.

Moments

My mother and I were addressing my little sister's commitment ceremony invites last week (sis isn't sure about marriage, especially when so many of her friends cannot yet legally marry in the states in which they live). We were missing an address, so I called my sister. My mother kept writing while she listened to me talking. I got the missing address from my sister and then read aloud the list of names to ensure that we hadn't missed anyone.

We get to a dear old friend of my sister's who I remember fondly. I last saw him a decade ago. Sis tells me he's met a great man and they're very happy. My mom hears me discuss this with her and I say, "His beau is a bear? That's SO perfect for him! I bet they are adorable together."

My mom asks me - very serious and in all innocence:
"Does that mean he's a plushie?"

She learned that word from my sister.

I hope mom makes some awkward incorrect reference to this during my sister's event. It would be suitable karmic retribution.

_________________________

My father (who is actually a pretty hip guy on the whole) recently read an article online about youth culture and modern slang. He thinks "I'm just saying." is hilarious. I told him some acronym based phrases that were not on the list he read ("OMG" and "bee-tee-dubs" - which is "BTW" pronounced out loud). But the phrase he CANNOT get over, the one that surprised and entertained him the most, was this:

"friends with benefits"

He keeps repeating it. And bringing it up in conversation. Because he thinks it is bizarre and is vastly entertained that people use that phrase.

It's like having a 7 year old hear a curse word. And they aren't used to it and only understand it to a certain degree but they KEEP SAYING IT.

It's horrifying. Makes me wish I could take his internet access away.

_________________________

I think this means we've come full circle in some odd way. Now I'm the one worried that they're learning words or phrases they shouldn't know and hoping they won't say them in front of the neighbors.

I bet they felt like this when my brother started belting out lines from Les Miserables' "Lovely Ladies" in the supermarket when he was 4. Or when I was 7 or 8 and they took all of us to a restaurant and I wanted to order my drink myself. I saucily demanded that the server put "a LOT of nicotine!" in my Shirley Temple.

(I thought I had the word "grenadine" figured out.)

This is like payback for those moments, isn't it?

Rockin' Leettle Bitty Miracles

I know people (people like Tracey, who I adore) are praying for me. And sending warm fuzzies my way. And positive thoughts. And whatever else they believe in the power of. You know how I know?

I got pulled over TWICE on my way home from the funeral. TWICE. And NOT twice for the same violation. Oh, No. The first one was for going ten miles over the speed limit - which I usually watch so carefully - and for having a passenger without a seat belt on (My sister feels very guilty. Particularly as she is the type of driver who will not start the car until your seat belt is on.). The second time was because one of my taillights has apparently gone out.

Both times the police officers let me go.

I did not cry. I was calm. I was respectful. I did say that we were returning from a funeral but I made no hysterical point of it and both gentlemen would have been completely justified in giving me a ticket.

One said with a bizarre logic and semantic somersault I cannot even sort out in my head, that he could cite me for three different violations that would equal about $375 in fines... but "this time we're just going to call it even." I don't even know what that means. Of course, I don't care how absurd it sounds. I could have just kissed him.

I drove the rest of the way home gripping my steering wheel with white knuckles and feeling like I had a target painted on my bumper, but I feel truly blessed that this night ended sans ticket. It may not seem like much in the general scheme of things or in comparison to what HAS happened to me, but it's kind of nice when the universe sees that it is about to place that straw - the straw that would break the proverbial camel's back - and you can almost FEEL it ease up. Like, "Yeah... you know what? I've been hearing a lot about this one lately. She's had enough."

A mile from the house my sister said, "Well at least we didn't get pulled over three times." I nearly jumped out of my seat. If I had gotten pulled over at that point, I'd have made HER pay the fine.

Oh, and one more highlight from this weekend:

Prior to the actual funeral today we are all standing around, smoothing our clothing and checking each other's make-up and the men's ties and such. Everyone is a little tense and we're sorting out the details of who gets in what car and steeling ourselves for the ordeal of the viewing. My mother breezes in, holding a prescription pill bottle in the air and says brightly, "Does anyone else need Xanax?"

