First off, I totally ganked this off the internet. My SIL and I were talking about how I would like a wife to cook me dinner and she'd like a wife so that she can have a designated driver.
By Judy Syfers (1971)
(Editors Note: This classic piece of feminist humor appeared in the premier issue of Ms. Magazine and was widely circulated in the women's movement.)
I belong to that classification of people known as wives. I am A Wife.
And, not altogether incidentally, I am a mother. Not too long ago a male friend of mine appeared on the scene fresh from a recent divorce. He had one child, who is, of course, with his ex-wife. He is looking for another wife. As I thought about him while I was ironing one evening, it suddenly occurred to me that I too, would like to have a wife. Why do I want a wife?
I would like to go back to school so that I can become economically independent, support myself, and if need be, support those dependent upon me. I want a wife who will work and send me to school. And while I am going to school I want a wife to take care of my children. I want a wife a wife to keep track of the children's doctor and dentist appointments. And to keep track of mine, too. I want a wife to make sure my children eat properly and are kept clean. I want a wife who will wash the children's clothes and keep them mended. I want a wife who is a good nurturing attendant to my children, who arranges for their schooling, makes sure that they have an adequate social life with their peers, takes them to the park, the zoo, etc. I want a wife who takes care of the children when they are sick, a wife who arranges to be around when the children need special care, because, of course, I cannot miss classes at school. My wife must arrange to lose time at work and not lose the job. It may mean a small cut in my wife's income from time to time, but I guess I can tolerate that. Needless to say, my wife will arrange and pay for the care of the children while my wife is working.
I want a wife who will take care of my physical needs. I want a wife who will keep my house clean. A wife who will pick up after my children, a wife who will pick up after me. I want a wife who will keep my clothes clean, ironed, mended, replaced when need be, and who will see to it that my personal things are kept in their proper place so that I can find what I need the minute I need it. I want a wife who cooks the meals, a wife who is a good cook. I want a wife who will plan the menus, do the necessary grocery shopping, prepare the meals,serve them pleasantly, and then do the cleaning up while I do my studying. I want a wife who will care for me when I am sick and sympathize with my pain and loss of time from school. I want a wife to go along when our family takes a vacation so that someone can continue care for me and my when I need a rest and change of scene. I want a wife who will not bother me with rambling complaints about a wife's duties. But I want a wife who will listen to me when I feel the need to explain a rather difficult point I have come across in my course of studies. And I want a wife who will type my papers for me when I have written them.
I want a wife who will take care of the details of my social life. When my wife and I are invited out by my friends, I want a wife who take care of the baby-sitting arrangements. When I meet people at school that I like and want to entertain, I want a wife who will have the house clean, will prepare a special meal, serve it to me and my friends, and not interrupt when I talk about things that interest me and my friends. I want a wife who will have arranged that the children are fed and ready for bed before my guests arrive so that the children do not bother us. I want a wife who takes care of the needs of my quests so that they feel comfortable, who makes sure that they have an ashtray, that they are passed the hors d'oeuvres, that they are offered a second helping of the food, that their wine glasses are replenished when necessary, that their coffee is served to them as they like it. And I want a wife who knows that sometimes I need a night out by myself.
I want a wife who is sensitive to my sexual needs, a wife who makes love passionately and eagerly when I feel like it, a wife who makes sure that I am satisfied. And, of course, I want a wife who will not demand sexual attention when I am not in the mood for it. I want a wife who assumes the complete responsibility for birth control, because I do not want more children. I want a wife who will remain sexually faithful to me so that I do not have to clutter up my intellectual life with jealousies. And I want a wife who understands that my sexual needs may entail more than strict adherence to monogamy. I must, after all, be able to relate to people as fully as possible.
If, by chance, I find another person more suitable as a wife than the wife I already have, I want the liberty to replace my present wife with another one. Naturally, I will expect a fresh, new life; my wife will take the children and be solely responsible for them so that I am left free.
When I am through with school and have a job, I want my wife to quit working and remain at home so that my wife can more fully and completely take care of a wife's duties.
My God, who wouldn't want a wife?
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Thursday, October 01, 2009
'Cuz You've Got to Have Friends
I love Facebook. I'm not the best person on the phone because the silences make me squirm. But texting I love and Facebook is perfect for that means of communication.
