Am I missing the point?

There’s a bunch of turmoil going on in our household right now; I’m running two businesses, we’re climbing out of the deep, dark hole of falling behind on our bills that happened late last fall/early last winter before I actually solidified my second business (due to the economy’s effect on the first business). As the financial manager in the house, I’ve been able to sleep again of late, since we’re starting to catch up.

So why, you ask, the turmoil?

Well, let’s see; since July 2008 (that’s in the past ten months), I’ve lost three people in my immediate family — grandfather, grandmother, great aunt (who was like my “other grandmother”). My husband lost his grandfather in that period, as well. Every time we’ve turned around in the past year, we’ve had to figure out how to get to wherever it was to mourn, and in my family, to help pick up the pieces afterwards. It’s taken a lot of time and a lot of heartache on our part, and then it has seemed like every time we start to breathe again, something else happens.

Somewhere in there I had to get knee surgery on my meniscus, and somewhere in the next several months I need to get surgery on my other ACL (both Tae Kwon Do injuries)… something I’ve wanted to get done for two years now.

My mother decided to move to North Carolina from Virginia after Aunt Dot died last month; the original plan was October, then September, and now, since the current tenant in our rental property (where Mom will stay) gave us a 30-day notice last week, Mom will be here in August… still leaving the place empty for a month (and we won’t have supplemental rent income to cover the mortgage). I’m thankful for that — it could’ve been longer and more difficult. And though Mom and I haven’t lived within several hours of driving distance from each other for 21 years, I’m really not worried about that — it will be good for the girls to have some other family close by, and it will be good for my mother to be here, and finally be able to live her own life again with immediate family still close by (as she’s been the caretaker to her deceased husband and elders for the past nine years).

After all of this, we need a break. Scott, the girls, and I really need to take some time and just go away AND HAVE FUN for a few days, just the four of us — something we haven’t done for something like three years now.  Every single trip has been limited to family visits and obligations — especially in the past year.

So, with all of this going on, there’s been this huge thorn in my side: My father-in-law is getting married in July.

That in itself is not a big deal — adults do it all the time, right? — but it’s the manner in which this wedding is being carried out.

Let me back up. My husband’s parents divorced somewhere in the vicinity of 25-27 years ago (after something like 19 years of marriage), and my father-in-law hasn’t been married since. I understand his fiancee’s been married twice before — so this is Wedding #4 between the two of them. And they got engaged after seeing each other for something like a year — in fact, we hadn’t even met her when they got engaged. My first response when my FIL told me was, “What the h**l are you doing that for? Why bother at this point?” — my husband said the exact same thing.

OK, we can get past that. But, let’s look at the fact that they’re in their 60s, with grown children and grandchildren, and this is the fourth wedding between the two of them. If their decision is to get married, it should just be about them — maybe taking a trip to a nice, romantic place and having a quiet, justice-of-the-peace wedding — not about having some big, grandiose and pretentious event. Right?

Wrong.

Look, I don’t know the lady. I met her in passing at my grandfather-in-law’s funeral, and she wasn’t overly friendly or open to my husband and me (as you would think she’d be, since we were the last of my FIL’s children/spouses she hadn’t met). But what’s really bothersome is the circus she insists on creating for this Wedding Event to happen in July.

Yes, I have to capitalize both words there, because that’s what it is. The Wedding Event. Full extended bridal party, including ushers, bridesmaids, flower girls, ring bearers, cake cutters (the job to which my sister-in-law was assigned), pinners (the job to which I was assigned), punch servers, blahdy, blahdy, blahdy, blah. There’s even a “Gift Opening Breakfast” scheduled for the morning after.

Did I also mention that this isn’t in some big, metropolitan area, but in a town in Western Minnesota, with a population of less than 3,000 people?

I think they’re all invited to the wedding.

Anyway, as my husband’s been deemed Best Man (which in both our opinions was mainly bestowed upon him to ensure his attendance at the wedding, because it sure wasn’t based on the strong relationship forged by about two to three phone calls a year), there’s now a $129 tux bill (as we’ve been informed) he must pay, on top of the airfare to get there from North Carolina. If all four of us are to go, that’s an additional $1,300, according to current airfares. And the obligation to get them some kind of gift… though I’m voting for Scott’s presence alone to being the gift!

