Cousin S: So, how was dinner with your parents and your boyfriend on Saturday night? Everything go OK?
Me: Yes, everything went really well. Just normal parents stuff. You know . . . my dad assumed we're getting married and told my boyfriend I had "sibling issues," and my mom talked about a book she had seen at Borders that day about how to live with a huge penis. Oh, and my boyfriend told my parents I didn't like to talk about poop. Pretty average dinner with my parents.
Cousin S: Well, your mom emailed me that she really liked him, so that's good.
Showing posts with label The Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Family. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
10 Things You Probably Don’t Want to Know About the Viking Funeral
We don’t have very many funerals in my family. Or . . . I guess I should say, we haven’t had many funerals in my family. So, I’m not really sure if what happened this weekend is normal or just more craziness from the family that brought you the 90-year-old-mojo-party and the ill-fated-party-in-the-woods.
(1) Apparently, when my Aunt I said she would pick me, Cousin S, and Uncle B up at the airport at 2:30, she actually meant that she would think about picking us up approximately any time in the afternoon of that day, not actually at 2:30. So, after waiting for Aunt I for an hour and a half, I called my parents to come to pick us up.
(2) Although I have only been to about five funerals in my lifetime, I have never been at one that lasted for three hours. There are very few people who are important enough to be memorialized for three hours in a church. I love ya, Uncle T, but that was excessive.
(3) Does anyone else think the church’s logo (or symbol? What do you call it when it is reproduced in giant brass on the wall at the front of the church?) looks like a stubby penis surrounded by a halo next to a giant crochet hook?
(1) Apparently, when my Aunt I said she would pick me, Cousin S, and Uncle B up at the airport at 2:30, she actually meant that she would think about picking us up approximately any time in the afternoon of that day, not actually at 2:30. So, after waiting for Aunt I for an hour and a half, I called my parents to come to pick us up.
(2) Although I have only been to about five funerals in my lifetime, I have never been at one that lasted for three hours. There are very few people who are important enough to be memorialized for three hours in a church. I love ya, Uncle T, but that was excessive.
(3) Does anyone else think the church’s logo (or symbol? What do you call it when it is reproduced in giant brass on the wall at the front of the church?) looks like a stubby penis surrounded by a halo next to a giant crochet hook?
Or is it just because I was staring at it for three hours?
(4) Is it weird that everyone in my family (aside from my crazy Aunt J) didn’t recognize the person being talked about by all of the people memorializing him? Between hymns, about eight people got up to speak about my Uncle T’s "faith journey." Pretty much all of us thought he was an atheist who attended church to appease his naggy wife. What the fuck is a faith journey anyway?
(5) So, after the funeral, we all adjourned to the church basement for a luncheon. This luncheon consisted of Chinese food, lemonade, and cake. This might have been bearable if there had not been a simultaneous lutefisk luncheon for 100 people in the next room over. You know what doesn’t go together more than Chinese, lemonade, and cake? Lutefisk (which looks and tastes and smells like fish Jello), Chinese, lemonade, and cake.
(6) The burning of Viking ship happened without a hitch. Someone took a video of it, which I will try to get and post here. The ship was significantly scaled down and burned in the gas grill at the hotel. The hotel begrudgingly agreed to this but insisted, for safety reasons, that their manager be the one to light the ship on fire. Whatever. I’m pretty sure she just wanted to light a rubbing-alcohol filled Viking ship on fire.
(7) You know you are the presence of good Swedes when the first bottle of Aquavit is empty, much to Uncle B’s dismay, and an old family friend stands up and says, "Never fear!! I have an extra bottle in the car!" And she actually had two extra bottles.
(8) Did you know that there are three flights every day from Minneapolis to International Falls, Minnesota? I didn’t know there were enough people who lived in International Falls to justify flying there three times a year, much less three times a day.
(9) The Peoria Airport is very, very sad. So sad that it makes me feel like I’ve just flow into Bumblefuck Arkansas or something.
(10) Did you know that Illinois-American Water likes to play a little trick on people who have been out of state for a funeral by turning their water off while they are away? Oh, baby . . . there is nothing like coming home from a long, stressful family funeral and not being able to flush your toilet. And then being told you haven’t paid your water bill since January when you are sitting looking at your online bank statement which clearly indicates you paid your water bill every month for the last seven years.
Rat Bastards.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
And so I Leave You with This . . .
Before I depart tomorrow for the great Viking funeral of 2009, I thought I would update everyone on the ill-fated launching/burning of a Viking ship in a public lake in Minneapolis.
Apparently, someone talked some sense into the rest of my family and convinced them that spending the night in jail would probably not be the best way to celebrate my Uncle's life. So, it was decided that we would burn the ship in my aunt's fireplace. I was immediately against this idea because that fireplace has probably not been cleaned in the 15 years they have lived in the house. The second-to-last thing we need at this funeral is a chimney fire.
(As an aside, I would like to stress that I am not the killjoy in my family. I like to have good fun too . . . I just tend to have my fun without fire. I think that's perfectly reasonable.)
Anyway, so the burning of the Viking ship has been moved outside to the Weber grill. I don't really know all of the details, but I do know that we all get to write personal messages to put into the ship as it is burning to send with Uncle T into the afterlife or heaven or wherever his ashes land.
First, I asked whether these messages would be secret, which, given the nature of the potential messages, is very important. Then I decided my message will say:
I hope they don't force you to remain married to the same person in heaven.
My brother just informed me he was thinking of writing this:
Watch out for the wasabi! It's not avocado in heaven either!
Uncle T was my mother's only brother. My mother told me hers is going to say:
Life is like a bag of charcoal briquettes . . . and then they set you on fire in the Weber.
Yeah. We're not a very sentimental bunch.
Apparently, someone talked some sense into the rest of my family and convinced them that spending the night in jail would probably not be the best way to celebrate my Uncle's life. So, it was decided that we would burn the ship in my aunt's fireplace. I was immediately against this idea because that fireplace has probably not been cleaned in the 15 years they have lived in the house. The second-to-last thing we need at this funeral is a chimney fire.
(As an aside, I would like to stress that I am not the killjoy in my family. I like to have good fun too . . . I just tend to have my fun without fire. I think that's perfectly reasonable.)
Anyway, so the burning of the Viking ship has been moved outside to the Weber grill. I don't really know all of the details, but I do know that we all get to write personal messages to put into the ship as it is burning to send with Uncle T into the afterlife or heaven or wherever his ashes land.
First, I asked whether these messages would be secret, which, given the nature of the potential messages, is very important. Then I decided my message will say:
I hope they don't force you to remain married to the same person in heaven.
My brother just informed me he was thinking of writing this:
Watch out for the wasabi! It's not avocado in heaven either!
Uncle T was my mother's only brother. My mother told me hers is going to say:
Life is like a bag of charcoal briquettes . . . and then they set you on fire in the Weber.
Yeah. We're not a very sentimental bunch.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
There But For the Grace of God Go I
I was just reminded of this story not too long ago while talking to my college roommate. I had completely forgotten it happened. Although it happened almost 19 years ago, it has surprising relevance to something that has happened quite recently.
About a month after I started college in the fall of 1990, my English professor called me into his office. He made some small talk about the paper I had just turned in and then said, "So . . . I hear you are going to missing some school in the next few months." I was stunned for a few seconds while a million things ran through my head - most significantly: have I already been kicked out of college? I mean, I haven’t really done anything yet! At least not anything really bad!
"Not that I know of. Why?"
"Well, I got a call from the Dean of Students . . . I think he called all of your professors . . . and he said you were going to be missing school because of a family situation."
"What family situation?"
The professor looked really embarrassed at that moment. I think the look on his face was something like - dear god . . . she doesn’t know - but he said, "Because your dad is sick. The Dean said you might need to take some time off from school because your dad is sick."
I laughed, mostly out of relief that I wasn’t being expelled, and said, "No. I’m sure if my dad was sick, my parents would have told me. They don’t keep things like that from me." The professor looked concerned, but let me leave. As I was walking back to my dorm room, I got to thinking about it. What if my parents really hadn’t told me my dad was sick?
No. They wouldn’t do that. They just wouldn’t. They are very up-front type of people who believe in talking everything out, no matter how painful. And my dad hadn’t seemed sick at all and I had just been there a month ago. My parents don’t hide things from me.
But . . . my paranoid side started taking over. What if they didn’t want me to leave school and decided not to tell me? I mean . . . they did sell their house while I was away at summer camp before my senior year of high school without telling me first. But they told me about it the next time they talked to me . . . so.
As soon as I got back to my dorm room (no cell phone, people, it was 1990), I called my dad’s office. "He’s with a patient, honey," said his secretary. "Can I leave him a message or do you need me to interrupt him?" "No, that’s OK," I replied. We were never allowed to interrupt our parents when they were with patients. Emergency situations, yes, but I had never had an emergency serious enough to interrupt them. Apparently, his dying was not an emergency situation.
I called my mom at her office. She was available. Without any preface, I said, "Is Papa sick? Is he sick and you didn’t tell me?" "No. Of course not," she replied. I explained the whole situation to her, what my professor had said. After hanging up with me, she called my father and they called the Dean. They called me back and assured me everything was fine. Apparently, the Dean had mixed me up with another student. The Dean called all of my professors and straightened the situation out.
However, the Dean forgot to tell my RAs and dorm manager.
A few days later, I was telling this story to a few friends in my dorm corridor and we were laughing about how weird it was and scary and bad that the Dean had gotten me confused with someone else. Our two RAs walked by and caught a piece of the conversation. They stopped dead in their tracks when they heard me say, "Yeah . . . my dad’s not dying."
"What? Your dad’s not dying??"
I explained the story to them and, to my surprise, they got pissed. Apparently, the school had made both of my RAs go through grief training because my dad was dying. They had been in training for an entire weekend and had missed some big party or something. They were having daily meetings with the dorm manager because they thought I was in huge denial because I seemed to be living my life just like I always had.
After a few weeks, it kind of became a joke among my friends. If I was acting super happy or something out of the ordinary, my friends would say, "Man . . . she must be in denial." The story was told at countless parties until the party a few years later where a girl told us all to shut up and said, "That was me . . . that was my dad." All of us shut up and felt pretty bad. I said, "I’m so sorry . . . I had no idea. How is your dad?" (OK - not the brightest thing to say, but I was drunk.)
"Dead. He died."
I knew this girl because our names were very similar. In fact, our last names were the same and our first names sounded alike. We were often confused for the other, even though we looked nothing alike. We weren’t really friends in college, but I have always thought about her and how hard it would have been to lose your dad while you were in college.
Sixteen years later, my youngest cousin started her first year of college. Two months after she started, her dad was diagnosed with brain cancer. He died in January of this year, during her junior year of college.
Life is funny sometimes. A situation that could have been very bad for me turned into a funny story I told people at parties. But for my cousin, it came true.
I’m not a religious person, but I do like the saying, "There but for the grace of god go I." Even though I forget it often, I am a very lucky person. I’ve had a lot of advantages in my life. I can’t explain to my cousin why it is fair her dad died when she was just 21 and my dad is still alive when I am 37. I don’t know how to explain why these things happen. But I do need to remind myself every day how lucky I am.
About a month after I started college in the fall of 1990, my English professor called me into his office. He made some small talk about the paper I had just turned in and then said, "So . . . I hear you are going to missing some school in the next few months." I was stunned for a few seconds while a million things ran through my head - most significantly: have I already been kicked out of college? I mean, I haven’t really done anything yet! At least not anything really bad!
"Not that I know of. Why?"
"Well, I got a call from the Dean of Students . . . I think he called all of your professors . . . and he said you were going to be missing school because of a family situation."
"What family situation?"
The professor looked really embarrassed at that moment. I think the look on his face was something like - dear god . . . she doesn’t know - but he said, "Because your dad is sick. The Dean said you might need to take some time off from school because your dad is sick."
I laughed, mostly out of relief that I wasn’t being expelled, and said, "No. I’m sure if my dad was sick, my parents would have told me. They don’t keep things like that from me." The professor looked concerned, but let me leave. As I was walking back to my dorm room, I got to thinking about it. What if my parents really hadn’t told me my dad was sick?
No. They wouldn’t do that. They just wouldn’t. They are very up-front type of people who believe in talking everything out, no matter how painful. And my dad hadn’t seemed sick at all and I had just been there a month ago. My parents don’t hide things from me.
But . . . my paranoid side started taking over. What if they didn’t want me to leave school and decided not to tell me? I mean . . . they did sell their house while I was away at summer camp before my senior year of high school without telling me first. But they told me about it the next time they talked to me . . . so.
As soon as I got back to my dorm room (no cell phone, people, it was 1990), I called my dad’s office. "He’s with a patient, honey," said his secretary. "Can I leave him a message or do you need me to interrupt him?" "No, that’s OK," I replied. We were never allowed to interrupt our parents when they were with patients. Emergency situations, yes, but I had never had an emergency serious enough to interrupt them. Apparently, his dying was not an emergency situation.