I love my Facebook girlfriends because they all elicit from me big, brassy, raucous laughs.
I just had a septoplasty done to correct a deviated septum. I've always known I have a deviated septum. The first ENT I ever saw was when I was in HS and when he looked up my nose he said to my dad, "Wow! You've got to see this!" My septum started out straight and then took a 90 degree turn. He said one day I'd probably have problems with it, but why do the surgery when it isn't necessary now. That was in 1992.
A normal septum and turbinates look like this:
This is not my cat scan, but this is what my cat scan looked like:
That white bright piece down the center does what mine did. It was a deviate septum with a bone spur. Now look at the color picture. See where the Middle Turbinate bone is? It's yellow-orange and looks like sponge cake. It's bone covered by tissue. My nasal spur was pressing against the middle turbinate bone.
Over the last two years this has caused me debilitating pain. Pain that was so severe I was missing work. Since becoming aware of this I'v really started to question my history of migraines and whether or not they were really migraines. During my last two headaches I noticed the migraine meds weren't doing the trick at all. So I went to my ENT because I thought maybe I had a sinus infection.
He reviewed my CAT scan. No sign of an infection. He did see that my septum and turbinate bones were awfully clost to one another. After blowing some sort of numbing spray up my nostril I had instant relief from the headache. This led him to believe my headaches were being caused by the bones rubbing together.
Stop for a minute and think about that.
I had bone rubbing against bone IN MY FACE.
I had the surgery on Friday and went back to work on Wednesday. The worst of my pain was on Sunday. My post-surgery pain was so severe I said to my husband, "I don't know how women do it? I don't know how they have babies!"
I told my friend Nicole, a mother, this same story and she said, "Now remember, a vagina is bigger than your nose."
I love my Facebook girlfriends because they all elicit from me big, brassy, raucous laughs.
I just had a septoplasty done to correct a deviated septum. I've always known I have a deviated septum. The first ENT I ever saw was when I was in HS and when he looked up my nose he said to my dad, "Wow! You've got to see this!" My septum started out straight and then took a 90 degree turn. He said one day I'd probably have problems with it, but why do the surgery when it isn't necessary now. That was in 1992.
A normal septum and turbinates look like this:
This is not my cat scan, but this is what my cat scan looked like:
That white bright piece down the center does what mine did. It was a deviate septum with a bone spur. Now look at the color picture. See where the Middle Turbinate bone is? It's yellow-orange and looks like sponge cake. It's bone covered by tissue. My nasal spur was pressing against the middle turbinate bone.
Over the last two years this has caused me debilitating pain. Pain that was so severe I was missing work. Since becoming aware of this I'v really started to question my history of migraines and whether or not they were really migraines. During my last two headaches I noticed the migraine meds weren't doing the trick at all. So I went to my ENT because I thought maybe I had a sinus infection.
He reviewed my CAT scan. No sign of an infection. He did see that my septum and turbinate bones were awfully clost to one another. After blowing some sort of numbing spray up my nostril I had instant relief from the headache. This led him to believe my headaches were being caused by the bones rubbing together.
Stop for a minute and think about that.
I had bone rubbing against bone IN MY FACE.
I had the surgery on Friday and went back to work on Wednesday. The worst of my pain was on Sunday. My post-surgery pain was so severe I said to my husband, "I don't know how women do it? I don't know how they have babies!"
I told my friend Nicole, a mother, this same story and she said, "Now remember, a vagina is bigger than your nose."
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Doing Better
Some days are good and some days are bad. Lately though I'd found myself having more bad ones than good ones. However, like most downward swings do . . . hopefully, eventually they move upwards again.
I found a new job!!!!
There's a part of me that thinks I was damn lucky because sometimes finding a job takes luck, but the honest truth is that finding a new job takes a lot of hard work. So I really want to shout Oprah-style, "IIIIII DIIIIIID ITTTTTT!"
I hustled.
I sent out a ridiculous amount of resumes to job openings, recruiters, former bosses . . . former bosses that I would rather have rather used my tongue to walk on hot coals than to ever speak to. I made a pathetic, ineffective plea to a former trainer I used to work with whom I hadn't spoken to in months. I did a little worst case scenario thinking, but I didn't get mired in it.