Um, yeah. I love my crazy family.

Pieces of My Fourth... or Fireworks: Not as Entertaining as an Anatomically Augmented Car

I am woken early in the morning, as I still lie in bed recovering from last night's ill-advised drinking, by the shrill (it seems) tones of my mobile phone. It's my father. He is calling to say my grandmother died late last night (she has been ill, this was anticipated but also somehow sooner than I had expected). The funeral will be tomorrow night. Everyone is in town for the holiday but no one has anything to wear to a funeral. How long will it take me to get there and can I bring enough clothing to dress five of my closest female relatives for a formal Southern funeral?

I rush out to work to get a few things done in case I have to miss work Monday. Pulling my car out into the street, the sky is shockingly blue and my iPod shuffles on Josh Radin's "Brand New Day" and it occurs to me that I cannot remember looking up at the sky in months. Somehow on what I know will be a daunting day, I have a moment of feeling absolutely tremendously happy to be where I am and driving my car and breathing the air and just living in my skin.

My younger sister and brother-in-law arrive in town and we pile into my car and head out for the town where the funeral will be. After packing an entire suitcase full of appropriately somber clothing from my closet. And shoes for five women. Earrings for five women. Slips and cardigans and various sundry extra Anything They Could Possibly Need for five women. And clothing for myself. And my sister and brother-in-law's things as well. You get the idea. My car is overflowing with funereal clothing and looks like a goth gypsy caravan.

My younger sister introduces me to the wonders of The Lonely Island's SNL skit "I'm On A Boat." I mean, really? "If you're on the shore then you're sure not me, oh"? Wow. I am in awe. I'm so out of the loop. Note to self, must start watching television periodically. Apparently it has its moments.

We spend the last 20 minutes of our trip driving, overcome with fits of HYSTERICAL GLEE, behind a bright orange Cadillac with enormous truck tires and a huge pair of shiny metal ... well, what could only be intended to be a strikingly realistic representation of testicles swinging from the center of its rear bumper. We reach stop lights. We pull out camera phones. We try my camera phone. The resolution is too poor. We try my brother-in-law's camera phone. The people in the car next to us at the next stop light gesture wildly, making certain we are seeing what they are seeing. We ALL laugh hysterically together. Pointing. Incredulous. This goes on for miles. We have names for The Car. We start playing music we feel is appropriate for The Car to sing to if it were, in fact, able to sing along. We name the far less interesting and thus inferior cars that are driving next to The Car. The Car drives right up to and past the street we need to turn at to reach our destination. Pulling into the driveway, we cannot stop laughing.

As we were driving into town, fireworks began to go off in the distance. Blooms of red and white over the treetops. A single moment of the holiday surprising us in the midst of our crazy, difficult day. The bursts of light, silent from this distance, repeat and grow larger and change in color... Reflecting off the pendulous scrotum of the absurd car in front of us, making us all dissolve into new whoops of laughter.

We arrive. I am hugged by roughly a dozen people in rapid succession. We exclaim over how much weight people have lost and the pink streak in my adult niece's hair and my parents' dogs skitter around in excitement. My 8 year old niece who, as far as I can tell, only puts up with most people because they can reach things she can't and have mastered the ability to buy things (which she also cannot yet do), rushes me as I break from the cluster of people and grabs my lapels and pulls me down to close to her so she can kiss my face.

My baby brother's 4 month old daughter is curled up in a ball in the middle of a big old bed that has been slept on by members of my family during summer vacations for decades. She is a sweet, chubby pink ball of angelic sleeping baby and his expression softens and I say, "She's grown so big." He smiles and his normally dark face opens up and he just says, "yeah," softly.