I called my mom at her office. She was available. Without any preface, I said, "Is Papa sick? Is he sick and you didn’t tell me?" "No. Of course not," she replied. I explained the whole situation to her, what my professor had said. After hanging up with me, she called my father and they called the Dean. They called me back and assured me everything was fine. Apparently, the Dean had mixed me up with another student. The Dean called all of my professors and straightened the situation out.
However, the Dean forgot to tell my RAs and dorm manager.
A few days later, I was telling this story to a few friends in my dorm corridor and we were laughing about how weird it was and scary and bad that the Dean had gotten me confused with someone else. Our two RAs walked by and caught a piece of the conversation. They stopped dead in their tracks when they heard me say, "Yeah . . . my dad’s not dying."
"What? Your dad’s not dying??"
I explained the story to them and, to my surprise, they got pissed. Apparently, the school had made both of my RAs go through grief training because my dad was dying. They had been in training for an entire weekend and had missed some big party or something. They were having daily meetings with the dorm manager because they thought I was in huge denial because I seemed to be living my life just like I always had.
After a few weeks, it kind of became a joke among my friends. If I was acting super happy or something out of the ordinary, my friends would say, "Man . . . she must be in denial." The story was told at countless parties until the party a few years later where a girl told us all to shut up and said, "That was me . . . that was my dad." All of us shut up and felt pretty bad. I said, "I’m so sorry . . . I had no idea. How is your dad?" (OK - not the brightest thing to say, but I was drunk.)
"Dead. He died."
I knew this girl because our names were very similar. In fact, our last names were the same and our first names sounded alike. We were often confused for the other, even though we looked nothing alike. We weren’t really friends in college, but I have always thought about her and how hard it would have been to lose your dad while you were in college.
Sixteen years later, my youngest cousin started her first year of college. Two months after she started, her dad was diagnosed with brain cancer. He died in January of this year, during her junior year of college.
Life is funny sometimes. A situation that could have been very bad for me turned into a funny story I told people at parties. But for my cousin, it came true.
I’m not a religious person, but I do like the saying, "There but for the grace of god go I." Even though I forget it often, I am a very lucky person. I’ve had a lot of advantages in my life. I can’t explain to my cousin why it is fair her dad died when she was just 21 and my dad is still alive when I am 37. I don’t know how to explain why these things happen. But I do need to remind myself every day how lucky I am.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
I Was Good at Four Square, Actually
From an email exchange with my brother yesterday about looking for a place for the family to have drinks before the god-awful dinner at my Aunt's house before my Uncle's memorial service:
My dad: Since the group has gotten a little large for drinks in a hotel room on Friday, we are trying to find a bar where we, the Family that is, can assemble at five if we choose to do so. Everyone will buy their own, and following that, J is planning a dinner at the house. Of course there will be no drinks there. Grandpa really wants to have his family around him. J will not be excluded but I’d doubt she’ll want to do it.
My brother: I might have some contacts in the wine/liquor industry in Minneapolis. But what exactly are we looking for? Something that can accommodate everyone? How large is large? I can bounce ideas off of [Ms. PH] from the time she lived there.
Me: I lived in Minneapolis 15 years ago and my specialty was sort of local dive bars. I'm not so sure I would be good at picking out a place now for our entire family to drink.
My brother: Ok, no bouncing ideas off [Ms. PH] then.
Me: You can bounce all you want, I just might not be able to contribute much.
My brother: It will be like a game of four square!
My dad: Since the group has gotten a little large for drinks in a hotel room on Friday, we are trying to find a bar where we, the Family that is, can assemble at five if we choose to do so. Everyone will buy their own, and following that, J is planning a dinner at the house. Of course there will be no drinks there. Grandpa really wants to have his family around him. J will not be excluded but I’d doubt she’ll want to do it.
My brother: I might have some contacts in the wine/liquor industry in Minneapolis. But what exactly are we looking for? Something that can accommodate everyone? How large is large? I can bounce ideas off of [Ms. PH] from the time she lived there.
Me: I lived in Minneapolis 15 years ago and my specialty was sort of local dive bars. I'm not so sure I would be good at picking out a place now for our entire family to drink.
My brother: Ok, no bouncing ideas off [Ms. PH] then.
Me: You can bounce all you want, I just might not be able to contribute much.
My brother: It will be like a game of four square!
Monday, March 2, 2009
A Proper Funeral
As I mentioned here, my Uncle T died in January after a battle with brain cancer. Our family convinced his wife to have a memorial service a few months after his death, so there was no funeral at the time he died. So, she scheduled it for March 28th. All fine and good.
As I mentioned here, my Aunt J has always been at odds with the rest of my family because of her religious beliefs. So, we knew that there was going to be some sort of church service involved. No problem. All of us respect her need to mourn the way she feels comfortable.
Of course, that doesn’t stop my family from planning multiple other "memorial" events during the weekend as well. For example, everyone in the family, except my Aunt J, are convening at 5 pm on Friday to drink. A lot. Then we are going out for dinner, just the family, and Aunt J is invited. I bet she won’t notice at all that the rest of us are shit-faced.
The religious service is at 10 am on Saturday and there is a reception at the church after the service (bring on the Jello molds, church ladies!!) There is a dinner on Saturday night either at my uncle’s favorite restaurant or at the hospice where he died. I don’t think I have to tell you which one I will NOT be attending.
The rest of the weekend is a mystery to me, as I am usually the last to know anything in my family. So, I called my cousin S on Friday afternoon to see what the plans were. Here’s the conversation:
Me: Hey. Do you know what else is happening over the weekend for T’s memorial service?
S: Did you hear about the Viking Ship?
Me: Um . . . no. What Viking Ship? (as an aside, I was once forced to march in a parade in full Swedish costume behind a giant Viking Ship float. Therefore, my voice probably had a wee bit of panic in it.)
S: Well, Uncle B and Uncle C decided they are going to build a replica of a Viking Ship out of wood, fill it with flammable materials, light it on fire, and launch it into Lake Calhoun.
Me: WHAT? Has anybody checked to see if it is legal to light a Viking ship on fire in a public place in Minneapolis? Because I’m thinking it’s probably not.
S: I don’t know . . . it wasn’t my idea. I guess they did it in Washington the day T died and it worked out fine.
Me: How big was the boat?
S: Well, in Washington it was only about six inches and made of cardboard. But B and C wanted to do it right so they have plans for a three foot long wooden boat. My dad was at Home Depot last night buying the wood.
Me: Has anyone considered the fact that Lake Calhoun might still be frozen in March? Or that it could catch something else on fire? Or that it’s not legal?
S: Probably not. How bad could it be?
Me: Oh . . . let’s see. I can see the headline now, "Mourning Swedish Family Burns Down ENTIRE Lake Calhoun Area in Ill-Fated Viking Funeral."
S: Well, good thing we have a lawyer in the family.
Me: Whatever. Is T going to be on the boat when this happens?
S: No. Mom and I are going to be making him into pottery after the memorial service.
Me: What???
S: Well, we thought it would be nice for people to have a keepsake, you know, like a little piece of T, so we are figuring out ways to make T into pottery. Right now, we are experimenting with Cosmo’s ashes and it’s going pretty good. (Cosmo is their dog that died a few years ago and was cremated.)
Me: Um . . . gross. I’m pretty sure I don’t want some T pottery. I’ll just stick with my existing memories, thanks.
So, there it is folks. The family crazy continues. And I can guarantee you that I will be standing as far away from that burning boat as possible so I can run when the cops come. I would hate to have to call into work on Monday morning and have to explain I was in jail for burning down a park in Minneapolis.
Of course, all of the men I mention this story to think it is a great idea. Some even suggested lighting the boat on fire by shooting flaming arrows at it. Clearly, these people have never met my family. We would set ourselves on fire before the boat.
As I mentioned here, my Aunt J has always been at odds with the rest of my family because of her religious beliefs. So, we knew that there was going to be some sort of church service involved. No problem. All of us respect her need to mourn the way she feels comfortable.
Of course, that doesn’t stop my family from planning multiple other "memorial" events during the weekend as well. For example, everyone in the family, except my Aunt J, are convening at 5 pm on Friday to drink. A lot. Then we are going out for dinner, just the family, and Aunt J is invited. I bet she won’t notice at all that the rest of us are shit-faced.
The religious service is at 10 am on Saturday and there is a reception at the church after the service (bring on the Jello molds, church ladies!!) There is a dinner on Saturday night either at my uncle’s favorite restaurant or at the hospice where he died. I don’t think I have to tell you which one I will NOT be attending.
The rest of the weekend is a mystery to me, as I am usually the last to know anything in my family. So, I called my cousin S on Friday afternoon to see what the plans were. Here’s the conversation:
Me: Hey. Do you know what else is happening over the weekend for T’s memorial service?
S: Did you hear about the Viking Ship?
Me: Um . . . no. What Viking Ship? (as an aside, I was once forced to march in a parade in full Swedish costume behind a giant Viking Ship float. Therefore, my voice probably had a wee bit of panic in it.)
S: Well, Uncle B and Uncle C decided they are going to build a replica of a Viking Ship out of wood, fill it with flammable materials, light it on fire, and launch it into Lake Calhoun.
Me: WHAT? Has anybody checked to see if it is legal to light a Viking ship on fire in a public place in Minneapolis? Because I’m thinking it’s probably not.
S: I don’t know . . . it wasn’t my idea. I guess they did it in Washington the day T died and it worked out fine.
Me: How big was the boat?
S: Well, in Washington it was only about six inches and made of cardboard. But B and C wanted to do it right so they have plans for a three foot long wooden boat. My dad was at Home Depot last night buying the wood.
Me: Has anyone considered the fact that Lake Calhoun might still be frozen in March? Or that it could catch something else on fire? Or that it’s not legal?
S: Probably not. How bad could it be?
Me: Oh . . . let’s see. I can see the headline now, "Mourning Swedish Family Burns Down ENTIRE Lake Calhoun Area in Ill-Fated Viking Funeral."
S: Well, good thing we have a lawyer in the family.
Me: Whatever. Is T going to be on the boat when this happens?
S: No. Mom and I are going to be making him into pottery after the memorial service.
Me: What???
S: Well, we thought it would be nice for people to have a keepsake, you know, like a little piece of T, so we are figuring out ways to make T into pottery. Right now, we are experimenting with Cosmo’s ashes and it’s going pretty good. (Cosmo is their dog that died a few years ago and was cremated.)
Me: Um . . . gross. I’m pretty sure I don’t want some T pottery. I’ll just stick with my existing memories, thanks.
So, there it is folks. The family crazy continues. And I can guarantee you that I will be standing as far away from that burning boat as possible so I can run when the cops come. I would hate to have to call into work on Monday morning and have to explain I was in jail for burning down a park in Minneapolis.
Of course, all of the men I mention this story to think it is a great idea. Some even suggested lighting the boat on fire by shooting flaming arrows at it. Clearly, these people have never met my family. We would set ourselves on fire before the boat.
Friday, January 23, 2009
My First Car
I've been thinking a lot about cars lately, most likely because I have just purchased my latest new car this month. Then I read The Rotund Reader's post about her first car and it inspired me, mostly because of the similarities between her first car and mine.
I turned 16 in August of 1987. My parents were desperate for me to get my driver's license so I could drive myself and my little brother to and from school everyday. The car that was going to be my car had been waiting for me all summer in the driveway and I had been practicing driving it, with a parent present, of course.
My grandfather gave me his 1979 Volkswagen Rabbit. It was poop-brown on the outside with tan vinyl upholstery. It was a two-door with what passed for "automatic" seatbelts in 1979: the seatbelts were attached to the door, but unlike new models, they didn't move when you shut the door. They were permanently attached to the top corner of the door. It ran on regular leaded gasoline and had only FM radio. It didn't have air-conditioning. It also didn't have power steering, which was good for the arm muscles.
I loved that car for many reasons. First, it was a gift from my grandfather who took his cars very seriously. Second, it was my ticket to coolness and freedom. Third, it was a VW. VW's have a sort of pedestaled existence in my family. My grandfather always drove one once he retired and gave my dad a baby blue VW bug for his 21st birthday. (In later years, my grandfather would give my brother a blue VW Golf when he turned 21 and my parents gave me a VW Jetta when I turned 21.)
As with most mythical creatures, the Rabbit experienced a sad end. One day in the Spring of 1988, I picked up my brother at his junior high school and we were driving home. I hated having to pick him up because he was so irritating as only little brothers can be. We were arguing about something stupid - he probably looked at me funny or some such horrible offense. I wasn't paying attention to the road and rear-ended a Cadillac.
We weren't hurt and the Cadillac wasn't damaged at all. But the front end of my Rabbit was crumpled. The headlights were destroyed and I couldn't get out of either one of the doors. And my pride was severely bruised.
My parents were not pleased, probably because they knew I had caused the accident while yelling at my brother. As punishment, they refused to buy me a replacement car for a month and didn't fix the Rabbit. Instead, they made me drive it (only during the day because there were no headlights). For a month, I had to crawl in and out of the hatchback door.