From the time the FDIC took over Colonial to the time I got my job offer it took five weeks. A few days after the shock wore off I updated my resume and created two different versions of it. A functional resume and a regular chronological resume. I wrote cover letter after cover letter, cold-contact prospecting letters, I made finding a new job my full-time job.
Did I get lucky?
I got lucky that in this economy I found a job doing what I want to be doing at a slightly higher pay. But, I was ready for it when I found it.
I DID THIS.
I found a new job!!!!
There's a part of me that thinks I was damn lucky because sometimes finding a job takes luck, but the honest truth is that finding a new job takes a lot of hard work. So I really want to shout Oprah-style, "IIIIII DIIIIIID ITTTTTT!"
I hustled.
I sent out a ridiculous amount of resumes to job openings, recruiters, former bosses . . . former bosses that I would rather have rather used my tongue to walk on hot coals than to ever speak to. I made a pathetic, ineffective plea to a former trainer I used to work with whom I hadn't spoken to in months. I did a little worst case scenario thinking, but I didn't get mired in it.
From the time the FDIC took over Colonial to the time I got my job offer it took five weeks. A few days after the shock wore off I updated my resume and created two different versions of it. A functional resume and a regular chronological resume. I wrote cover letter after cover letter, cold-contact prospecting letters, I made finding a new job my full-time job.
Did I get lucky?
I got lucky that in this economy I found a job doing what I want to be doing at a slightly higher pay. But, I was ready for it when I found it.
I DID THIS.
Friday, September 04, 2009
Budgeting
The bank I work was seized and sold, and while right now I have a job there is the possibility I will be let go. I'm not entirely sure what my department's odds are, but just in case I'm sending out resumes and talking to everyone I know about finding a new job.
In light of this, we have temporarily stopped working on the kitchen renovation. Steve and I have agreed that right now it's more important for us to save money rather than spend money it on home improvement.
Then I went out and got a pedicure.
Because I suck.
In light of this, we have temporarily stopped working on the kitchen renovation. Steve and I have agreed that right now it's more important for us to save money rather than spend money it on home improvement.
Then I went out and got a pedicure.
Because I suck.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Push, Push, Push
Ever since my friend B started reading this blog he's always pushed me towards writing a novel.
I always just roll my eyes and blow off the idea. I know I keep this blog and I know a lot of bloggers want to be "discovered," but I don't have those aspirations.
Now, as an English major in college I'm pretty sure I harbored dreams about being a published author. But, I've never wanted to be Milton, Chaucer, Welty or even Danielle Steele. I wanted to be Judy Blume, Lois Duncan or Paula Danziger.
The trouble is . . . I don't feel like I have much to say.
I don't even blog very regularly anymore.
I was diagnosed with clinical depression 18 months ago and while most days are okay days a lot of days are a struggle. It's a fight to get out of bed to go to work. forget about me getting on the blog to say something entertaining. I haven't had it in me to do that for a while. Funny things happen in my life, but the white noise of depression drowns those things out quickly.
And God, I've never been able to get a handle on how to respond to my well-meaning mother when she says, "Oh, I've been depressed, Melissa. You just have to pick yourself up and decide to be happy."
This makes my blood boil and I want to get in her face and scream, "You don't fucking get it!"
It's not her fault.
Maybe she's had the blues in her life, but she doesn't know the way depression is like quicksand and the more you try to fight the more it feels like it's pulling you down.
Then this year while watching the Tony Awards I saw the cast of Next to Normal perform the following:
Next to Normal
DIANA (spoken)
You know, really?
What exactly do you know?
DAN (spoken)
I know you're hurting. I am, too.
DIANA
Do you wake up in the morning and need help to lift your head?
Do you read obituaries and feel jealous of the dead?
It's like living on a cliffside not knowing when you'll dive.
Do you know, do you know what it's like to die alive?
When the world that once had color fades to white and gray and black.
When tomorrow terrifies you, but you'll die if you look back.
You don't know.
I know you don't know.
You say that you're hurting, it sure doesn't show.
You don't know.
You tell me let go.
And you may say so, but I say you don't know.
The sensation that you're screaming, but you never make a sound.
Or the feeling that you're falling, but you never hit the ground.
It just keeps on rushing at you day by day by day by day.
You don't know, you don't know what it's like to live that way.
Like a refugee, a fugitive, forever on the run.
If it gets me it will kill me, but I don't know what I've done.