We sit up late watching old home movies. My father keeps accidentally rewinding and replaying things because he's had too much wine. My sister-in-law (the glowing, miraculously good-natured and breathtakingly lovely mother of my new niece) sees many of us as children for the first time. She coos and is excited with each familiar face revealed in its childhood incarnation. We tell stories about foolish things we had forgotten. My father falls asleep on the couch and we listen to him laughing 20 years ago.

1am, the house is dark and everyone has found a bed or a couch or a recliner to sleep in. The house is silent except for my father's snoring and the whir of the old outdated fridge. One of my sisters tiptoes into the kitchen and whispers to me, "Is there anything to drink in here besides buttermilk and booze?"

News

A little while ago something very important happened.

I wasn't sure if I was going to share it on here, but I think it's unavoidable.

I had thought it might happen, but I wasn't expecting it when it came.

Everything seemed to glow and get fuzzy. I was overwhelmed and joyful and surprised. It was as if the world had frozen for a moment. I almost can't remember the sound of our voices.

I think I held my breath.

The Guy stood up at dinner the other night and then suddenly he was on one knee. Right next to me. With a little box in his hands. And this look on his face.

It all happened so quickly. I didn't even think about it. I just burbled out the first thing that came into my head.

And then he kissed me.

(I said, "Yes.")

Fathers and Daughters, part II

By some bizarre coincidence, Alexandra Billings put up a post about her relationship with HER father today and it just laid me out. Clearly, I already had this subject on my mind and I am just in tears now.

Read Alex's thoughts on the topic here.

Fathers and Daughters

The relationship between a father and daughter is an important and compelling one. If it's not a positive relationship, it's impact tends to echo throughout your life. If it IS a positive relationship, the kind of bond that exists there often surpasses almost all others and creates a connection felt your entire life.

He's the first man in your life. As a woman, that relationship often effects how you feel about men when you reach adulthood. In a world where the war of the sexes rages on and feminism is still often still treated like a negative concept, a dirty word, your father is responsible for protecting you and being the first man to see your value and to acknowledge your potential. It's a big responsibility. From your first day in kindergarten when your pigtail gets pulled or the first time at recess when the boys won't let you play - the male of the species becomes far more complicated. If you are lucky, however, it starts out simple - with the unconditional love of one man.

I was my father's first child. I look just like him. Same hair, same jawline, same eyes and the same pale papery-thin skin. Same strong, gregarious personality, same pragmatism, same sarcastic sense of humor and love of the written word. From day one we've been crazy about each other. We've both made mistakes over the years. We've failed each other, but more often than that we've come through for each other. It was hard learning that he was human. Harder learning that he couldn't always live up to the standards he had raised me to maintain. In time I learned to accept him as a fallible man instead of looking for the return of the god of my childhood. Whatever mistakes he made, however many years we spent apart, whatever changes the years brought in us - he gave me my base in life. I always knew he thought I was beautiful and that I was loved by him. I knew what was right and what was wrong because my father told me these things. I grew up with this powerful sense of honor and heritage because of his influence. He is imperfect. He finds it difficult to talk about emotional matters. He is tremendously intelligent. He is more widely respected than almost anyone of my personal aquaintance. Later in his life, he is still full of dreams and plans. He is a part of who I am and an aspect of what I want to be. Obviously, I'm still crazy about him.

When I was 15, I made him a mix tape. I spent months on it; aquiring the songs I needed, arranging and rearranging them, working on the hand drawn art for the case. The songs were about fathers and their children. About love and being loved for who you are. About everything my father meant to me. I gave it to him and he was quiet. He thanked me. He kind of smiled and looked unsure what to say. He said he'd listen to it when he had the chance.

Years later he told me that he kept the tape in his top desk drawer wherever he went, whenever he moved. He kept it in a drawer and just looked at it. For three years. He said he knew it would be emotional for him. He liked just having it. He wasn't sure he was ready to listen to it. He never told me what made him finally listen to it, but almost three years later (which would have been just after I left home), he told me that he had listened to it for the first time.