My parents always excelled at interesting and humiliating punishments. This one worked - I never totalled another car again. On the other hand, my brother totalled three cars before he turned 21 including the 1983 Toyota Corolla I got as a replacement for the Rabbit.
There is nothing like your first car. No matter how crappy, no matter the problems. It's like your first love . . . you'll always have a longing to recapture that feeling and no car will ever replace it in your memory.
I turned 16 in August of 1987. My parents were desperate for me to get my driver's license so I could drive myself and my little brother to and from school everyday. The car that was going to be my car had been waiting for me all summer in the driveway and I had been practicing driving it, with a parent present, of course.
My grandfather gave me his 1979 Volkswagen Rabbit. It was poop-brown on the outside with tan vinyl upholstery. It was a two-door with what passed for "automatic" seatbelts in 1979: the seatbelts were attached to the door, but unlike new models, they didn't move when you shut the door. They were permanently attached to the top corner of the door. It ran on regular leaded gasoline and had only FM radio. It didn't have air-conditioning. It also didn't have power steering, which was good for the arm muscles.
I loved that car for many reasons. First, it was a gift from my grandfather who took his cars very seriously. Second, it was my ticket to coolness and freedom. Third, it was a VW. VW's have a sort of pedestaled existence in my family. My grandfather always drove one once he retired and gave my dad a baby blue VW bug for his 21st birthday. (In later years, my grandfather would give my brother a blue VW Golf when he turned 21 and my parents gave me a VW Jetta when I turned 21.)
As with most mythical creatures, the Rabbit experienced a sad end. One day in the Spring of 1988, I picked up my brother at his junior high school and we were driving home. I hated having to pick him up because he was so irritating as only little brothers can be. We were arguing about something stupid - he probably looked at me funny or some such horrible offense. I wasn't paying attention to the road and rear-ended a Cadillac.
We weren't hurt and the Cadillac wasn't damaged at all. But the front end of my Rabbit was crumpled. The headlights were destroyed and I couldn't get out of either one of the doors. And my pride was severely bruised.
My parents were not pleased, probably because they knew I had caused the accident while yelling at my brother. As punishment, they refused to buy me a replacement car for a month and didn't fix the Rabbit. Instead, they made me drive it (only during the day because there were no headlights). For a month, I had to crawl in and out of the hatchback door.
My parents always excelled at interesting and humiliating punishments. This one worked - I never totalled another car again. On the other hand, my brother totalled three cars before he turned 21 including the 1983 Toyota Corolla I got as a replacement for the Rabbit.
There is nothing like your first car. No matter how crappy, no matter the problems. It's like your first love . . . you'll always have a longing to recapture that feeling and no car will ever replace it in your memory.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Goodbye Uncle T
My Uncle T died on Monday afternoon. As I detailed in this post, it was not a sudden death and he was ready to go. For his sake, I am happy he was able to pass on and have his life end per his wishes. But it is still a death and, more importantly, the first death of a member of my parents’ generation in our family.
This has been the hardest part of T’s illness and death for me - being faced to recognize the potential death of my parents. T was 59 years old, which makes him four years younger than my mother and nine years younger than my father. Granted, my parents live much healthier lifestyles than T did, but they can’t live forever and, sooner or later, I will be coping with their deaths as well.
Just admitting this puts me close to panic. I can seriously cannot imagine my life without my parents. They are the single most dominant force in my life and, without them, I am in some fear that I will cease to exist. Well, maybe that’s overly dramatic. But I know that I will cease to exist as the same person after they die and that's scary.
In addition to the fear of their death, I have a healthy fear of their incapacitation, mentally or physically. My dad has good longevity genes (both of his parents lived into their 90s) but his father suffered from Alzheimer’s Disease for the last 20 years of his life. His mother was mentally "with it" for longer, but for the last five years or so, slowly succumbed to dementia as well. For some time, I have feared that my father will also descend into Alzheimer’s.
My mother’s genes are considerably better in that department. Her mother died quickly in her sleep without any prior serious illnesses at the age of 79. Her father just turned 90 and is still very physically and mentally able. But my Uncle T was my mother’s brother, so who is to say brain cancer isn’t lurking somewhere in those genes? While our family likes to joke that T purposefully developed brain cancer to get away from his horrible wife, it is bittersweet laughter.
What makes this fear worse for me is the knowledge that it will fall on my shoulders to deal with any health problems or a death. My brother has absolutely no ability to deal with serious issues in a calm and reasoned fashion. He prefers to pretend everything is OK, no matter the evidence to the contrary.
I know I can’t do anything constructive about these issues other than worry about them and that doesn’t really get me anywhere. I have been blessed to have my parents together and alive and always in my life. I was lucky to know all of my grandparents very, very well and not lose the first one until I was 27. A lot of people don’t get these opportunities and never have the strength of familial relationships I have had.
This has been the hardest part of T’s illness and death for me - being faced to recognize the potential death of my parents. T was 59 years old, which makes him four years younger than my mother and nine years younger than my father. Granted, my parents live much healthier lifestyles than T did, but they can’t live forever and, sooner or later, I will be coping with their deaths as well.
Just admitting this puts me close to panic. I can seriously cannot imagine my life without my parents. They are the single most dominant force in my life and, without them, I am in some fear that I will cease to exist. Well, maybe that’s overly dramatic. But I know that I will cease to exist as the same person after they die and that's scary.
In addition to the fear of their death, I have a healthy fear of their incapacitation, mentally or physically. My dad has good longevity genes (both of his parents lived into their 90s) but his father suffered from Alzheimer’s Disease for the last 20 years of his life. His mother was mentally "with it" for longer, but for the last five years or so, slowly succumbed to dementia as well. For some time, I have feared that my father will also descend into Alzheimer’s.
My mother’s genes are considerably better in that department. Her mother died quickly in her sleep without any prior serious illnesses at the age of 79. Her father just turned 90 and is still very physically and mentally able. But my Uncle T was my mother’s brother, so who is to say brain cancer isn’t lurking somewhere in those genes? While our family likes to joke that T purposefully developed brain cancer to get away from his horrible wife, it is bittersweet laughter.
What makes this fear worse for me is the knowledge that it will fall on my shoulders to deal with any health problems or a death. My brother has absolutely no ability to deal with serious issues in a calm and reasoned fashion. He prefers to pretend everything is OK, no matter the evidence to the contrary.
I know I can’t do anything constructive about these issues other than worry about them and that doesn’t really get me anywhere. I have been blessed to have my parents together and alive and always in my life. I was lucky to know all of my grandparents very, very well and not lose the first one until I was 27. A lot of people don’t get these opportunities and never have the strength of familial relationships I have had.
Monday, December 15, 2008
My Christmas List
No - not that kind of list. A Christmas meme I made on my own (by stealing from several different ones I found on the internet - now that just screams Christmas spirit, doesn't it?) For some reason, my creative juices have needed a little sparking lately and I am bound and determined to post more individual posts than I did last year. After all, in 2007, I only blogged for 6 months and posted 117 times. This year, I have blogged all year and I am only just over 100. So, expect a lot more crappy half-assed posting from me in the next 15 days.
(1) Wrapping paper or gift bags? Wrapping paper. I despise gift bags. They create extra waste and show an extreme lack of individuality and creativity. Not that I EVER refuse a gift, but I might appreciate it more if it is gift wrapped.
(2) Real tree or artificial? I would love to have a real tree but I can’t seem to get over my extreme fear of fire and real trees. My parents have always had a real tree and I don’t get worried about it at their house. But, for some reason, I have this feeling I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night worrying about a real tree catching fire in my house. So, I have a fake tree.
(3) When do you put up the tree? Whenever I get the time. We just put it up last night and that’s about normal for my family - about 10 days before Christmas.
(4) When do you take the tree down? Again, whenever I get the time. Sometimes it comes down on Christmas Day because we don’t do much of anything else on Christmas Day. It is always down by New Year’s Day, though.
(5) Do you like egg nog? In small doses, yes.
(6) Favorite gift received as a child? Probably my 1970s split-level doll house. It is fabulous. I still have it, as a matter of fact. It even came with teeny-tiny little silverware and magazines. And all of the appliances were Harvest Gold.
(7) Hardest person to buy for? My sister-in-law. She and I have next to nothing in common and she hates normal every-girl type of gifts like lotion, candles, or accessories. Her hobbies are chess and mathematics. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Plus, she objects to gift cards because "it is just like giving someone money." And tell me . . . what exactly is wrong with that?
(8) Easiest person to buy for? My kids. It’s not that hard to make kids under 5 happy.
(9) Do you have a nativity scene? Please. No. Everytime I'm even near a nativity scene, I have this strong urge to steal the Baby Jesus.
(10) Mail or email Christmas cards? Mail. Emailed Christmas cards are tacky. Plus . . . how would I make fun of you if you don’t write me those dreadfully boring and unintentionally hilarious family update letters?
(11) Worst Christmas gift you ever received? My brother and sister-in-law gave me a hot pepper plant which was infested with aphids. Not only do I not like hot peppers, the plant gave aphids to the rest of my houseplants and they all died.
(12) Favorite Christmas movie? Scrooged. Or The Sound of Music, even though it isn’t really a Christmas movie, but they always show it at Christmas.
(13) When do you start shopping? Whenever. I refuse to shop the day after Thanksgiving, so I usually start around now.
(14) Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? Well, I recycled that pepper plant right into the garbage . . . . Seriously, though. I have recycled many a Christmas present.
(15) Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Cookies. I love Christmas cookies.
(16) Lights on the tree? My tree lights are white. My parents’ tree lights are multi-colored, however, and I would be really offended if they changed them to all white.
(17) Favorite Christmas song? Non-religious - Santa Baby, preferably by Eartha Kitt, and Happy Christmas (war is over) by John Lennon. Religious - The Little Drummer Boy, What Child is This, and Silent Night.
(18) Travel at Christmas or stay home? It just depends on the year. We mostly travel to my parents’ house.
(19) Can you name all of Santa’s reindeer? Not without cheating.
(20) Angel on the tree top or a star? Neither. Our family trees have Santa Lucia on the top of them. The Lucy on top of my tree was made by my mother the first year my parents were married. When I bought my own house, my mother gave me that one and we made a new one together that currently sits on top of my parents’ tree. When my daughter has her first house, I hope to give her the old one so we can make a new one together. Every year, my dad has to make a comment about shoving the tree up Lucy’s ass. Every year. It never gets old.
(21) Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Christmas Eve. Christmas Day is for sitting around watching movies (marathons of Star Wars, Indiana Jones, or James Bond), playing with your Christmas toys, and doing jigsaw puzzles.
(22) Most annoying thing about this time of year? Asshole shoppers. My one Christmas season working in retail, a woman threw a stack of books at me on Christmas Eve. Christmas spirit my ass.
(23) Favorite for Christmas dinner? We have a standing rib roast every year on Christmas Eve.
(24) Favorite ornament theme or color? All of my ornaments have a special story or meaning to them. I like to buy at least one new ornament every year and I particularly like Santa Claus ornaments.
(25) What do you want for Christmas this year? Well, that would make it too easy for you, wouldn’t it?
(26) Do you hang mistletoe? No. The way I figure it . . . if you want to kiss someone, just do it.
(27) Favorite holiday memory as a child? As a child, we always spent Christmas with my dad’s parents because he’s an only child. I can’t remember one memory in particular, but I remember loving the feeling of Christmas time - everyone sitting around the living room talking and having fun, singing songs, playing with their new toys. It is the most overwhelming feeling of warmth and happiness I remember as a child.
(28) When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? Never. I always knew the truth about Santa since we didn’t believe he was real. Just like all other fictional stories, it was a nice story but we didn’t believe it was true.
(29) What’s the most important thing about the holidays? Giving gifts to people you love and spending time with family.
(30) Favorite Holiday tradition? I have so many, so it is hard to pick one. I love Advent calendars, I love all of the baking with my mother, I love wrapping presents, I love singing Christmas songs, I love celebrating Santa Lucia (and, yes, I do wear a crown of real candles on my head. Nothing says "Christmas" better than hot wax in your hair) . . . . Probably the best one we have as a family is that everyone has to open gifts one at a time and everyone else has to watch them. It was torture as a child, but I like the focus it puts on the giving part of Christmas, rather than on the receiving.
(1) Wrapping paper or gift bags? Wrapping paper. I despise gift bags. They create extra waste and show an extreme lack of individuality and creativity. Not that I EVER refuse a gift, but I might appreciate it more if it is gift wrapped.
(2) Real tree or artificial? I would love to have a real tree but I can’t seem to get over my extreme fear of fire and real trees. My parents have always had a real tree and I don’t get worried about it at their house. But, for some reason, I have this feeling I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night worrying about a real tree catching fire in my house. So, I have a fake tree.
(3) When do you put up the tree? Whenever I get the time. We just put it up last night and that’s about normal for my family - about 10 days before Christmas.