End Scene
I was devastated when I saw this scene because I felt like I'd been broken open and all of my secrets had tumbled out.
I wanted to stand up and say, "There . . . that is what I feel like every fucking day so don't tell me I can just pick myself up and shake this thing off."
Maybe I have things to say, but it feels futile when others have already said it so much better than I ever will.
I always just roll my eyes and blow off the idea. I know I keep this blog and I know a lot of bloggers want to be "discovered," but I don't have those aspirations.
Now, as an English major in college I'm pretty sure I harbored dreams about being a published author. But, I've never wanted to be Milton, Chaucer, Welty or even Danielle Steele. I wanted to be Judy Blume, Lois Duncan or Paula Danziger.
The trouble is . . . I don't feel like I have much to say.
I don't even blog very regularly anymore.
I was diagnosed with clinical depression 18 months ago and while most days are okay days a lot of days are a struggle. It's a fight to get out of bed to go to work. forget about me getting on the blog to say something entertaining. I haven't had it in me to do that for a while. Funny things happen in my life, but the white noise of depression drowns those things out quickly.
And God, I've never been able to get a handle on how to respond to my well-meaning mother when she says, "Oh, I've been depressed, Melissa. You just have to pick yourself up and decide to be happy."
This makes my blood boil and I want to get in her face and scream, "You don't fucking get it!"
It's not her fault.
Maybe she's had the blues in her life, but she doesn't know the way depression is like quicksand and the more you try to fight the more it feels like it's pulling you down.
Then this year while watching the Tony Awards I saw the cast of Next to Normal perform the following:
Next to Normal
DIANA (spoken)
You know, really?
What exactly do you know?
DAN (spoken)
I know you're hurting. I am, too.
DIANA
Do you wake up in the morning and need help to lift your head?
Do you read obituaries and feel jealous of the dead?
It's like living on a cliffside not knowing when you'll dive.
Do you know, do you know what it's like to die alive?
When the world that once had color fades to white and gray and black.
When tomorrow terrifies you, but you'll die if you look back.
You don't know.
I know you don't know.
You say that you're hurting, it sure doesn't show.
You don't know.
You tell me let go.
And you may say so, but I say you don't know.
The sensation that you're screaming, but you never make a sound.
Or the feeling that you're falling, but you never hit the ground.
It just keeps on rushing at you day by day by day by day.
You don't know, you don't know what it's like to live that way.
Like a refugee, a fugitive, forever on the run.
If it gets me it will kill me, but I don't know what I've done.
End Scene
I was devastated when I saw this scene because I felt like I'd been broken open and all of my secrets had tumbled out.
I wanted to stand up and say, "There . . . that is what I feel like every fucking day so don't tell me I can just pick myself up and shake this thing off."
Maybe I have things to say, but it feels futile when others have already said it so much better than I ever will.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Whatevs
I've been thinking about why I don't post, and I don't really have a reason.
I just don't.
So, here's a little story my dad tells proudly. When I was six I had a crying fit in the middle of a store. You know, I was THAT KID. The one that starts to scream because she doesn't get what she wants.
My dad snapped off his belt, spun me around and gave me a few stinging licks on the back of my bare thighs.
I never again had another crying fit in the middle of a store.
That last part there is when you can see the pride gleam in his eyes when he tells this story.
I don't actually remember this happening, but it sounds like my dad. I think what really must have stung was the humiliation.
That's just how my dad worked.
When my mom wanted to learn how to drive a car he told her, "You'll never learn how to drive. You're incapable."
My mom has told me that after a few weeks of replaying his words in her head she called up a driving school, and set out to prove him wrong.
She did, too.
After years of taking the bus with my mother she finally got her driver's license.
After years of being a mediocre student (As, Bs and Cs) my dad said to me, "You know you'd get better grades if you weren't so lazy."
My response wasn't as motivated as my mom's. I just thought to myself, "I'm lazy."
I know I've written about my dad spanking me before, and every day I forgive my father a little bit more.
But every year around Father's Day I think about these things, and I struggle with the task of picking out a card. Typically, I go for the "thanks for doing the best you could do" card.
I just don't.
So, here's a little story my dad tells proudly. When I was six I had a crying fit in the middle of a store. You know, I was THAT KID. The one that starts to scream because she doesn't get what she wants.
My dad snapped off his belt, spun me around and gave me a few stinging licks on the back of my bare thighs.