Loudon Wainwright III has a sweet song that - for me - captures the magic of the father/daughter relationship in a beautiful way. And I cry every time I listen to it. In a good way.

...Maybe it's time to make another mix tape.


DAUGHTER
by Loudon Wainwright III
Listen to Daughter here

Everything she sees
she says she wants.
Everything she wants
I see she gets.

That's my daughter in the water
everything she owns I bought her
Everything she owns.
That's my daughter in the water,
everything she knows I taught her.
Everything she knows.

Everything I say
she takes to heart.
Everything she takes
she takes apart.

That's my daughter in the water
every time she fell I caught her.
Every time she fell.
That's my daughter in the water,
I lost every time I fought her.
I lost every time.

Every time she blinks
she strikes somebody blind.
Everything she thinks
blows her tiny mind.
That's my daughter in the water,
who'd have ever thought her?
Who'd have ever thought?
That's my daughter in the water,
I lost everytime I fought her
Yea, I lost every time.

On Dying

Tomorrow we're burying my grandfather. Exactly one week (to the minute) after the memorial service for my friend. I cannot ignore that the events of this week are unfolding through a perspective altered by that prior loss. Two deaths in as many weeks and they are as different in nature as it is possible for them to be.

So, with more assuredness than ever before at such a loss, I can say this about my grandfather's passing:

He lived a long life.

He married, had two beautiful daughters, five grandchildren, five great grandchildren (so far) and almost lived long enough to meet his first great-great grandchild.

He served his country and saw war firsthand. He traveled. He worked most of his life but he had time for his hobbies and passions. He liked to keep busy. He knew what it was to go without but he also enjoyed financial security later on in life. He took pride in the life he built for his family.

He leaves his family behind a lifetime of shared memories and stories. Things he did when we were little. Anecdotes about his quirky habits and hobbies. Nicknames and phrases. Things he always said and the way he would say them. A legacy of warmth and deeply southern sensibility.

He and my grandmother were married for almost 70 years.

He lived a full life.

He knew he was loved.

He was tired and now he can rest.

He was ill and he is no longer in pain.

He was frightened and he has nothing left to fear.

We knew this was coming at some point in the near future.
We were given time to prepare, inasmuch as one can prepare.


...So I am sad at the loss of my grandfather - for myself and my family. That we will no longer see him. But I am not sad for him. I think he's fine. I've never been one to see death as an altogether terrible thing. I think it's more complicated than that. And after mourning a woman who was taken from us after less than a quarter century of life, I cannot feel any injustice in the loss of a man who lived nearly a full century. We should all be so lucky to have the time on this earth that my grandfather had.

I love him and I'll miss having him near, but I know he was ready.


That being said, and with all respect to my much beloved grandparent...

I must say that his timing could use a little work.

The Holidays

Christmas has always been a complex holiday for my family.

Mine is a blended family so there are a lot of people involved. There's the tug of war over where and when celebrations will occur. So many people you are-and-aren't related to you who cannot decide if they should send you a present (I always loved how one of my sisters' Grandparents - who is only her Grandparent and in no way blood related to the rest of us - would send her a big gift and send the rest of us kids a tacky generic coloring book every year. Even as a child, I knew this was a wildly miscalculated gesture and VERY funny.) The various step and half kids all looking at each other's piles of gifts and wondering if discrepancies were signs of anything. The kids who had another parent of lesser means going through culture shock when comparing the familiar low-income Christmas to the bountiful middle-class Christmas (that would be me).

It was a wierd time for us. Always. Even on good years. Throw in a birthday right on the cusp of the holiday and, well, it made for a wacky mess of a holiday.

Then there was Thanksgiving.

A holiday I could understand. I mean, not the Pilgrims and Indians thing because A) I'm essentially first generation American and our attachment to that aspect of the holiday was tenuous and B) it always seemed to me like the Indians should have saved themselves a lot of trouble in the long run and let the pilgrims starve. Hindsight, I suppose. But aside from the actual history of the holiday, I understood what it meant to US, to MY family. When you have a large blended family, gathering together makes sense. Taking the time to be thankful for each other, for each and every one of us, makes sense.