(4) When do you take the tree down? Again, whenever I get the time. Sometimes it comes down on Christmas Day because we don’t do much of anything else on Christmas Day. It is always down by New Year’s Day, though.
(5) Do you like egg nog? In small doses, yes.
(6) Favorite gift received as a child? Probably my 1970s split-level doll house. It is fabulous. I still have it, as a matter of fact. It even came with teeny-tiny little silverware and magazines. And all of the appliances were Harvest Gold.
(7) Hardest person to buy for? My sister-in-law. She and I have next to nothing in common and she hates normal every-girl type of gifts like lotion, candles, or accessories. Her hobbies are chess and mathematics. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Plus, she objects to gift cards because "it is just like giving someone money." And tell me . . . what exactly is wrong with that?
(8) Easiest person to buy for? My kids. It’s not that hard to make kids under 5 happy.
(9) Do you have a nativity scene? Please. No. Everytime I'm even near a nativity scene, I have this strong urge to steal the Baby Jesus.
(10) Mail or email Christmas cards? Mail. Emailed Christmas cards are tacky. Plus . . . how would I make fun of you if you don’t write me those dreadfully boring and unintentionally hilarious family update letters?
(11) Worst Christmas gift you ever received? My brother and sister-in-law gave me a hot pepper plant which was infested with aphids. Not only do I not like hot peppers, the plant gave aphids to the rest of my houseplants and they all died.
(12) Favorite Christmas movie? Scrooged. Or The Sound of Music, even though it isn’t really a Christmas movie, but they always show it at Christmas.
(13) When do you start shopping? Whenever. I refuse to shop the day after Thanksgiving, so I usually start around now.
(14) Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? Well, I recycled that pepper plant right into the garbage . . . . Seriously, though. I have recycled many a Christmas present.
(15) Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Cookies. I love Christmas cookies.
(16) Lights on the tree? My tree lights are white. My parents’ tree lights are multi-colored, however, and I would be really offended if they changed them to all white.
(17) Favorite Christmas song? Non-religious - Santa Baby, preferably by Eartha Kitt, and Happy Christmas (war is over) by John Lennon. Religious - The Little Drummer Boy, What Child is This, and Silent Night.
(18) Travel at Christmas or stay home? It just depends on the year. We mostly travel to my parents’ house.
(19) Can you name all of Santa’s reindeer? Not without cheating.
(20) Angel on the tree top or a star? Neither. Our family trees have Santa Lucia on the top of them. The Lucy on top of my tree was made by my mother the first year my parents were married. When I bought my own house, my mother gave me that one and we made a new one together that currently sits on top of my parents’ tree. When my daughter has her first house, I hope to give her the old one so we can make a new one together. Every year, my dad has to make a comment about shoving the tree up Lucy’s ass. Every year. It never gets old.
(21) Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Christmas Eve. Christmas Day is for sitting around watching movies (marathons of Star Wars, Indiana Jones, or James Bond), playing with your Christmas toys, and doing jigsaw puzzles.
(22) Most annoying thing about this time of year? Asshole shoppers. My one Christmas season working in retail, a woman threw a stack of books at me on Christmas Eve. Christmas spirit my ass.
(23) Favorite for Christmas dinner? We have a standing rib roast every year on Christmas Eve.
(24) Favorite ornament theme or color? All of my ornaments have a special story or meaning to them. I like to buy at least one new ornament every year and I particularly like Santa Claus ornaments.
(25) What do you want for Christmas this year? Well, that would make it too easy for you, wouldn’t it?
(26) Do you hang mistletoe? No. The way I figure it . . . if you want to kiss someone, just do it.
(27) Favorite holiday memory as a child? As a child, we always spent Christmas with my dad’s parents because he’s an only child. I can’t remember one memory in particular, but I remember loving the feeling of Christmas time - everyone sitting around the living room talking and having fun, singing songs, playing with their new toys. It is the most overwhelming feeling of warmth and happiness I remember as a child.
(28) When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? Never. I always knew the truth about Santa since we didn’t believe he was real. Just like all other fictional stories, it was a nice story but we didn’t believe it was true.
(29) What’s the most important thing about the holidays? Giving gifts to people you love and spending time with family.
(30) Favorite Holiday tradition? I have so many, so it is hard to pick one. I love Advent calendars, I love all of the baking with my mother, I love wrapping presents, I love singing Christmas songs, I love celebrating Santa Lucia (and, yes, I do wear a crown of real candles on my head. Nothing says "Christmas" better than hot wax in your hair) . . . . Probably the best one we have as a family is that everyone has to open gifts one at a time and everyone else has to watch them. It was torture as a child, but I like the focus it puts on the giving part of Christmas, rather than on the receiving.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Jesus Loves You . . .
. . . everyone else thinks you're an asshole.
My cousin and I love this saying because this is the way we feel about our Aunt J. J is one of the primary reasons I dislike organized religion. She is one of the fakest, do-as-I-preach-not-as-I-do Lutheran hypocrite Christians out there. She is the type that makes a big deal of her Christianity only when it serves her purposes, such as putting other people down, making herself feel better for small acts of "goodness" like praying for people who don't want it, excuses for making or living with her mistakes, the reason for refusing to accept responsibility for her life and her decisions, and just about everything else.
Jesus is the reason for everything good in her life, other people are to blame for everything bad in her life. Personal responsibility plays absolutely no role at all.
As with all family issues, my issues with J go deep and broad. From day one, I knew she wasn't right. She was my Uncle T's second wife, a total rebound after his wonderful first wife left him because he was a fucking do-nothing asswipe. I remember the day J walked into our family - a family wedding and T brought this plastic white-trash piece of flim-flam as his date. I was seven years old I knew she didn't belong. Bleached blond hair, set like Dolly Parton circa 1978, make-up she chiseled off at night, hoochey polyester disco-esque pantsuit. She was nothing like the rest of us.
In the end, it would have been just fine if J simply didn't look like us. But her differences, and her extreme need to point out why her differences made her better than the rest of us, were much more destructive. In a proud immigrant family (my mother and all of her siblings, including T, were born in Sweden), J insisted on wearing shirts saying "100% American." She insisted on praying before meals even in my grandparents' house where praying before meals was not desired, appreciated, or tolerated. She refused to eat the food served at any of our houses and often brought McDonald's for herself and her kids to our nine course family dinners, which usually had been prepared over the course of several days.
She didn't drink and disapproved of anyone who did, including her husband, in a family where your first full size shot is ingested before the age of 14. She refused to be gainfully employed in a family where work was valued above everything else. She constantly harped about germs when her kids were always the sickest of them all. She refused to fly or travel by bus or train, stating she had a fear of the shape of the plane, train, or bus (umm . . . Freud anyone?) Since my family is spread all over the country, any family events had to be planned around her driving schedule, even if it took her days to get somewhere. My grandmother's funeral had to be delayed by five days because J wouldn't get on a fucking plane.
In short, I have issues with J and always have. But, the point of this post is that her misuse of religion has always been my biggest issue and the biggest divider in our family.
In October of 2006, my Uncle T was diagnosed with a brain tumor. He was given two to five years to live. He went through all of the aggressive treatment options. Nothing has worked. It has been two years and he has gotten tired of treatment after treatment and is now refusing treatment. He wants to die. He is ready to die and we have accepted it. He is suffering and doesn't want to be poked and prodded and experimented on and feel sicker and sicker. He has lost his business, his ability to dress himself, to walk, to talk, to use the computer, to play the piano or violin. He can't drive a car, write with a pen, understand TV, read a book, or drink alcohol. He barely enjoys food, or jokes, or time with his kids. He is done.
And who could blame him? Most rational people would make the same decision he has made in the same situation. He wants to die. The only person who cannot accept it is J. She has made it her mission in life to "cure" him with every new and experimental treatment available. He has steadfastly refused treatment and is preparing to die. (Actually, he told everyone during Thanksgiving that he was going to die today, December 5th, but we all kind of doubt it works like that, even if you really want to die.)
I no longer have regular contact with either my aunt or uncle but my Aunt J writes a blog of sorts about her experiences with T and the tumor. I never read it. My dad reads it all of the time and then fumes about it for days because it is so . . . irritating. The last entry was at 11:45 pm on Thanksgiving. After talking about all of her blessings and gifts from Jesus, of course, she went on to talk about T:
"A friend brought over another new treatment option to be discussed with T's Neuro-Oncologist, so we talked about this and other options over dessert tonight. I am going to ask you to storm the heavens with T's name, and ask that God will guide and direct these conversations in such a way that T will listen and be receptive."
In other words, "God . . . please do my will and force my dying husband to seek treatment he does not want and live a hollow life that he does not want so my life can be better."
I may not be a devout believer in the Christian idea of God, but I'm pretty sure that God's purpose is not to do our will just because we believe we are right about a certain situation. Convenient belief = the worst type of Christianity. I understand that she loves him, I understand that she is scared shitless to lose her husband before the age of 60. I get that she feels incredible grief to be in this situation. I would not wish her situation on my worst enemy (which, honestly, is probably her . . . so I speak with authority that I did not wish this situation on her.) But using God as her weapon? That's what makes her an asshole.
Nothing is certain. T may die today like he wants. He may die tomorrow or next month. However, it is more likely he will die a long, slow, painful death because of J's selfish need to keep him alive. And that is much, much sadder than the death itself.
My cousin and I love this saying because this is the way we feel about our Aunt J. J is one of the primary reasons I dislike organized religion. She is one of the fakest, do-as-I-preach-not-as-I-do Lutheran hypocrite Christians out there. She is the type that makes a big deal of her Christianity only when it serves her purposes, such as putting other people down, making herself feel better for small acts of "goodness" like praying for people who don't want it, excuses for making or living with her mistakes, the reason for refusing to accept responsibility for her life and her decisions, and just about everything else.
Jesus is the reason for everything good in her life, other people are to blame for everything bad in her life. Personal responsibility plays absolutely no role at all.
As with all family issues, my issues with J go deep and broad. From day one, I knew she wasn't right. She was my Uncle T's second wife, a total rebound after his wonderful first wife left him because he was a fucking do-nothing asswipe. I remember the day J walked into our family - a family wedding and T brought this plastic white-trash piece of flim-flam as his date. I was seven years old I knew she didn't belong. Bleached blond hair, set like Dolly Parton circa 1978, make-up she chiseled off at night, hoochey polyester disco-esque pantsuit. She was nothing like the rest of us.
In the end, it would have been just fine if J simply didn't look like us. But her differences, and her extreme need to point out why her differences made her better than the rest of us, were much more destructive. In a proud immigrant family (my mother and all of her siblings, including T, were born in Sweden), J insisted on wearing shirts saying "100% American." She insisted on praying before meals even in my grandparents' house where praying before meals was not desired, appreciated, or tolerated. She refused to eat the food served at any of our houses and often brought McDonald's for herself and her kids to our nine course family dinners, which usually had been prepared over the course of several days.
She didn't drink and disapproved of anyone who did, including her husband, in a family where your first full size shot is ingested before the age of 14. She refused to be gainfully employed in a family where work was valued above everything else. She constantly harped about germs when her kids were always the sickest of them all. She refused to fly or travel by bus or train, stating she had a fear of the shape of the plane, train, or bus (umm . . . Freud anyone?) Since my family is spread all over the country, any family events had to be planned around her driving schedule, even if it took her days to get somewhere. My grandmother's funeral had to be delayed by five days because J wouldn't get on a fucking plane.
In short, I have issues with J and always have. But, the point of this post is that her misuse of religion has always been my biggest issue and the biggest divider in our family.
In October of 2006, my Uncle T was diagnosed with a brain tumor. He was given two to five years to live. He went through all of the aggressive treatment options. Nothing has worked. It has been two years and he has gotten tired of treatment after treatment and is now refusing treatment. He wants to die. He is ready to die and we have accepted it. He is suffering and doesn't want to be poked and prodded and experimented on and feel sicker and sicker. He has lost his business, his ability to dress himself, to walk, to talk, to use the computer, to play the piano or violin. He can't drive a car, write with a pen, understand TV, read a book, or drink alcohol. He barely enjoys food, or jokes, or time with his kids. He is done.
And who could blame him? Most rational people would make the same decision he has made in the same situation. He wants to die. The only person who cannot accept it is J. She has made it her mission in life to "cure" him with every new and experimental treatment available. He has steadfastly refused treatment and is preparing to die. (Actually, he told everyone during Thanksgiving that he was going to die today, December 5th, but we all kind of doubt it works like that, even if you really want to die.)
I no longer have regular contact with either my aunt or uncle but my Aunt J writes a blog of sorts about her experiences with T and the tumor. I never read it. My dad reads it all of the time and then fumes about it for days because it is so . . . irritating. The last entry was at 11:45 pm on Thanksgiving. After talking about all of her blessings and gifts from Jesus, of course, she went on to talk about T:
"A friend brought over another new treatment option to be discussed with T's Neuro-Oncologist, so we talked about this and other options over dessert tonight. I am going to ask you to storm the heavens with T's name, and ask that God will guide and direct these conversations in such a way that T will listen and be receptive."