I never again had another crying fit in the middle of a store.
That last part there is when you can see the pride gleam in his eyes when he tells this story.
I don't actually remember this happening, but it sounds like my dad. I think what really must have stung was the humiliation.
That's just how my dad worked.
When my mom wanted to learn how to drive a car he told her, "You'll never learn how to drive. You're incapable."
My mom has told me that after a few weeks of replaying his words in her head she called up a driving school, and set out to prove him wrong.
She did, too.
After years of taking the bus with my mother she finally got her driver's license.
After years of being a mediocre student (As, Bs and Cs) my dad said to me, "You know you'd get better grades if you weren't so lazy."
My response wasn't as motivated as my mom's. I just thought to myself, "I'm lazy."
I know I've written about my dad spanking me before, and every day I forgive my father a little bit more.
But every year around Father's Day I think about these things, and I struggle with the task of picking out a card. Typically, I go for the "thanks for doing the best you could do" card.
Monday, March 09, 2009
A Good Example
This past weekend Steve and I were driving home down a six-lane highway. He was driving, and I was in the passenger seat.
I looked out my window and noticed a car waiting to merge into traffic.
I said to Steve, "Oh my God, look at that guy's car!"
The car itself wasn't spectacular, but there was a foot-tall stack of papers on the car's roof.
I said, "That's gotta suck."
The next thing I know Steve is swerving our car onto the median. I looked forward and thought Steve was trying to avoid an accident.
No.
Steve pulled up onto the median and ran back towards where the car was still waiting to merge. He started waving his arms to get the driver's attention. Surprisingly, the guy took a split second to stop looking for a place to merge and saw Steve.
The guy looked at Steve like he was thinking, "What the hell does this crazy want?"
Then Steve started pointing at the guy's roof, and it was like a lightbulb went off over the driver's head.
I saw the guy get out of the car, retrieve his papers and thank Steve for making him aware of the situation.
When Steve got back into the car I was still sitting there with my mouth hanging open.
I looked at him and said, "Thank you."
He asked, "For what?"
I said, "For showing me how to be a better person."
I looked out my window and noticed a car waiting to merge into traffic.
I said to Steve, "Oh my God, look at that guy's car!"
The car itself wasn't spectacular, but there was a foot-tall stack of papers on the car's roof.
I said, "That's gotta suck."
The next thing I know Steve is swerving our car onto the median. I looked forward and thought Steve was trying to avoid an accident.
No.
Steve pulled up onto the median and ran back towards where the car was still waiting to merge. He started waving his arms to get the driver's attention. Surprisingly, the guy took a split second to stop looking for a place to merge and saw Steve.
The guy looked at Steve like he was thinking, "What the hell does this crazy want?"
Then Steve started pointing at the guy's roof, and it was like a lightbulb went off over the driver's head.
I saw the guy get out of the car, retrieve his papers and thank Steve for making him aware of the situation.
When Steve got back into the car I was still sitting there with my mouth hanging open.
I looked at him and said, "Thank you."
He asked, "For what?"
I said, "For showing me how to be a better person."
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Dated
Sometimes I look at this blog and wonder why I even bother.
It seems like lately most of my online time is spent of Facebook. Tonight I IM'd with my second cousin for almost an hour. I haven't seen her in over a decade, but there we were "talking" about our crazy families.
I get instant satisfaction from Facebook.
I know: fast food generation. We want it and we want it NOW!
I also wonder whether or not keeping a blog is just dated. I'm just another loser who thinks people want to know what she's thinking.
These days I'm thinking, "Will I still be employed next week?"
Working for a bank is not for the faint of heart.
So, if you know of anyone looking for an instructional designer . . . call me!
It seems like lately most of my online time is spent of Facebook. Tonight I IM'd with my second cousin for almost an hour. I haven't seen her in over a decade, but there we were "talking" about our crazy families.
I get instant satisfaction from Facebook.
I know: fast food generation. We want it and we want it NOW!
I also wonder whether or not keeping a blog is just dated. I'm just another loser who thinks people want to know what she's thinking.
These days I'm thinking, "Will I still be employed next week?"
Working for a bank is not for the faint of heart.
So, if you know of anyone looking for an instructional designer . . . call me!
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Betrayal
Imagine if you will a world where no one tells the truth.
