Archive for family
Accepting disappointment
Posted by: | CommentsI received a group email on Facebook yesterday from my salsa partner, announcing that he’s quitting our group. He stated good reasons for quitting, reasons that beg empathy, which I extend to him. The end result for the moment at least is that I have no partner for our group performance on January 20. Our coach has already asked two people if they can step in–two people I’d be happy to dance with.
I thought my partner was my friend, and that in this circumstance he’d call or email me privately first. He didn’t, for whatever reasons he had. I expect that when I see my partner again, and I will see him again, I’ll pretend that he doesn’t exist. Or, I’ll smile and say hello and shift my gaze around the room as if I don’t know him. Because I am childish like that. He might apologize to me directly (although after the sharp email I shot off to him yesterday, I’m not expecting it), and if so, I’ll kindly accept it. But I won’t trust him again. I’m still angry, and highly disappointed, both in the breach of trust I feel and in the unexpected change.
I do not like change that I don’t initiate. It leaves me feeling panicked, twisty, dizzy and disoriented. I deal well in a world where I know what I can expect. My reaction to unexpected change usually follows this path: fury, disappointment, grief, whining, panicking, whining some more, taking it personally, whining again, calming down and then–and this is the kicker–distancing. Occasionally I reach acceptance, but distancing always peppers that stew.
I felt the same kind of disappointment two weeks ago when my mother announced that we would be, for the first time in family history, celebrating Christmas on Christmas Eve. During childhood, we’d often have friends over on Christmas Eve for chocolate fondue, caroling and drinking, but we’ve never opened gifts and had our big meal on that day. As a result, my arrangements with Lauren’s dad center on having Lauren with me for part of Christmas Day every year so that we can be with my family all together. This year, our kids won’t be with us until about noon on Christmas Day, spending the Eve with their other parents. When I told my mother, upon her pronouncement of this year’s festivities, that I felt very disappointed (to put it lightly) about her unilateral change, she replied, “Well, I don’t feel disappointed.”
I’m used to having all of my family together for Christmas. It wasn’t the date change that felt disappointing, but rather that my kids wouldn’t be there. Turns out that my sister and her family will be at her in-laws on Christmas Day, so if we have the gathering that day, they’ll be missing, which is not only disappointing but apparently was my mother’s (unstated) real reason for wanting to do a Christmas Eve gig. In the end, we decided to have our family celebration the week before Christmas, on my mom’s birthday, so we can all be together, and to go hang out and open stockings on the day itself. That’s better. I still feel disappointed in my mother’s lack of disappointment. It feels like a shun, like I’m not important.
I know it’s not about me. Change I don’t initiate rarely is but somehow, that kind of change feels most personal.
No one likes feeling disappointed. I’ve just noticed that I seem to take it harder than most. What is it that I can’t accept?
Flannel is the new thong
Posted by: | CommentsMy mother is fucking hilarious. Amid today’s “Bedroom Burlesque” bridal shower, with gifts of skimpy bras, silky nighties and even a sexy apron (move over Betty Crocker!) , was a green bag from my mother. Inside: This.
Apparently, flannel is the new thong in sexy bedroom wear. As you can see from the shine around my eyes, I am laughing to the point of tears. Because a) my mother has included a poem in her card about how nothing in Victoria Secret plucked ol’ Mom’s heartstrings, and in the winter cold I should turn to flannel and b) I know that when I show Steve, he will want to fight me for these.
Yes, my mom gave me flannel red plaid footie PJs complete with Velcro’ed drop panel at my sexy lingerie party. (And later when I modeled them for Steve as I sprawled seductively across the unmade bed, he said, “I’m not going to fuck you in those, but I might fight you for them.” I know him so well.)
Laurel & me
Today was so unlike my first bridal shower, 14 years ago. My ex and I were students, and we needed stuff. Like measuring cups and rolling pins and shower curtains and towels. My maid of honor, Linda, threw a kitchen shower for us, and we received everything we needed and then some. At that shower, we played Make the TP Wedding Dress, which was funny because Linda and my grandma won with a Boho-inspired Indian Princess dress. We had a cake, and punch and mints and nuts. It was all very proper. The Perfect Bridal Shower for a New Couple Just Starting Out, the headline would have read, with a captioned photo of me in my blue and white polka dot dress holding up a set of rubber spatulas.