In other words, "God . . . please do my will and force my dying husband to seek treatment he does not want and live a hollow life that he does not want so my life can be better."
I may not be a devout believer in the Christian idea of God, but I'm pretty sure that God's purpose is not to do our will just because we believe we are right about a certain situation. Convenient belief = the worst type of Christianity. I understand that she loves him, I understand that she is scared shitless to lose her husband before the age of 60. I get that she feels incredible grief to be in this situation. I would not wish her situation on my worst enemy (which, honestly, is probably her . . . so I speak with authority that I did not wish this situation on her.) But using God as her weapon? That's what makes her an asshole.
Nothing is certain. T may die today like he wants. He may die tomorrow or next month. However, it is more likely he will die a long, slow, painful death because of J's selfish need to keep him alive. And that is much, much sadder than the death itself.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Matter of Fact
Last year, I posted a portion of my parents' Christmas letter. My parents take turns writing the letter each year. Last year it was my dad's turn and, as usual, his was very sentimental. This year, my mom wrote the letter and it was true to her style of things. It is short and to the point, on plain white paper using a plain font. No Christmas stickers or pictures or even a Christmas stamp. At the top in the center, it says "2008 Holiday Letter." The first line is "Dear People:"
That's my mom - no frills.
So, they got their letter out early this year to tell people of their change of address. She talks about the new house a little bit, a little bit about the moving experience, and that they are still working and have no plans to retire. Then comes the last line:
If I started talking about grandchildren and their parents, this letter would become either one of those disgustingly proud displays or a tell-all testament to the challenges of relationships, no matter how special and long term.
Gotta love my mother. I'd like to think my children and I fall into the "disgustingly proud displays" category rather than the "challenges of relationships" category. I think that one is reserved for my brother and his family.
That's my mom - no frills.
So, they got their letter out early this year to tell people of their change of address. She talks about the new house a little bit, a little bit about the moving experience, and that they are still working and have no plans to retire. Then comes the last line:
If I started talking about grandchildren and their parents, this letter would become either one of those disgustingly proud displays or a tell-all testament to the challenges of relationships, no matter how special and long term.
Gotta love my mother. I'd like to think my children and I fall into the "disgustingly proud displays" category rather than the "challenges of relationships" category. I think that one is reserved for my brother and his family.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
90 Year Old Mojo
My family has many traditions, but one of the most important is giving toasts. Toasts occur at every dinner party were there are more than four people. Most adults are expected to give a toast. This is easier than it may sound because most adults have already had three or four shots before their toast begins. And they have been forced to learn and sing Swedish drinking songs. You would be surprised how easy public speaking is when you are tipsy and already embarrassed.
At my grandfather's birthday party, all family members were expected to give a toast. I have reproduced mine below. I don't go for the sentimental crap other people go for in toasts. You know, the "what-a-great-man-how-I-have-learned-so-much-from-you-and-am-honored-you-breathe-the-same-air-as-me" kind of toasts. Not my thing. Plus, I don't like to cry in front of a room full of people I don't know.
Anyway, here it is. Needless to say, I brought the house down. I rocked the Casbah. I got seven or eight elderly people to use the word "Mojo" in a sentence. Correctly. There is no end to my oratorical prowess.
In the summer before I turned 16, I spent a month with my maternal grandparents. One of the tasks we were to accomplish that summer was me practicing my driving skills. Most of the time, my grandmother let me practice with her Honda Civic. For some reason I will never remember, one day we decided to take my grandfather’s car downtown to the pastry shop. (Of course, I remember why we wanted to go to the pastry shop, what I don’t remember is why we took my grandfather’s car.)
At this time, my grandfather was driving a maroon Toronado. As a kid, I thought this car had mythical properties. I seriously and honestly thought my grandfather was the only one who owned a Toronado - that somehow the car manufacturers decided to make this one car for him and just him. Of course, now I know differently, but there is a small part of me that believes his specific Toronado had mythical powers, even if all others were just normal cars. Anyway, here is a picture of the type of Toronado he had:
It was enormous . . . had a huge front end, giant doors, and was really wide compared to the Honda Civic. Anyway, I safely drove the Toronado downtown and parallel parked (yes parallel parked . . . my grandmother could be a real bitch sometimes) the boat/car in front of the pastry shop. After selecting our pastries, I got back in the car and checked the mirrors. Nothing. So, I started to pull out of the parking space and . . . BOOM . . . was hit by a bus.
Seriously. Hit by a bus.
Now, it couldn’t have been that bad of an impact because the bus didn’t even stop. But my grandmother and I got out of the car and looked at the damage. The driver’s side bumper was bent into the frame. Given the later damage I would cause to other cars, this wasn’t really that bad. However, it was my first car accident and in my grandfather’s mythical Toronado, no less. I burst into tears.
My grandmother, who never had patience for tears, told me to stop crying and assured me it wasn’t that bad. But I was so upset, I couldn’t drive back home. She drove the car home and I ran to the guest room to hide from my grandfather (after all, I had seen him yell at grandchildren for walking barefoot on oriental rugs . . . what would he say about his Toronado?)
After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door. It was my grandfather. He said, "Come with me" and took me to the garage. I started crying all over again. When we got to the car, he said, "Look. I have been analyzing the damage and I have concluded it was not your fault based on the bend of the fender into the frame. By comparing the angle of the fender and the size and location of the dent into the frame, I have concluded the only way for this accident to have happened was that the bus hit you . . . you did not hit the bus. It was not your fault."
Now, I don’t know if that experience made me a better driver, but it did make me a better lawyer. I can tell anyone exactly why something is not their fault.
The second portion of my toast was a story from my grandfather’s second wedding, which was eight years ago. As I was leaving my apartment building to go fly to the wedding, my landlord saw me with the suitcase and asked where I was going:
Me: I’m going to Seattle for my grandfather’s wedding.
Landlord: Really? Wow . . . how old is your grandfather?
Me: 82.
Landlord: REALLY? Man, I hope I have that kind of mojo when I am 82 years old!
At my grandfather's birthday party, all family members were expected to give a toast. I have reproduced mine below. I don't go for the sentimental crap other people go for in toasts. You know, the "what-a-great-man-how-I-have-learned-so-much-from-you-and-am-honored-you-breathe-the-same-air-as-me" kind of toasts. Not my thing. Plus, I don't like to cry in front of a room full of people I don't know.
Anyway, here it is. Needless to say, I brought the house down. I rocked the Casbah. I got seven or eight elderly people to use the word "Mojo" in a sentence. Correctly. There is no end to my oratorical prowess.
In the summer before I turned 16, I spent a month with my maternal grandparents. One of the tasks we were to accomplish that summer was me practicing my driving skills. Most of the time, my grandmother let me practice with her Honda Civic. For some reason I will never remember, one day we decided to take my grandfather’s car downtown to the pastry shop. (Of course, I remember why we wanted to go to the pastry shop, what I don’t remember is why we took my grandfather’s car.)
At this time, my grandfather was driving a maroon Toronado. As a kid, I thought this car had mythical properties. I seriously and honestly thought my grandfather was the only one who owned a Toronado - that somehow the car manufacturers decided to make this one car for him and just him. Of course, now I know differently, but there is a small part of me that believes his specific Toronado had mythical powers, even if all others were just normal cars. Anyway, here is a picture of the type of Toronado he had:
It was enormous . . . had a huge front end, giant doors, and was really wide compared to the Honda Civic. Anyway, I safely drove the Toronado downtown and parallel parked (yes parallel parked . . . my grandmother could be a real bitch sometimes) the boat/car in front of the pastry shop. After selecting our pastries, I got back in the car and checked the mirrors. Nothing. So, I started to pull out of the parking space and . . . BOOM . . . was hit by a bus.
Seriously. Hit by a bus.
Now, it couldn’t have been that bad of an impact because the bus didn’t even stop. But my grandmother and I got out of the car and looked at the damage. The driver’s side bumper was bent into the frame. Given the later damage I would cause to other cars, this wasn’t really that bad. However, it was my first car accident and in my grandfather’s mythical Toronado, no less. I burst into tears.
My grandmother, who never had patience for tears, told me to stop crying and assured me it wasn’t that bad. But I was so upset, I couldn’t drive back home. She drove the car home and I ran to the guest room to hide from my grandfather (after all, I had seen him yell at grandchildren for walking barefoot on oriental rugs . . . what would he say about his Toronado?)
After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door. It was my grandfather. He said, "Come with me" and took me to the garage. I started crying all over again. When we got to the car, he said, "Look. I have been analyzing the damage and I have concluded it was not your fault based on the bend of the fender into the frame. By comparing the angle of the fender and the size and location of the dent into the frame, I have concluded the only way for this accident to have happened was that the bus hit you . . . you did not hit the bus. It was not your fault."
Now, I don’t know if that experience made me a better driver, but it did make me a better lawyer. I can tell anyone exactly why something is not their fault.
The second portion of my toast was a story from my grandfather’s second wedding, which was eight years ago. As I was leaving my apartment building to go fly to the wedding, my landlord saw me with the suitcase and asked where I was going:
Me: I’m going to Seattle for my grandfather’s wedding.
Landlord: Really? Wow . . . how old is your grandfather?
Me: 82.
Landlord: REALLY? Man, I hope I have that kind of mojo when I am 82 years old!
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
10 Things You Might Want to Know About My Vacation
I'm beginning to think I am a masochist. I just spent the last five days on yet another family "vacation." Yes, I mean "vacation" because it doesn't seem like a real vacation (sans quotes) if I come back more tired and pissed off than I was before I left. This the third such family "vacation" in a month. Man, it is a good thing I get along with my parents because they have been at each of these events as well.
But now I am ready for some alone time. I am not going anywhere for a very long time. I don't care that the holidays are coming up. I don't care that gas prices have come down. I don't care that airfare has come down. I don't want to leave home again. I don't even want to go to East Peoria. Anyway, here's the short summary of some of the events that occurred on my vacation. Expansion posts are forthcoming, but for now, this is just a teaser.
(1) Airport Security. In retrospect, I should have prepared my daughter ahead of time for airport security. This is because, when I asked her to remove her shoes at airport security, she asked, "Why?" In the rush and heat of the moment, I replied, "Because you might have something in them." To which she replied, at full volume, "I DO have something in my shoes, MAMA!" Let me tell you, the TSA has no sense of humor that I am aware of and now thinks my three year old daughter is the next Richard Reid.
(2) Rain. If you are enjoying the rain today, blame me. I brought it back from Seattle with me. It rained for five straight days on our "vacation." That being said, I still prefer the weather out there to the weather in the Midwest.
(3) 90 Year Old Mojo. Apparently, there was a room full of people at my grandfather's birthday party just waiting for the right word to describe my grandfather. Apparently, I provided it to them in my toast. After I spoke, I had to listen to a room full of other 80 and 90 year olds talk about my grandfather's Mojo. *Shudder*
(4) I Have a Step-Family, Who Knew? My grandfather and his wife got married eight years ago. His second marriage, her fourth. I sort of forgot that she has five kids, all of whom are married and have children. Technically, they are my step-family. In reality, they hate my family. No wonder I haven't thought about them for the last eight years.
(5) Happy Birthday x3. I understand singing Happy Birthday in English. I understand singing Happy Birthday in Swedish. What I do not understand is singing Happy Birthday in Dutch for the one Dutchman in the room. And it wasn't even his birthday. Dutch is not an intuitive language. Even though we had the words in front of us, it turned into a sad jumble of mumbling crap. FAIL.
(6) Airplane Etiquette. We did not have many friends on the airplane after my daughter yelled, "STOP THE BUS, I'M GOING TO THROW UP." In her defense, it is a phrase from a Fancy Nancy book and she wasn't referring to the airplane ride or her weak stomach. However, no one sitting around us knew that. The good news is they gave us lots of room during the trip.
(7) A Glimpse of My Future. I got a glimpse of my future and it wasn't pretty. My Aunt M. organized this entire party thing. And she was bossy, bossy, bossy, bossy. I was (not-so-kindly) reminded that I can be just like her when I plan an event. Like the recent family disaster in Galena. Crap. I've gotta learn to take a step back and stop telling people what to do. Yeah, right. I'll just stop telling them what to do in that shrew-like voice.
(8) Make-Up Lesson. I learned never to let my youngest cousin, who is 21 years old and majoring in theatrical make-up artistry, do my make-up for a party. At the end, she said, "OK, you are done. I could have done a lot better if I had my heavier concealer." Gee, thanks.
(9) Eligible Bachelor. Who knew I would meet an eligible bachelor at my grandfather's 90th birthday party? Very eligible, in fact - tall, handsome, well-dressed, well-educated, funny, under 50, and Swedish (like really Swedish - born in Sweden, lived there until 13 years ago and everything! I thought my parents were going to tie our hands together at the dinner table.) Too bad he lives thousands of miles away. Sigh . . . such is my life.