No, this entry is not about the Bush Administration. This entry is about a horse I can't bring myself to let die.
In life, if we are lucky, there are a handful of friends that we can count on take care of us.
I haven't always been that friend.
When a close friend of mine got married I did everything I could to miss the wedding. But, no matter how hard I dug my heels she yanked even harder. So, I went to the wedding even though I didn't think she was marrying the right guy. I didn't have the courage to tell her that. Not before the marriage, a few years after the marriage I finally told her how I felt about her husband.
She was rightfully pissed. If I recall correctly she slammed the phone in my ear. I don't blame her. I didn't speak to her for two years after that and you know what happened?
Out of the blue she called me and said, "I can understand why you didn't want me to marry XX. Whenever you and I talked I was always telling you about the fights we had or whatever shitty thing XX had done. I never told you any of the good things. I completely understand why you didn't like him.'
That is friendship. Being able to get pissed, cool down, re-evaluate, hold out your had again and say, "I understand."
The same goes for a another friend who once accused me of sharing an embarrassing secret. I didn't do it, and I knew who had. When I told said friend the identity of the blabbermouth she vehemently responded,
"She wouldn't do that . . SHE'S my best friend."
It felt as if I'd been slapped. I stood up and walked her to the front door. I said, "I'm sorry that you feel that way." I opened the door, and I didn't see her for five years.
Then one day, four years later, out of the blue, she showed up at my front door. She said, "This won't take long. Remember when I accused you of telling WW about WW?"
Me, "Yes, I think that was the last time we talked."
Her, "Well, I'm hear to tell you I'm sorry. I recently found out it was who you said it was."
I was shocked. I was 18 when T showed up at my door to apologize . It was the first time in my life that a peer had said to me, "What I did was shitty and wrong and I'm very sorry."
She taught me a lot in that one moment.
Our friendship was beyond the point of no return, but I've always respected T for having the stones to own up to that when the average teen would probably have kept such a thing to herself.
I've been thinking about these two events recently because there is just one thing I've never really gotten over. If you've read the early entries of this blog you know my ex-husband is gay. I didn't know when I married him. In fact, I didn't know until we'd been married for five years.
What I also didn't know was that a friend of mine knew years befoe I did. She and I had met in my dorm room when I was a freshman. We used to go out, drink and fall asleep in each other's bed. I thought we were close. Near the end of my freshman year she came out to me. She made such a big deal about it that when she finally said, "I'm a lesbian" I was relieved. She was so tense I thought she was about to tell me she was in the witness protection plan.
My response to her coming out was, "Oh, okay." It was fairly understated, and I wasn't scandalized or clutching my pearls. I really didn't care. Jen was still the same Jen she'd been five minutes prior to coming out.
About six months after this admission I start hanging out with J. We'd all go out in groups, and I'd occasionally find Jen and J huddled together in the corner of the bar. In hindsight I can admit they always looked busted. I never knew what they were talking about, but it seemed pretty intense. I never stuck my nose in it. I just figured they were friends, too.
I distinctly remember a moment when Jen turned to me and asked, "What do you think about a woman in a committed heterosexual relationship sleeping with other women."
Me, "Well, does the husband know?"
Jen, "I don't think so."
Me, "If the husband doesn't know then it's cheating. I don't care if she's sleeping with another man or another woman. That's cheating."
Jen, "Well, what if all of the people involved know?"
Me, "Well that's between them I guess."
Pause . . .
Me, "Jen, you don't want to sleep with me do you?"
Her, laughing . . . relieved, "NO . . . I was just posing a question."
We were Women's and Gender Studies girls so these kinds of conversations weren't all that bizarre for me. After J and I split up Jen called me and my heart hit he floor. I said to her,
"Oh Jen, honey, I can't be friends with you."
Her, "What?"
Me, "You knew, you knew what Jason was up to all that time. You should have told me. I wouldn't have married him. I wouldn't have gotten sick."
Her, "Oh Melissa . . . "
Me, "Oh don't worry, it's nothing that will kill me . . . "
Yeah, I'm still pissed because on top of having had to deal with my husband's betrayal I also had to deal with my friend's betrayal.
I've tried to justify her behavior. Is there a gay code that I don't know? Do you foresake your straight friend, and protect your closeted friend because you understand the pain of living a closeted life?