We have a lot of cooks in our family. And a large number of people to be fed. Thankgiving, no matter what assortment of people were gathering, has always been a circus:

People laughing and chattering and arguing over the best way to make stuffing (it's an issue). The smell of things cooking in the oven and of hot casseroles being brought in the door and of fresh nutmeg and cinnamon being warred over as the pumpkin pie was being made. My mother making sausage cheese balls so we all have something to snack on through the morning as we prepared the meal and set the table... and the other table... and maybe another table (just in case). Cries of dismay when the hardcore home cookin' mom and my cousin the professional caterer both arrive with their "famous" sweet potato casseroles. The Annual Debate over the greatness of Turkey versus the joys of variety (in which the possibility of ham, chicken, duck, goose or oodles of little cornish game hens being prepared the following year is considered. Turkey always wins). My brother gets mad about something and pouts. My little sister eats all the rolls. My older sister and I fight with pickle spears as our swords (yes, even now). My grandmother spends a lot of time trying to identify which grandchild comes from who. My parents get confused and call the kids by the dogs' names and vice-versa. My Aunt gets tired of my Uncle's endless jokes and shrieks his name in that voice that tells you she's going to drag him out by his ear if he doesn't stop soon. The radio is switched back and forth between oldies and christmas songs. My mom wants to watch the National Dog Show and hollers constantly that we, "...have to see this one. It's! OH! Come look at this one! That looks like so-and-so's dog. HURRY! YOU'RE GOING TO MISS THE POMERANIAN. looklooklooklook!"

It's MADNESS. And this gathering is the epitome of what my family is. A crazy, loud, arguing, laughing, neurotic frenzy of people coming together to make something wonderful. We are all so different. We don't always get along. We don't always even like each other. But we all love each other. AND we love to cook and to eat.

On Thanksgiving, my family celebrates in a context I can understand and in a way that suits us. We come together and reaffirm that, although some of us share little or no blood connection, we are TRULY a family. Inextricably. In the most exasperating and wonderful of ways.

How Do You KNOW?

photo by Andreas Reh, purchased at istockphoto

Several people in my life have reached important turning points with their spouse or significant other over the past few months. At varying places in their lives and relationships, the question they all seem to have in common is - How do you KNOW? How do you know you are with the right person? How do you know that this man is your true love ("Wuv, Twooo wuv..."), the Westley to your Buttercup, and that this is IT?

My father and I had a talk about this a few weeks ago. The Guy and I have become fairly serious. I think my father is nervous. He has been married more than once and knows it doesn't always work out. He wants me to be happy, but is naturally worried. (Which I think is a big part of parenting. Right up there with teaching us to use the big person potty and share our toys and keeping us from breaking too many limbs at one time. We grow older and these things just shift. They hope we will learn to take care of ourselves, be good to other people and not get our hearts broken too badly.)

When I was younger, my father told me that he never wanted me to depend on a man. He wanted me to take care of myself, to always land on my feet. There have been many divorces in our family, as well as some unhappy marriages that lasted. Perhaps this awareness prompted him to raise me to be cautious and self-sufficient.

Standing in his driveway the other day, my father listened to me explain where things stood with my new beau. What I saw happening here. He listened; my father who has had his heart broken, who was left by a woman he pledged to stay with for the rest of his life, and who has now been married to the same woman for over two decades and with her has been though both better and worse. I stood talking hopefully about my future to this man who saw my last long term relationship crumble and watched me go through the ensuing depression and struggle to pick up the pieces.

With this pained expression on his face he said, "I wish I had some great words of wisdom, some way to guide you. But I don't."