(10) My Brother and Sister-in-Law Suck. Again. Not only did they not come to the birthday party, they didn't send a card, flowers, or even a toast to be read, like my other cousins who couldn't be there did. Asshats.
But now I am ready for some alone time. I am not going anywhere for a very long time. I don't care that the holidays are coming up. I don't care that gas prices have come down. I don't care that airfare has come down. I don't want to leave home again. I don't even want to go to East Peoria. Anyway, here's the short summary of some of the events that occurred on my vacation. Expansion posts are forthcoming, but for now, this is just a teaser.
(1) Airport Security. In retrospect, I should have prepared my daughter ahead of time for airport security. This is because, when I asked her to remove her shoes at airport security, she asked, "Why?" In the rush and heat of the moment, I replied, "Because you might have something in them." To which she replied, at full volume, "I DO have something in my shoes, MAMA!" Let me tell you, the TSA has no sense of humor that I am aware of and now thinks my three year old daughter is the next Richard Reid.
(2) Rain. If you are enjoying the rain today, blame me. I brought it back from Seattle with me. It rained for five straight days on our "vacation." That being said, I still prefer the weather out there to the weather in the Midwest.
(3) 90 Year Old Mojo. Apparently, there was a room full of people at my grandfather's birthday party just waiting for the right word to describe my grandfather. Apparently, I provided it to them in my toast. After I spoke, I had to listen to a room full of other 80 and 90 year olds talk about my grandfather's Mojo. *Shudder*
(4) I Have a Step-Family, Who Knew? My grandfather and his wife got married eight years ago. His second marriage, her fourth. I sort of forgot that she has five kids, all of whom are married and have children. Technically, they are my step-family. In reality, they hate my family. No wonder I haven't thought about them for the last eight years.
(5) Happy Birthday x3. I understand singing Happy Birthday in English. I understand singing Happy Birthday in Swedish. What I do not understand is singing Happy Birthday in Dutch for the one Dutchman in the room. And it wasn't even his birthday. Dutch is not an intuitive language. Even though we had the words in front of us, it turned into a sad jumble of mumbling crap. FAIL.
(6) Airplane Etiquette. We did not have many friends on the airplane after my daughter yelled, "STOP THE BUS, I'M GOING TO THROW UP." In her defense, it is a phrase from a Fancy Nancy book and she wasn't referring to the airplane ride or her weak stomach. However, no one sitting around us knew that. The good news is they gave us lots of room during the trip.
(7) A Glimpse of My Future. I got a glimpse of my future and it wasn't pretty. My Aunt M. organized this entire party thing. And she was bossy, bossy, bossy, bossy. I was (not-so-kindly) reminded that I can be just like her when I plan an event. Like the recent family disaster in Galena. Crap. I've gotta learn to take a step back and stop telling people what to do. Yeah, right. I'll just stop telling them what to do in that shrew-like voice.
(8) Make-Up Lesson. I learned never to let my youngest cousin, who is 21 years old and majoring in theatrical make-up artistry, do my make-up for a party. At the end, she said, "OK, you are done. I could have done a lot better if I had my heavier concealer." Gee, thanks.
(9) Eligible Bachelor. Who knew I would meet an eligible bachelor at my grandfather's 90th birthday party? Very eligible, in fact - tall, handsome, well-dressed, well-educated, funny, under 50, and Swedish (like really Swedish - born in Sweden, lived there until 13 years ago and everything! I thought my parents were going to tie our hands together at the dinner table.) Too bad he lives thousands of miles away. Sigh . . . such is my life.
(10) My Brother and Sister-in-Law Suck. Again. Not only did they not come to the birthday party, they didn't send a card, flowers, or even a toast to be read, like my other cousins who couldn't be there did. Asshats.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
We're Off to See the Wizard . . .
No, not the wonderful Wizard of Oz, but my maternal grandfather who is turning 90 years old on Saturday. We are flying tomorrow and spending a long weekend with my beloved family. All I can say is that I am kind of glad my brother and sister-in-law are not going to be there. I had enough of them last month.
Anyway, my cousins and I referred to my grandfather as the Wizard of Oz for many years when we were kids. He doesn't so much look like the Wizard of Oz, but he behaved like him when we were little. In some ways, my grandfather was the least "grandparenty" of my grandparents. He was not fond of little children and much preferred to work instead of do grandkid stuff. (My mother has confirmed that he was like this when she was a child as well.)
In the three houses my grandparents lived in that I remember from my childhood, my grandfather always had the largest room as his "library" which was wall-to-wall dark bookcases, maroon velvet curtains, and dark oriental rugs. He could most often be seen sitting behind his giant desk working. As kids, we were never allowed into his library, unless we were bringing him a message from my grandmother that it was time for him to make the before dinner cocktails. Even then, we were only allowed to walk into the room in stocking feet - no shoes and no bare feet.
Being the oldest, I often was elected to go into the library and tell him the message. Even on weekends, he wore white shirts and bowties (he always wore bowties, I have never seen him in a long tie) and dress pants. He would look at me over his reading glasses and invite me to come closer. After telling him the message, he would pat me on the shoulder and say, "Tell her I'll be right there." That was my cue to leave the room.
So, to my cousins and I, he was like the Wizard of Oz - separate, mysterious, and powerful. It was clear everyone in my family viewed him as the supreme head of the family. When my grandfather talked, you stopped talking and you listened. Babies were removed from the room if they were noisy. Children were sent outside. Adult guests were not invited back if they were discourteous to my grandfather. (Unless, of course, if they married into the family . . . then they were tolerated.)
He ruled from his spot at the head of the dining room table. All table manners had to be observed when he was around. No one ate until his plate was full. No one drank until he had taken his first sip. No one else gave a toast until he had given a toast. I remember being glad the kids' table was at the opposite end of the room from him.
I don't mean to convey that my grandfather was mean or that their house was so staid and dim. Some of my best memories come from their house and of the wild dinner parties they threw. Adults getting too drunk (my family still tells the story of the nuns who were too drunk to drive home from one of their parties), people telling off-color stories, singing drinking songs, doing shots, playing charades or cards, and becoming weepy when singing the Wiffenpoof Song.
As I became an adult, my view of him changed. He became more interested in what I had to say and I became more interested in him. We have a very close relationship and I am amazingly lucky to have him still with me at the age of 90. For the last 20 years, he has been working on the "Family History" and writing down the history of his family and my grandmother's family. Because so much of our family history took place in Sweden, it would have been lost to us but for his determined effort to chronicle it.
Anyway, to honor my grandfather, I hope we sing this song at the end of his 90th birthday party on Saturday. Here it is:
The Whiffenpoof Song (start with glasses raised)
To the tables down at Mory's,
To the place where Louis dwells,
To the dear old Temple Bar
We love so well,
Sing the Whiffenpoofs assembled
With their glasses raised on high,
And the magic of their singing casts its spell.
Yes, the magic of their singing
Of the songs we love so well:
"Shall I, Wasting" and "Mavourneen" and the rest.
We will serenade our Louis
While life and voice shall last
Then we'll pass and be forgotten with the rest.
(Now glasses are put down, everyone joins hands, and sways in time with the music)
We are poor little lambs
Who have lost our way.
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We are little black sheep
Who have gone astray.
Baa! Baa! Baa!
Gentlemen songsters off on a spree
Damned from here to eternity
God have mercy on such as we.
Baa! Baa! Baa!
Anyway, my cousins and I referred to my grandfather as the Wizard of Oz for many years when we were kids. He doesn't so much look like the Wizard of Oz, but he behaved like him when we were little. In some ways, my grandfather was the least "grandparenty" of my grandparents. He was not fond of little children and much preferred to work instead of do grandkid stuff. (My mother has confirmed that he was like this when she was a child as well.)
In the three houses my grandparents lived in that I remember from my childhood, my grandfather always had the largest room as his "library" which was wall-to-wall dark bookcases, maroon velvet curtains, and dark oriental rugs. He could most often be seen sitting behind his giant desk working. As kids, we were never allowed into his library, unless we were bringing him a message from my grandmother that it was time for him to make the before dinner cocktails. Even then, we were only allowed to walk into the room in stocking feet - no shoes and no bare feet.
Being the oldest, I often was elected to go into the library and tell him the message. Even on weekends, he wore white shirts and bowties (he always wore bowties, I have never seen him in a long tie) and dress pants. He would look at me over his reading glasses and invite me to come closer. After telling him the message, he would pat me on the shoulder and say, "Tell her I'll be right there." That was my cue to leave the room.
So, to my cousins and I, he was like the Wizard of Oz - separate, mysterious, and powerful. It was clear everyone in my family viewed him as the supreme head of the family. When my grandfather talked, you stopped talking and you listened. Babies were removed from the room if they were noisy. Children were sent outside. Adult guests were not invited back if they were discourteous to my grandfather. (Unless, of course, if they married into the family . . . then they were tolerated.)
He ruled from his spot at the head of the dining room table. All table manners had to be observed when he was around. No one ate until his plate was full. No one drank until he had taken his first sip. No one else gave a toast until he had given a toast. I remember being glad the kids' table was at the opposite end of the room from him.
I don't mean to convey that my grandfather was mean or that their house was so staid and dim. Some of my best memories come from their house and of the wild dinner parties they threw. Adults getting too drunk (my family still tells the story of the nuns who were too drunk to drive home from one of their parties), people telling off-color stories, singing drinking songs, doing shots, playing charades or cards, and becoming weepy when singing the Wiffenpoof Song.
As I became an adult, my view of him changed. He became more interested in what I had to say and I became more interested in him. We have a very close relationship and I am amazingly lucky to have him still with me at the age of 90. For the last 20 years, he has been working on the "Family History" and writing down the history of his family and my grandmother's family. Because so much of our family history took place in Sweden, it would have been lost to us but for his determined effort to chronicle it.
Anyway, to honor my grandfather, I hope we sing this song at the end of his 90th birthday party on Saturday. Here it is:
The Whiffenpoof Song (start with glasses raised)
To the tables down at Mory's,
To the place where Louis dwells,
To the dear old Temple Bar
We love so well,
Sing the Whiffenpoofs assembled
With their glasses raised on high,
And the magic of their singing casts its spell.
Yes, the magic of their singing
Of the songs we love so well:
"Shall I, Wasting" and "Mavourneen" and the rest.
We will serenade our Louis
While life and voice shall last
Then we'll pass and be forgotten with the rest.
(Now glasses are put down, everyone joins hands, and sways in time with the music)
We are poor little lambs
Who have lost our way.
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We are little black sheep
Who have gone astray.
Baa! Baa! Baa!
Gentlemen songsters off on a spree
Damned from here to eternity
God have mercy on such as we.
Baa! Baa! Baa!
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Eliminating the Need for Toilet Paper
Recently, my parents decided to make a very wise decision and sell their 100 year old house and buy a townhome. I call this a very wise decision because their current home, while beautiful, would not be livable if one of them were to have significant health and/or mobility problems. Their house had many wonderful quirks found in all old homes, but most importantly, did not have a bedroom or a full bathroom on the main floor. At 68 and 63 years of age, my parents needed to think about these things.
So, they put their house on the market and purchased townhome which was built in 2001. I saw it for the first time this weekend on their final walk through before taking possession later this week. It is much better for their needs - the main level has the living room, dining room, kitchen, master bedroom, laundry, and a study. Therefore, if they needed to, they could live on the main floor.
When most people purchase a home in their 60s, they downsize. Not my parents. The townhouse has the same square footage as their old house. However, my mother was quick to point out one major difference, saying, "The new house has five bathrooms. But one of them is completely unnecessary."
One of the five bathrooms is completely unnecessary?
Yes, sometimes my parents' view of the world is a little skewed.
Anyway, I got a first hand look at these five bathrooms over the weekend. In the end, there are only three full bathrooms and two half baths. And given the layout of the house, it makes sense why someone would want a bathroom in each location. However, the fact that many people (such as myself) make do with just one full and one half bathroom, suggests that five bathrooms is a little excessive.
But there's more . . . these potties are not just holes in the floor with a nearby sink. Oh no. They feature the latest in bathroom technology and I'm not talking about double sinks and pool-sized bathtubs. I'm talking about high-tech toilets.
Now, from first glance, these toilets don't make a big impression. But, while we were touring the house, my daughter had to pee. So, I helped her sit on the toilet. Immediately, she said, "It's HOT, Mama!!" I looked at her and said, "Don't be silly, it's not hot." She insisted that it was and the real estate agent said, "Oh, she must be talking about the heated toilet seat."
WTF? Come again? Heated Toilet Seat?
It seems my parents have purchased a townhome with the latest in toilet technology - the TOTO Washlet Toilet. And yes, this toilet seeks to eliminate the need for toilet paper. How, you ask? Well, let's take a look at its features and maybe you will get the picture:
Auto Flush
Auto Seat Open and Close
Rear Cleanse (yes, as in your rear)
Soft Cleanse
Front Cleanse
Oscillating Cleanse
Pulsating Cleanse
Heated Water (for the cleansing)
Water Pressure and Temperature Control
Water Position Adjustment
Air Purifier
Air Jet Dry
I haven't tried it yet. My dad said he's afraid to try it. My mom tried it and she found it very "refreshing." I chalk that up to the fact that she was raised in Europe.