Lauren, my daughter, is my official maid of honor, and any shower she would have planned would have included Littlest Pet Shops and lip-synching to Allie & AJ songs. (Really, you can’t count on 8-year-old party planners these days)
So Laurel, my best friend, offered to throw me a shower. It was unexpected and wonderful. I had figured no bridal shower this time. Laurel went all out: Brunch at Bistro Vendome, a French restaurant in Denver’s Larimer Square, champagne cocktails, a beautifully decorated table with shimmery turquoise paper and vases of peacock feathers. The food was delicious: from the goose liver pate and olives and cheeses and croissants with rose jelly (tastes like bath beads, only sweet) to a fruit and cream cheese crepe, to a choice of waffles with nutella, pears and walnuts, salmon benedict or a chicken salad sandwich, to French press coffee with creme brulee or fruit crumble and vanilla ice cream.
We played two games for silly little prizes (false eyelashes, a quacking duck keychain light, a car freshener), both of which kept the eight of us laughing. I had invited about 20 people, but lives are busy and the group who sat around the table was perfect: intimate enough for real conversation and big enough for fun (and to stroke my ego that a few people in the world actually like me–ha).
Then came the gifts, and the flannel PJs. And the tears of laughter. And the posed photos of me with said gifts. Three and a half hours after we started, I took everyone’s photo wearing our party-favor peacock feather earrings (our wedding theme) then had a waiter take our group photo.I think everyone had a really fun time. I know I did.
In the past, I would have fretted over the people invited but who did not come for various reasons, those who did not bother to RSVP (rude, but oh well, their loss) and those who canceled at the last minute. I would have worried that those people really didn’t like me, and taken their choice not to join us personally. My lament would have tempered my fun. That’s the difference between 25 and 40, or between fake confidence and really knowing who I am, and what’s real, and what’s important.
Like flannel footie PJs from my mother, and the only poem she’s ever written in her life–written to me, to make me laugh. To make me happy.
Please enable Javascript and Flash to view this Flash video.Fourth of July Fizzle
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Yesterday was cool and cloudy in Denver. The clouds hung heavy over the city, threatening rain. Ever hopeful, my parents, sister and her family, and Steve and I decided to head out to Englewood for a picnic and fireworks in the late afternoon. I spent an hour prepping lovely salads for us, and Steve cubed half a watermelon for us to share. We packed up the car and headed to my sister’s for a meetup at 4:30.
The sky opened in a slow drizzle as soon as we pulled in front of her house. We scurried inside and waited it out. And waited. And waited. After about an hour–around 5:30–someone decided we should chance it and head out. We were headed for the softball diamond where the fireworks show would be put on at 9:30.
Why anyone thought it would be fun to go sit in a park for 4 hours with nothing to do, I don’t know.
We “lucked” into a great parking spot at the park, or perhaps took the spot of some smarter person. Steve lugged the cooler, I the chairs and bag with pie and camera. We passed through slick lawns and a muddy underpass. The respite the weather had given us was short lived. We spotted my family sitting in a cluster in the middle of left field–coincidence? I think not.
Here’s my mother, huddling in a wheelchair and jacket with a plate on her lap. My dad sat catty-corner in his hooded track suit, with an umbrella over his head. My brother in law occuppied a low chair, his legs and feet bare in shorts. My sister had the tie of her hoodie cinched tight, and her daughter huddled under another umbrella on a blanket. The deviled eggs swam in rain water. Everyone looked like drowned rats.
“We’re here way too early!” Steve whispered to me as we set up camp. “If this wasn’t your family, and if I didn’t want them to like me, I wouldn’t be here.” Ever the joker, he went on to fake a “sandwich emergency” at work, trying to leave, and confirmed with my brother in law that they still had “fist love” (bumping fists) if he snuck out. He didn’t like my bean salad, but wolfed down the cold chicken and tossed salad. And pie. The half-apple/half-cherry pie was a big hit. The rain poured, then let up, poured and let up. We kept cracking up at our misery, collectively wondering what the hell we were doing sitting in the middle of a field in a rainstorm having a picnic.
“Oh look, a rainbow!” my mom reported. “Now, didn’t that just make all of this worth it?”
Silly, silly, mom. The temperature continued to drop. The wool blanket that warm Steve and my laps started to smell like wet dog. We chatted about our wedding, but fell into shivering silences. My dad finally gave the umbrella to my mom, joking he let her sit in the rain because she’d been nagging him. Ah, family.
At about 6:45, my dad, brother-in-law and niece went in search of a playground, and returned quickly to report that a darker storm cloud was heading our way. Steve and I muttered our thanks to the rain gods, because we could finally make our exit. We’d seen a great fireworks show on Friday night, so we didn’t mind missing out on the show last night.
The watermelon never made it out of the cooler. It sure did taste good sitting on our couch, watching a movie under a blanket and listening to the rain fall on our porch.