I really don't know.
I can tell you that if I was certain my brother's partner was playing the field I would call Carlos up and say, "Carlos child, you in trouble!" He'd probably be pissed at me, and he might not even believe me, but you can bet your ass I'd tell him what's going on. I love my brother and I want what is best for him. Or, if I knew my friend M's fiance was creeping around I'd let her know. That's what you do when you care for someone. You do your best to protect them from getting hurt.
So I guess it was that simple: Jennifer was never really my friend.
No, this entry is not about the Bush Administration. This entry is about a horse I can't bring myself to let die.
In life, if we are lucky, there are a handful of friends that we can count on take care of us.
I haven't always been that friend.
When a close friend of mine got married I did everything I could to miss the wedding. But, no matter how hard I dug my heels she yanked even harder. So, I went to the wedding even though I didn't think she was marrying the right guy. I didn't have the courage to tell her that. Not before the marriage, a few years after the marriage I finally told her how I felt about her husband.
She was rightfully pissed. If I recall correctly she slammed the phone in my ear. I don't blame her. I didn't speak to her for two years after that and you know what happened?
Out of the blue she called me and said, "I can understand why you didn't want me to marry XX. Whenever you and I talked I was always telling you about the fights we had or whatever shitty thing XX had done. I never told you any of the good things. I completely understand why you didn't like him.'
That is friendship. Being able to get pissed, cool down, re-evaluate, hold out your had again and say, "I understand."
The same goes for a another friend who once accused me of sharing an embarrassing secret. I didn't do it, and I knew who had. When I told said friend the identity of the blabbermouth she vehemently responded,
"She wouldn't do that . . SHE'S my best friend."
It felt as if I'd been slapped. I stood up and walked her to the front door. I said, "I'm sorry that you feel that way." I opened the door, and I didn't see her for five years.
Then one day, four years later, out of the blue, she showed up at my front door. She said, "This won't take long. Remember when I accused you of telling WW about WW?"
Me, "Yes, I think that was the last time we talked."
Her, "Well, I'm hear to tell you I'm sorry. I recently found out it was who you said it was."
I was shocked. I was 18 when T showed up at my door to apologize . It was the first time in my life that a peer had said to me, "What I did was shitty and wrong and I'm very sorry."
She taught me a lot in that one moment.
Our friendship was beyond the point of no return, but I've always respected T for having the stones to own up to that when the average teen would probably have kept such a thing to herself.
I've been thinking about these two events recently because there is just one thing I've never really gotten over. If you've read the early entries of this blog you know my ex-husband is gay. I didn't know when I married him. In fact, I didn't know until we'd been married for five years.
What I also didn't know was that a friend of mine knew years befoe I did. She and I had met in my dorm room when I was a freshman. We used to go out, drink and fall asleep in each other's bed. I thought we were close. Near the end of my freshman year she came out to me. She made such a big deal about it that when she finally said, "I'm a lesbian" I was relieved. She was so tense I thought she was about to tell me she was in the witness protection plan.
My response to her coming out was, "Oh, okay." It was fairly understated, and I wasn't scandalized or clutching my pearls. I really didn't care. Jen was still the same Jen she'd been five minutes prior to coming out.
About six months after this admission I start hanging out with J. We'd all go out in groups, and I'd occasionally find Jen and J huddled together in the corner of the bar. In hindsight I can admit they always looked busted. I never knew what they were talking about, but it seemed pretty intense. I never stuck my nose in it. I just figured they were friends, too.
I distinctly remember a moment when Jen turned to me and asked, "What do you think about a woman in a committed heterosexual relationship sleeping with other women."
Me, "Well, does the husband know?"
Jen, "I don't think so."
Me, "If the husband doesn't know then it's cheating. I don't care if she's sleeping with another man or another woman. That's cheating."
Jen, "Well, what if all of the people involved know?"
Me, "Well that's between them I guess."
Pause . . .
Me, "Jen, you don't want to sleep with me do you?"
Her, laughing . . . relieved, "NO . . . I was just posing a question."
We were Women's and Gender Studies girls so these kinds of conversations weren't all that bizarre for me. After J and I split up Jen called me and my heart hit he floor. I said to her,
"Oh Jen, honey, I can't be friends with you."
Her, "What?"
Me, "You knew, you knew what Jason was up to all that time. You should have told me. I wouldn't have married him. I wouldn't have gotten sick."