However, upon further consideration, I think a TOTO toilet would be the answer to my cat-eating-toilet-paper problem. On the other hand, I don't think I want my va-jay-jay "air jet" dried.
So, they put their house on the market and purchased townhome which was built in 2001. I saw it for the first time this weekend on their final walk through before taking possession later this week. It is much better for their needs - the main level has the living room, dining room, kitchen, master bedroom, laundry, and a study. Therefore, if they needed to, they could live on the main floor.
When most people purchase a home in their 60s, they downsize. Not my parents. The townhouse has the same square footage as their old house. However, my mother was quick to point out one major difference, saying, "The new house has five bathrooms. But one of them is completely unnecessary."
One of the five bathrooms is completely unnecessary?
Yes, sometimes my parents' view of the world is a little skewed.
Anyway, I got a first hand look at these five bathrooms over the weekend. In the end, there are only three full bathrooms and two half baths. And given the layout of the house, it makes sense why someone would want a bathroom in each location. However, the fact that many people (such as myself) make do with just one full and one half bathroom, suggests that five bathrooms is a little excessive.
But there's more . . . these potties are not just holes in the floor with a nearby sink. Oh no. They feature the latest in bathroom technology and I'm not talking about double sinks and pool-sized bathtubs. I'm talking about high-tech toilets.
Now, from first glance, these toilets don't make a big impression. But, while we were touring the house, my daughter had to pee. So, I helped her sit on the toilet. Immediately, she said, "It's HOT, Mama!!" I looked at her and said, "Don't be silly, it's not hot." She insisted that it was and the real estate agent said, "Oh, she must be talking about the heated toilet seat."
WTF? Come again? Heated Toilet Seat?
It seems my parents have purchased a townhome with the latest in toilet technology - the TOTO Washlet Toilet. And yes, this toilet seeks to eliminate the need for toilet paper. How, you ask? Well, let's take a look at its features and maybe you will get the picture:
Auto Flush
Auto Seat Open and Close
Rear Cleanse (yes, as in your rear)
Soft Cleanse
Front Cleanse
Oscillating Cleanse
Pulsating Cleanse
Heated Water (for the cleansing)
Water Pressure and Temperature Control
Water Position Adjustment
Air Purifier
Air Jet Dry
I haven't tried it yet. My dad said he's afraid to try it. My mom tried it and she found it very "refreshing." I chalk that up to the fact that she was raised in Europe.
However, upon further consideration, I think a TOTO toilet would be the answer to my cat-eating-toilet-paper problem. On the other hand, I don't think I want my va-jay-jay "air jet" dried.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
The Family that Pops Pills Together . . .
As I discussed earlier, I have recently received a prescription for Vicodin. I’ve never taken Vicodin before and was concerned about how it would affect me. Needless to say, after taking it for six days, I decided I was better off without the Vicodin.
On the first evening of my injury, I took one Vicodin at around 6 pm and another around 9 pm. (The bottle said I could take 1-2 every six hours.) It was around 9 pm that I decided it would be a good idea to soak my ankle in a container of ice water, as recommended by my doctor. While trying to get the container off of the countertop, I knocked over a plate which promptly hit my good foot, bounced off, hit the ceramic tile floor, and shattered into a million pieces. I then abandoned my quest to soak my ankle in ice water and went back to the couch.
After a few minutes, I decided it would be a good thing to organize my bills/mail that had accumulated over the long weekend I was away. (Apparently, I have a hard time with the injury = rest & relaxation thing.) I sorted my mail into several piles - bills to pay, checks to deposit, and garbage. By this time, the Vicodin high was feeling pretty good and I thought it would be a good time to go to bed. I threw away the garbage and put the bills and checks in my briefcase.
Or so I thought.
Vicodin makes me very foggy, even when it is technically out of my system. I wasn’t taking it during the day, but even the one pill at night made me feel slow during the day. So, I decided this weekend to stop taking it. That was when I decided to reorganize my mail, including the bills and checks I sorted several days beforehand.
And that was when I realized I had thrown away a check for $800 from my dad, which was repayment for airplane tickets I purchased for him and my mom a couple of weeks ago. (While my dad loves to shop online, he has an inherent fear of places like Priceline or CheapTickets and will not shop at those sites. So when I told him I had found a good deal on tickets, he made me purchase them.) Not only had I thrown it away, I had thrown it away and the garbage men had already picked up the garbage. Damn!
So, last night I had to call my dad and ask him to send me another check. Since "The Closer" was on until 9 pm, I called them around 9:15 pm. It took my dad six rings to get to the phone, which is unusual because he always answers it as if he was sitting on the phone (because he usually is). When he finally answered, the answering machine came on and I had to identify myself three times (by name, I might add) before he realized who it was.
Dad: I can’t turn the machine off . . . could you call back?
Me: OK. (I hang up the phone, think that's weird and call back)
Dad: Hello?
Me: Yeah, it’s me.
Dad: I can’t turn off this god damn machine . . . hold on. (fumbles with answering machine for a few seconds.)
Dad: OK - what’s up?
Me: Oh, nothing much but I need a new check for those airplane tickets.
I then explained at length what had happened with the Vicodin and my stupidity, mistaking my dad's silence on the other end for irritation with me for being so irresponsible.
Dad: What check?
Me: The check for $800 you sent me for the airplane tickets.
Dad: I sent you a check for $800?
Me: Yes, for the airplane tickets.
Dad: To you?
Me: Yes!
Dad: Did it bounce?
Me: NO! I threw it away on accident. I need a new one.
Dad: For how much?
Me: $800.
Dad: Let me check my register. . . .
Long pause.
Dad: You haven’t cashed it yet, according to my bank.
Me: I know! I threw it away! I need a new one so I can cash it!
Long pause.
Dad: You know what . . . I just took my sleeping pill right before you called. Could you email me about this tomorrow?
Me: Sure, goodnight.
Well, at least I know he'll understand about the Vicodin-fog thing.
On the first evening of my injury, I took one Vicodin at around 6 pm and another around 9 pm. (The bottle said I could take 1-2 every six hours.) It was around 9 pm that I decided it would be a good idea to soak my ankle in a container of ice water, as recommended by my doctor. While trying to get the container off of the countertop, I knocked over a plate which promptly hit my good foot, bounced off, hit the ceramic tile floor, and shattered into a million pieces. I then abandoned my quest to soak my ankle in ice water and went back to the couch.
After a few minutes, I decided it would be a good thing to organize my bills/mail that had accumulated over the long weekend I was away. (Apparently, I have a hard time with the injury = rest & relaxation thing.) I sorted my mail into several piles - bills to pay, checks to deposit, and garbage. By this time, the Vicodin high was feeling pretty good and I thought it would be a good time to go to bed. I threw away the garbage and put the bills and checks in my briefcase.
Or so I thought.
Vicodin makes me very foggy, even when it is technically out of my system. I wasn’t taking it during the day, but even the one pill at night made me feel slow during the day. So, I decided this weekend to stop taking it. That was when I decided to reorganize my mail, including the bills and checks I sorted several days beforehand.
And that was when I realized I had thrown away a check for $800 from my dad, which was repayment for airplane tickets I purchased for him and my mom a couple of weeks ago. (While my dad loves to shop online, he has an inherent fear of places like Priceline or CheapTickets and will not shop at those sites. So when I told him I had found a good deal on tickets, he made me purchase them.) Not only had I thrown it away, I had thrown it away and the garbage men had already picked up the garbage. Damn!
So, last night I had to call my dad and ask him to send me another check. Since "The Closer" was on until 9 pm, I called them around 9:15 pm. It took my dad six rings to get to the phone, which is unusual because he always answers it as if he was sitting on the phone (because he usually is). When he finally answered, the answering machine came on and I had to identify myself three times (by name, I might add) before he realized who it was.
Dad: I can’t turn the machine off . . . could you call back?
Me: OK. (I hang up the phone, think that's weird and call back)
Dad: Hello?
Me: Yeah, it’s me.
Dad: I can’t turn off this god damn machine . . . hold on. (fumbles with answering machine for a few seconds.)
Dad: OK - what’s up?
Me: Oh, nothing much but I need a new check for those airplane tickets.
I then explained at length what had happened with the Vicodin and my stupidity, mistaking my dad's silence on the other end for irritation with me for being so irresponsible.
Dad: What check?
Me: The check for $800 you sent me for the airplane tickets.
Dad: I sent you a check for $800?
Me: Yes, for the airplane tickets.
Dad: To you?
Me: Yes!
Dad: Did it bounce?
Me: NO! I threw it away on accident. I need a new one.
Dad: For how much?
Me: $800.
Dad: Let me check my register. . . .
Long pause.
Dad: You haven’t cashed it yet, according to my bank.
Me: I know! I threw it away! I need a new one so I can cash it!
Long pause.
Dad: You know what . . . I just took my sleeping pill right before you called. Could you email me about this tomorrow?
Me: Sure, goodnight.
Well, at least I know he'll understand about the Vicodin-fog thing.
Monday, September 15, 2008
"You're Just Working Part Time Now, Right?"
This is a quote from my lovely sister-in-law during our past family weekend.
I'm not kidding.
For those of you who know me, you know why that is funny and how freaking clueless she is. For those of you who don't know me, I'll explain how bat-shit crazy that statement is and then you will laugh . . . and perhaps want to slap her silly. (Seriously . . . would somebody please slap her silly? It violates family code for me to slap her, but if a perfect stranger did it, that would be just fine.)
Anyway, to know why this is funny, you have to know a little bit about me. First . . . yes, I am a lawyer and a mother, as are many other people. However, sometimes I have a really hard time truthfully saying I put my children before my job. I think I usually put my children before my job, but my priorities may be a bit skewed at times. I love my job. I am good at my job. When someone asks me, "Who are you?" I will say "lawyer" before "mother" in most circumstances.
Don't get me wrong, I love being a mother and I love my kids. But motherhood does not subsume my individual persona and delete all that I was before being a mother. I did not give up being an individual just because I had a family.
Second, I'm a very progressive person. I was raised by two working parents, both of whom loved their jobs very much . . . as much as they loved their children. We were not the traditional family where dad worked and mom stayed at home cleaning and caring for children. Truthfully, if my mom had stayed home with us, one or both of us would not have made it past the age of 11. In short, I was raised to value myself as an individual, as a woman, as part of a couple, and as a mother equally.
My sister-in-law is very similar in those respects. I know she loves her job as much if not more as her children. (She's not a lawyer, but some sort of wicked-smart statistician.) She never wanted to take maternity leave (until she actually realized it might be hard to recover from giving birth and take care of a newborn and work at the same time.) She gets pissed when my brother works too much and leaves her at home with the kids. I know nothing about her family (because she doesn't speak to them), so I can't compare on that front. But my point is that she should understand the working mother thing, but . . . as usual, she sees nothing of the world outside her own steel box of a brain.
The other thing about me that makes this statement funny is I'm a single mother. That means . . . . (shocker) . . . I parent alone. That means, there is only one income in my house. So, how exactly would I be able to survive with two kids on half my income and still be able to afford things like . . . my car, my house, my student loans, and family trips to Galena?
Clueless.
CLUELESS, I tell you.
C-L-U-E-L-E-S-S.
When she asked this question, I must of looked stunned or confused or dumb-founded because she added, "Well, I mean . . . you know, because having the two kids and all. I thought you wouldn't be able to still work full time."
I responded, "Oh, of course I am!"
What I wanted to say, "And the alternative is . . . welfare?"
She responded, "I still don't know how you do it."
I responded, "Oh, thanks."
What I wanted to say, "Because I'm a better person then you are. That's how I do it."
I'm not kidding.
For those of you who know me, you know why that is funny and how freaking clueless she is. For those of you who don't know me, I'll explain how bat-shit crazy that statement is and then you will laugh . . . and perhaps want to slap her silly. (Seriously . . . would somebody please slap her silly? It violates family code for me to slap her, but if a perfect stranger did it, that would be just fine.)
Anyway, to know why this is funny, you have to know a little bit about me. First . . . yes, I am a lawyer and a mother, as are many other people. However, sometimes I have a really hard time truthfully saying I put my children before my job. I think I usually put my children before my job, but my priorities may be a bit skewed at times. I love my job. I am good at my job. When someone asks me, "Who are you?" I will say "lawyer" before "mother" in most circumstances.
Don't get me wrong, I love being a mother and I love my kids. But motherhood does not subsume my individual persona and delete all that I was before being a mother. I did not give up being an individual just because I had a family.
Second, I'm a very progressive person. I was raised by two working parents, both of whom loved their jobs very much . . . as much as they loved their children. We were not the traditional family where dad worked and mom stayed at home cleaning and caring for children. Truthfully, if my mom had stayed home with us, one or both of us would not have made it past the age of 11. In short, I was raised to value myself as an individual, as a woman, as part of a couple, and as a mother equally.