I understand his concern, but I told him this - I think everyone hopes for an answer. We all want a silver bullet. People who aren't married hope the people they know who ARE married can tell them The Secret. How you KNOW? How you can be CERTAIN? But he's off the hook because I don't think it's like that.

Everyone would like to think that when you meet THE person they will glow with a halo of light and you will hear music in the air and then you will KNOW - that there will be signs (wouldn't it be freaky as hell if that actually happened?). You probably should listen to your gut... but then I think all you can do is make the best CHOICE that you can. Don't get married unless you love them, but just being crazy about them isn't enough. Choose someone who you like as well as love. Choose someone who is just as willing to put in the effort as you are. Choose someone you have a lot in common with so when you're 80 you still have something to talk about. My grandmother always said to choose someone who makes you laugh, that nothing else will get you through hard times the way that laughter will. And even the most loving couples have doubts and/or times when they want to bonk their partner over the head with a frying pan a'la Wile E. Coyote. That's to be expected.

You make a commitment and spend the rest of your life making it work. I realize there are no guarantees except perhaps that life won't be perfect no matter who you are with. I can live with that. But I imagine it's better if you're in it with the right partner.

Frogs don't turn into princes. So you choose carefully. After that all you can do is give it your all. Single or married or whatever, the lucky ones are the ones who find their home - the life and the places and the people that fit them and increase their happiness.

Funnily enough I learned a lot of this from watching my father. I think he has more wisdom to share than he knows.

Motherly Advice

“When your mother asks, "Do you want a piece of advice?" it is a mere formality. It doesn't matter if you answer yes or no. You're going to get it anyway.”

- Erma Bombeck

A lot of the advice or guidance I have received over the years from the mothers in my life has stuck with me like little word bubbles of wisdom I carry everywhere I go. I say "mothers" plural because I was raised by my mother, my stepmother and my paternal grandmother.

I think it’s something that happens when one becomes a mother - much like the phenomena of their saliva developing the properties of a cleaning agent - mothers extol sage advice and life rules like they’ve been possessed by Confucius. Or Mister Miyagi. If he cared about baking and hemlines.

Ranging from calming words of wisdom to zinging one-liners that add to my personal neuroses, their words stick with me. Like little voices on my shoulder.

“Never apologize unless you mean it. When you say you’re sorry, remember you are also saying you are going to try to never do it again.”


“We don’t have much, but there are people who have it harder than we do. It’s our duty to help people who are in greater need than we are.”


“Fix your bra strap. It’s tacky to let your bra strap show.”


“Consider how you would feel in the other person’s place.”


“Women should always wear hats. Men find a woman in a hat mysterious.”


“Wake up to yourself.”


“A lady wears the same scent at all times. Her scent is her signature.”


“Can you do anything about it? Is it something you have control over? Well, then don’t worry about it.”


"Nothing will make your house smell better than freshly baked homemade bread."


“Don’t forget your siblings. Whatever else happens, you have each other.”


“It’s a tremendous advantage in this life to be able to speak well. Not everyone has the knack for it. You do. Take advantage of it.”


"How clothing fits makes all the difference in the world."


“Sometimes the best relationships are the ones where you’re NOT head-over-heels.”


“Prepare things ahead of time - don’t spend your whole party in the kitchen away from your guests.”


“A sense of humor is important. You don’t want to spend your life with someone who doesn’t have a sense of humor.”


“Take care of your parents. They took care of you.”

(My grandmother said this one, obviously.)

“You have to be able to laugh at yourself.”


“Remember where you came from.”

If It's Not One Thing, It's Your Mother

“To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power.”

- Maya Angelou

My mom is wonderful and amazing and I adore her. So do my sisters. So I want you to understand that the following story is related with the utmost respect for my mother, perfect hurricane that she can be. She has raised more children than I would ever have agreed to, earned a Master's Degree in her chosen field, takes amazing care of my grumpy and rapidly aging grandparents and completely redecorated her house five times in the last year. She is a force of nature. She loves her kids no matter what stupid crap we do. She makes a killer baked mac and cheese and can guide you through roasting the perfect turkey via phone across thousands of miles WHILE making her own Thanksgiving dinner. She is not a woman to be trifled with. But let's face it, no matter how much you love your mother, she is also one of the people most capable of making you crazy (...she is, incedentally, in this respect just like your sisters).