Her, "Oh Melissa . . . "
Me, "Oh don't worry, it's nothing that will kill me . . . "
Yeah, I'm still pissed because on top of having had to deal with my husband's betrayal I also had to deal with my friend's betrayal.
I've tried to justify her behavior. Is there a gay code that I don't know? Do you foresake your straight friend, and protect your closeted friend because you understand the pain of living a closeted life?
I really don't know.
I can tell you that if I was certain my brother's partner was playing the field I would call Carlos up and say, "Carlos child, you in trouble!" He'd probably be pissed at me, and he might not even believe me, but you can bet your ass I'd tell him what's going on. I love my brother and I want what is best for him. Or, if I knew my friend M's fiance was creeping around I'd let her know. That's what you do when you care for someone. You do your best to protect them from getting hurt.
So I guess it was that simple: Jennifer was never really my friend.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
To Breed or Not to Breed
Steve and I have decided not to have children. If you know me well, you are aware of this already.
I guess I'm addressing this here because in previous entries I've said that I might want to have children someday. I think I only said those things because it was the right thing to say.
Or, maybe I'm just a flip-flopper.
The truth is I have never wanted children. When I was a child I knew girls who would pretend their baby dolls were realy babies. They would change them, feed them, put them in a toy stroller and push it along the sidewalk. I never did that.
I clearly remember that at one point I set up a daycare in my bedroom closet. I'd dress my dolls, carry them around, and then I'd drop them off at daycare saying, "Okay, it's time to go to daycare." I'd leave them there for days at a time.
I could understand if this behavior had been modeled for me at home, but my mom was an at-home mother, and my brother and I never went to daycare. I've just never been the mothering kind.
Last fall I told my mom that I didn't want children, and she was not happy. I said that I was sorry I wouldn't be providing her with grandchildre, but that Steve and I are happy and don't want our lives to change.
She said to me, "Children won't change your life."
I smirked and said, "Mom, come on . . ."
She started laughing and said, "Okay, yeah, you're right . . . "
My not wanting children always gets misinterpreted as me not liking children. That's not true. I love the smell of a clean baby's head, and the way smile at you like you're the only person in the world. I get the appeal, I just don't want a child in my life. Neither does Steve.
I've asked him because sometimes I worry that he just doesn't want to rock the boat. But, he said, "No, I really like being selfish. I couldn't buy the antique tools I've bought or the scooter. I'd have to save all that money for diapers and formula. Not to mention saving for college."
Thank God.
I guess I'm addressing this here because in previous entries I've said that I might want to have children someday. I think I only said those things because it was the right thing to say.
Or, maybe I'm just a flip-flopper.
The truth is I have never wanted children. When I was a child I knew girls who would pretend their baby dolls were realy babies. They would change them, feed them, put them in a toy stroller and push it along the sidewalk. I never did that.
I clearly remember that at one point I set up a daycare in my bedroom closet. I'd dress my dolls, carry them around, and then I'd drop them off at daycare saying, "Okay, it's time to go to daycare." I'd leave them there for days at a time.
I could understand if this behavior had been modeled for me at home, but my mom was an at-home mother, and my brother and I never went to daycare. I've just never been the mothering kind.
Last fall I told my mom that I didn't want children, and she was not happy. I said that I was sorry I wouldn't be providing her with grandchildre, but that Steve and I are happy and don't want our lives to change.
She said to me, "Children won't change your life."
I smirked and said, "Mom, come on . . ."
She started laughing and said, "Okay, yeah, you're right . . . "
My not wanting children always gets misinterpreted as me not liking children. That's not true. I love the smell of a clean baby's head, and the way smile at you like you're the only person in the world. I get the appeal, I just don't want a child in my life. Neither does Steve.
I've asked him because sometimes I worry that he just doesn't want to rock the boat. But, he said, "No, I really like being selfish. I couldn't buy the antique tools I've bought or the scooter. I'd have to save all that money for diapers and formula. Not to mention saving for college."
Thank God.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Police Blotter - Sunday, January 18, 2009
Two dog chains, a tree pruner manual, a lawnmower and a weedeater were stolen from a home in the 3100 block of Wxxxxxxxxx Road at 1p.m., Sunday.
I think what amuses me the most is the tree pruner manual.
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