My sister-in-law is very similar in those respects. I know she loves her job as much if not more as her children. (She's not a lawyer, but some sort of wicked-smart statistician.) She never wanted to take maternity leave (until she actually realized it might be hard to recover from giving birth and take care of a newborn and work at the same time.) She gets pissed when my brother works too much and leaves her at home with the kids. I know nothing about her family (because she doesn't speak to them), so I can't compare on that front. But my point is that she should understand the working mother thing, but . . . as usual, she sees nothing of the world outside her own steel box of a brain.
The other thing about me that makes this statement funny is I'm a single mother. That means . . . . (shocker) . . . I parent alone. That means, there is only one income in my house. So, how exactly would I be able to survive with two kids on half my income and still be able to afford things like . . . my car, my house, my student loans, and family trips to Galena?
Clueless.
CLUELESS, I tell you.
C-L-U-E-L-E-S-S.
When she asked this question, I must of looked stunned or confused or dumb-founded because she added, "Well, I mean . . . you know, because having the two kids and all. I thought you wouldn't be able to still work full time."
I responded, "Oh, of course I am!"
What I wanted to say, "And the alternative is . . . welfare?"
She responded, "I still don't know how you do it."
I responded, "Oh, thanks."
What I wanted to say, "Because I'm a better person then you are. That's how I do it."
Thursday, September 4, 2008
The Gravy Train Has Ended
When I was born, my maternal grandfather decided he would send each grandchild a birthday present equaling $1 for every year they had achieved. So, when I was 10 years old, he sent me a check for $10; when I was 21 years old, he sent me a check for $21, etc. Although I am his oldest grandchild, he did this for each of his 8 grandchildren.
This continued until I turned 30. When I turned 30, he decided to cap the birthday presents at $30. I think there were a combination of factors. First, it is probably hard to remember the ages of his grandchildren and make sure they all got the right amount. Second, he was a firm believer in adults being able to support themselves and probably thought that once you reached 30, you should not need more money from your family. (Of course, history in my family shows this is patently untrue - we're an educated lot, but not particularly savvy with money - but whatever . . . .) Third, I think he was worried about his own longevity and fairness. As the oldest grandchild, I was destined to benefit more from age-calibrated birthday gifts than my youngest cousin, who is 16 years younger than I am.
Most importantly, however, I think he began to worry about the amount of money he would be paying out in a year. The year I turned 30, his other grandchildren would have turned 27, 26, 23, 22, 19, 17, and 14. This equals $178 in birthday gifts. Now, my grandfather is not a poor man and has significant retirement savings. However, he also can be quite miserly when it comes to spending money on other people.
So, for six years, I received $30 every birthday. And then came this year . . . my 37th birthday was at the end of August. I got my card from him yesterday. The envelope contained my birthday card, the invitation to his 90th birthday party which is in October, and directions to his house from the Sea-Tac airport. No check.
Now, I don't expect my almost 90 year old grandfather to get me a birthday present. In fact, I know in his mind the lack of check is actually a compliment. He feels I am mature enough and able to support myself well and don't need his money. And, I'm pretty proud that my only surviving grandparent is able to remember my birthday, hand-write a birthday card, and throw a formal 90th birthday party. Believe me . . . two of my other grandparents made it past 90, but they wouldn't have been able to do any of that.
So, I guess the birthday gravy train stops at 37. I'll have to alert my cousins.
This continued until I turned 30. When I turned 30, he decided to cap the birthday presents at $30. I think there were a combination of factors. First, it is probably hard to remember the ages of his grandchildren and make sure they all got the right amount. Second, he was a firm believer in adults being able to support themselves and probably thought that once you reached 30, you should not need more money from your family. (Of course, history in my family shows this is patently untrue - we're an educated lot, but not particularly savvy with money - but whatever . . . .) Third, I think he was worried about his own longevity and fairness. As the oldest grandchild, I was destined to benefit more from age-calibrated birthday gifts than my youngest cousin, who is 16 years younger than I am.
Most importantly, however, I think he began to worry about the amount of money he would be paying out in a year. The year I turned 30, his other grandchildren would have turned 27, 26, 23, 22, 19, 17, and 14. This equals $178 in birthday gifts. Now, my grandfather is not a poor man and has significant retirement savings. However, he also can be quite miserly when it comes to spending money on other people.
So, for six years, I received $30 every birthday. And then came this year . . . my 37th birthday was at the end of August. I got my card from him yesterday. The envelope contained my birthday card, the invitation to his 90th birthday party which is in October, and directions to his house from the Sea-Tac airport. No check.
Now, I don't expect my almost 90 year old grandfather to get me a birthday present. In fact, I know in his mind the lack of check is actually a compliment. He feels I am mature enough and able to support myself well and don't need his money. And, I'm pretty proud that my only surviving grandparent is able to remember my birthday, hand-write a birthday card, and throw a formal 90th birthday party. Believe me . . . two of my other grandparents made it past 90, but they wouldn't have been able to do any of that.
So, I guess the birthday gravy train stops at 37. I'll have to alert my cousins.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Is It the Thought that Counts If No Thought was Had?
As I mentioned in a previous post, my brother and sister-in-law suck at birthdays. My daughter's birthday was last Friday and my birthday is this coming Saturday. I sent my brother and sister-in-law an evite for my daughter's birthday party, hoping to make them remember that, "Oh, she has a birthday . . . perhaps we should send her something . . . like a card . . . or a present?" Not that I think my kid needs more stuff, she has cleaned up pretty well for her birthday thus far. It is the principle of the whole thing. When you only have one aunt and uncle, it would be nice if they remembered your birthday.
Yesterday, I came home and saw that there were two cards in the mail from my brother. The first one was addressed to me and I figured, hey . . . I bet that's my birthday card!! And it's early too!
Not so much. The front of the card had a saxophone on it, which is weird because I played the violin and we really don't have any connections to saxophones that I can think of. I opened it and realized it was a thank you card for my nephew's birthday present. That still doesn't explain the saxophone, but whatever. My brother's handwriting is atrocious, but I could make out ". . . loved . . . airplane . . . remember . . . you . . ." Well, that's nice, I thought.
Then I turned to the next card, which also had my brother's return address on it. Then I read the mailing address. It was in my brother's handwriting, but it was addressed to my sister-in-law. Sure, the address was mine, but the name was hers. Interesting, I thought. Then I figured that it must be my daughter's birthday card and my brother was distracted and knew he was supposed to send the card to someone at my address but not me and just wrote his wife's name.
As I was opening the card, my daughter says, "Is it for me? Is it for me? For my birthday?" Before I read the card, I told her it was for her birthday.
Not so much. It was a birthday card for me that had a small dog playing a metallic red electric guitar. On the inside it said, "No matter how old you get, you still rock!" I was glad they remembered my birthday, but a little sad they forgot hers, so I gave her the card and told her it was her birthday card. Thank god she can't read yet.
Yesterday, I came home and saw that there were two cards in the mail from my brother. The first one was addressed to me and I figured, hey . . . I bet that's my birthday card!! And it's early too!
Not so much. The front of the card had a saxophone on it, which is weird because I played the violin and we really don't have any connections to saxophones that I can think of. I opened it and realized it was a thank you card for my nephew's birthday present. That still doesn't explain the saxophone, but whatever. My brother's handwriting is atrocious, but I could make out ". . . loved . . . airplane . . . remember . . . you . . ." Well, that's nice, I thought.
Then I turned to the next card, which also had my brother's return address on it. Then I read the mailing address. It was in my brother's handwriting, but it was addressed to my sister-in-law. Sure, the address was mine, but the name was hers. Interesting, I thought. Then I figured that it must be my daughter's birthday card and my brother was distracted and knew he was supposed to send the card to someone at my address but not me and just wrote his wife's name.
As I was opening the card, my daughter says, "Is it for me? Is it for me? For my birthday?" Before I read the card, I told her it was for her birthday.
Not so much. It was a birthday card for me that had a small dog playing a metallic red electric guitar. On the inside it said, "No matter how old you get, you still rock!" I was glad they remembered my birthday, but a little sad they forgot hers, so I gave her the card and told her it was her birthday card. Thank god she can't read yet.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
It's the Thought that Counts
My nephew's birthday is at the end of June. This year, he turned three years old and he is an airplane fanatic. So, I got him a toy airplane and some pajamas with airplanes on them. He lives in Wisconsin, so I mailed the package to him. Admittedly, I mailed the package late - not until July 7th. To compensate for my lateness, I spent the money and overnight mailed it. Obviously, he should have received it on July 8th.
Well, imagine my surprise when my parents told me they were at his house on August 8th and there, sitting in the front hall, was the birthday present box . . . unopened. Now, granted, the box itself does not scream I AM A BIRTHDAY PRESENT because it is just a plain brown box. However, in big all capital letters, it is addressed to my nephew from me. I even used my full name, just in case my brother and sister-in-law were confused. There it was, a month later, still in the hallway.
Now there are several things that strike me as odd about this situation. First, what kind of three year old leaves a package alone for four weeks? The minute my three year old spies a package, she is like a cadaver dog in a morgue. She points at the box until I open it and show her the contents, even if the contents are just for me. Of course, most often, the contents are for her or my son, so she is justified. She was really pissed when I wouldn't open the box from American Girl, even though it was a plain brown box with no markings and she had no idea it contained her birthday presents.
Second, what kind of parents deny their three year old a birthday present? They had to know it was in there - it's not like I send them packages every day. And it was addressed to their son, for crying outside. What else could it have been?
Third, how the hell did they deal with a big box in their front hallway for a month? They have a small apartment-style condo which is just over 900 square feet. In this small space live two adults, two children, and three cats who each weigh over 20 pounds. The box was big enough to take up a good portion of the front hallway, which is really just part of their living room. How did they manage to step around or over it for a month without just opening it?
Fourth, why would they leave it out when they know my parents are coming? There are very few secrets in our immediate family and, they had to know my parents (in particular, my dad) would tell me about it the first time he had the chance. They had to know it would piss me off because they know shit like that pisses me off.
As long as I am on that rant, let's talk about birthday gifts for a little bit. I may be a little late giving birthday gifts, but I always give them and I am a damn good gift giver. Once my nephew got to open the box and see his airplane, he loved it and carried it around for the rest of the weekend. I give gifts because I like to pick out gifts for people and give them, particularly for children. And I don't necessarily expect to receive gifts in return, but it would be nice if my brother and sister-in-law would remember just one of my kids' birthdays.
That's right . . . I have a daughter who is almost three and a son who will be two in November. And not once have they received birthday presents from their only aunt and uncle. Not even a card. As I have mentioned before, they suck at giving gifts. But what is stopping them from calling and asking what my children would like? That shit just pisses me off.
Well, imagine my surprise when my parents told me they were at his house on August 8th and there, sitting in the front hall, was the birthday present box . . . unopened. Now, granted, the box itself does not scream I AM A BIRTHDAY PRESENT because it is just a plain brown box. However, in big all capital letters, it is addressed to my nephew from me. I even used my full name, just in case my brother and sister-in-law were confused. There it was, a month later, still in the hallway.
Now there are several things that strike me as odd about this situation. First, what kind of three year old leaves a package alone for four weeks? The minute my three year old spies a package, she is like a cadaver dog in a morgue. She points at the box until I open it and show her the contents, even if the contents are just for me. Of course, most often, the contents are for her or my son, so she is justified. She was really pissed when I wouldn't open the box from American Girl, even though it was a plain brown box with no markings and she had no idea it contained her birthday presents.
Second, what kind of parents deny their three year old a birthday present? They had to know it was in there - it's not like I send them packages every day. And it was addressed to their son, for crying outside. What else could it have been?
Third, how the hell did they deal with a big box in their front hallway for a month? They have a small apartment-style condo which is just over 900 square feet. In this small space live two adults, two children, and three cats who each weigh over 20 pounds. The box was big enough to take up a good portion of the front hallway, which is really just part of their living room. How did they manage to step around or over it for a month without just opening it?
Fourth, why would they leave it out when they know my parents are coming? There are very few secrets in our immediate family and, they had to know my parents (in particular, my dad) would tell me about it the first time he had the chance. They had to know it would piss me off because they know shit like that pisses me off.
As long as I am on that rant, let's talk about birthday gifts for a little bit. I may be a little late giving birthday gifts, but I always give them and I am a damn good gift giver. Once my nephew got to open the box and see his airplane, he loved it and carried it around for the rest of the weekend. I give gifts because I like to pick out gifts for people and give them, particularly for children. And I don't necessarily expect to receive gifts in return, but it would be nice if my brother and sister-in-law would remember just one of my kids' birthdays.
That's right . . . I have a daughter who is almost three and a son who will be two in November. And not once have they received birthday presents from their only aunt and uncle. Not even a card. As I have mentioned before, they suck at giving gifts. But what is stopping them from calling and asking what my children would like? That shit just pisses me off.
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