My sister is going to miss a family event because she already has a plane ticket to visit a friend for the weekend in question. The (expensive) plane ticket was purchased for her by that friend as a gift BEFORE we had any idea when the family event was taking place. This has necessitated a great many phone calls, emails and confusing messages betwixt my sister and parents. It has also resulted in my father calling to make sure I will DEFINITELY be in attendance, well, roughly 243 times at last count.

The following is a slightly edited version of my sister's last phone conversation with mom. I don't know about everyone else out there, but when my mom wants you to do something she knows that nothing works like guilt. Just like homemade apple pie and comfort food casseroles - this is something NO ONE can make the way that mom does.

(The dog's name has been removed to protect the innocent as the dog is in no way responsible for the following.)


So my sister calls mom and says...

Sis: Hey! I was thinking of coming to visit since I start my new job next week.

Mom: Well, we're very busy with [blameless dog]’s medical problems. But it WOULD be nice to see you.

Sis: I thought that since I can't come to [family event], I should try and see you before I'm tied up at the new job.

Mom: It’s a shame you can't come. I mean, the date HAS been set for a year.

Sis: You told me about it a month ago.  And then you said no one was going.

Mom: Well, you know it’s important to your father. He was counting on you coming.

Sis: How was I supposed to KNOW? If it was such a big deal, why wasn't I told the dates?

Mom: Don't worry about it. I'm sure he's not angry with you.

Sis: What?!?

Mom: I know you and [your friend] are close, but this is your family.

Sis: I WAS GOING TO COME. YOU DIDN'T GIVE ME THE CORRECT INFORMATION.

Mom: It's not MY thing. It's your Dad's. I don't care.

Sis: ...

Mom: I suppose if you want to visit I could transfer some money into your account for gas.

Sis: I didn't call to ask for money. I just wanted to let you know I was coming up tomorrow.

Mom: We have a new sleeper couch! You can stay with us!

Sis: Well, I talked to [my sister], maybe I could split the nights.

Mom: If you think that's a good idea. Our house is full with your brother in town.

Sis: Okay, so I'll stay with her. She offered to help with gas, so I'll be in good shape.

Mom: Well, I can transfer some money later today.

Sis: I. Did. Not. Call. About. Money.

Mom: Hey, did I give you [insert movie title here] for Christmas?

Sis: Yes.

Mom: I saw part of it on tv, can you bring it?

Sis: The DVDs aren't unpacked, but I'll look.

Mom: (suddenly rushed) I have to go, I'm at the store. I'll talk to you soon. Love you!

Sis: Love you too.

It is important to note that in this one conversation Mom manages to be passive-agressive, apply liberal amounts of guilt, use my sister's fear of disappointing our father, semi-accuse my sister of only calling because she needs money, give and then recind an offer of sleeping space, make a rapid subject change to end the discussion AND suddenly become too busy to talk. She is a talented woman, Mom is. I think if she could get away with it she would do the whole, "(ffffttttttt bzzzzzz fffftttttt) I'm sorry you're breaking up. (ffffttttttt bzzzzzz fffftttttt) I can't hear you..." routine when she's tired of talking and just hang up.

Now, from my mother's point of view this phone conversation sounded COMPLETELY different. To my mother, it involved my sister being unreasonable and wanting gas money and not being sufficiently concerned about my father's feelings. It probably had not only different punctuation but entirely different content. I realize that. But I can't help it. I think it's HI-LAR-ious. I nearly peed I was laughing so hard about this - I have had THIS EXACT SAME conversation with my mom about something or another (hasn't everyone?).

Conversations like this are the reason that, when I watch Home for the Holidays, I think of my family. You love them. And they're insane. And they make YOU crazy. That's why they're family.

May, by the way, is mother month here at Dame. For the obvious reason.

Because She's Watching Me

Imogen Cunningham - Two Sisters, 1928

I watch heroes. Well, Okay. I don’t WATCH Heroes... but if it’s on AND I’m at home AND the tv is on - then I watch Heroes. And last night there was this scene where the younger of two brothers dies. Then he is brought back to life. And the two brothers are standing in front of the fireplace, talking about what happened. The older brother says to the younger brother that he doesn’t know who he would be without the younger brother - something to that effect. And the younger brother, of course, says that he would still be himself. That nothing about him would change. But he’s wrong. The older brother tells him that there are people in your life who make you who you are because of who they believe you can be and what they expect you to be and that somehow living up to his little brother’s expectations is a huge part of who he is.

I just finished a play. In addition to some excellent headshots, we took photographs galore. I emailed them to my baby sister, who has been following my recent resurgence with great anticipation. My baby sister who has always known I was better than I actually am and has always believed I was cooler than I have any awareness of actually being. She is amazed at how I meet and connect with people - something that I struggled to learn to do but that she makes me feel is this natural fluid progression in my life. She saw the photographs and wrote back to tell me how incredible I am and how great I look and how she wishes she could do some of the things I do - and it was just like the voice she spoke to me in when she was 16 and I was 21 and bigger than life to her.

Now it’s ludicrous to make some connection with a superhero TV show and I probably would have thought about this anyway, but here goes:

I understood and connected with that moment on that show because I wouldn’t be who I am if it weren’t for MY little sister. She has been known to drive me crazy and she’s difficult and she’s demanding. She’s also wildly creative and passionate and dark and brilliant and the only person I know who holds people to a higher standard than I do. The sheer force of her will makes me certain I can be anything if I know she believes in me. Her creativity and passion are a constant inspiration but also something I unconciously compete with. Her willingness to be herself no matter how difficult or how costly it may be to her makes me require more of myself and helped waken me from the wasted stupor of the last few years. She doesn’t realize that I think about her all the time and her pictures are all over in my new home. She doesn’t know that so many of these new friends I have made have already heard about my cool little sister and how amazing she is.

She doesn’t know that every day I demand more of myself and must be true to myself and I strive to live every moment fully - that I MUST, because my sister is watching.

Thanksgiving

“Nobody means what they say on Thanksgiving, Mom. You know that. That's what the day's supposed to be all about, right? Torture.”

- Holly Hunter’s character, Claudia, in Home for the Holidays

I have a deep-seated almost irrational love of this film. The performances are amazing and perfect and lovingly rendered. The characters are all so flawed and human and familiar that you cannot help but feel they have spent time amongst your own lunatic family. It is a fond, self-aware love letter to that most dysfunctional of all holidays - Thanksgiving.

My own Thanksgiving is shaping up to be a classic - horrific and messy and tiring but very funny to look back on later - you know, the way Thanksgiving SHOULD be.

I’ve just had a long term relationship end. My parents are responsible for the grandparents this year which involves driving to the nursing home to get them and then trundle them back for the dinner... and then drive them home again when, in about two hours, they begin to complain and worry about whether or not anyone remembers that they have to go home. One sister will have children in tow and yell at them all day - sometimes completely at random as if to yell as a preventative measure. The other sister is not going to make it until Saturday which means that my mother will spend the day periodically lamenting that sister’s absence and speculating about why she doesn’t want to be with her family. My parents happen to be mad at my brother for something right now, so there is certain to be a row about that at some point.

Oh! and my parents have decided they don’t actually like Turkey, after all. So we will be having roasted chicken. There is bound to be trouble.

I’m bringing a good book and a lot of film. If there are any fights, I want to make sure I have pictures to share with the sister who isn’t arriving until the weekend. It’s not fair that she should miss this.