Let me back up even further. My FIT is a quirky, but I think an OK guy (hey, he fathered the love of my life, right?). But, he’s not been the most attentive grandfather, that’s for sure. The last time he got on a flight to North Carolina was something like six years ago. There were three or four years in there where my two children never got a Christmas present or even a birthday card or call from him. He really has made no effort to know these two grandchildren, who in turn barely even remember who that Grandpa is because of that.  As my father died seven years ago, and my children barely remember him anymore, it makes me sad that their living grandfather has really made no effort to forge any kind of relationship with them. And for those of you who say the door swings both ways, you’re right — but the simple fact is, it costs him 25% of what it costs us to get on a plane to visit.

Every time we’ve spoken about it, he can never afford it. OK, that’s life… we’ve had that problem for a few years now, ourselves. However, if that’s the case, why this big, pretentious joke of a wedding?  He can’t find the money to get on a plane to visit his grandkids, but he can find the money to put together a huge wedding to someone who’s been around for a far shorter period of time? I guess that would qualify in the category of things that make you go, “Hmmm…”

I’m always very suspicious of those who insist on making a big spectacle of their wedding (and even more grossly so when it’s not the first wedding, and when the bride/groom are in the senior category). It has seemed to me that the bigger and more of a spectacle the wedding, the lower chance there ends up being for the marriage’s actual success. Why: Psychologically, any relationship problems become masked as a problem related to the event… and it will “all get better later.” Plus, why the frivolity? Why waste the money? At the end of the day, the bigger the event, the less it becomes about the couple, and more about everyone else. Celebrate the marriage, not the wedding!

We tell our two daughters in complete honesty that if/when the day comes when they grow up and want to get married, skip the pomp and circumstance, go somewhere breathtaking with their spouse-to-be, and get married there. Let us come and watch… we’ll pay… and then we’ll leave them to their honeymoon and go on our way. We got married on a mountain in Alaska on a beautiful, 78-degree summer day, and I couldn’t have asked for a better wedding that felt closer to God… or for a better marriage. That day will always be ingrained in my memory as our day — instead of opting for a day where I might have almost passed out from stress because the dumb flowers were the wrong color, or because Uncle Billy got too drunk at the reception and unleashed all the family secrets for everyone to hear. In a day when 50% of marriages end in divorce, who needs it?

Anyway, I digress. Though one of my sister-in-laws might never talk to me again — and I really, truly adore her (after all, we are the two “outcasts who married in”) — my husband may very well take this trip stag. And though I might be sort of sorry not to go with him, I sure wouldn’t miss this spectacle that would undoubtedly remind me every second of how my children have been neglected by this part of their family (did I mention that almost all of her grandkids are in the wedding party, and only a few of his are?), and how out of touch with reality my FIL seems to be… and how he has no idea how much this snubs his own flesh and blood.

Here we go again, right?

Just two short months after losing my grandmother, my great aunt (I think it’s really supposed to be “grand-aunt,” but you get the gist) has unexpectedly gotten onto the soon-to-depart list.

Aunt Dot has no children of her own; however, she and my Uncle Tommy (RIP 1986) were temporary surrogate parents to many  in the family when there were difficulties in their households through the years. Then, later on, she became a secondary grandmother (and great-grandmother) figure to some, including me. She’s always been a part of my core family, living close by when I was a child and then later (when Uncle Tommy died) living with my grandparents in NY, and then moving down to Virginia to live down the hall from them when I’d moved south, also.

I absolutely love her. She and I have had some wonderful conversations over the years, and have very similar outlooks in many ways. I found I could sometimes talk to her about some things I couldn’t with my grandmother (which was a nice complement, because they lived 5 doors down from each other… so I could just go back and forth between the two when I visited).  What I absolutely adore is the fact that you can’t let her tiny size (4′11″ish? I can’t remember, before the osteoporosis set in) fool you… she’s a piece of steel! Though not outwardly affectionate, she does have a very kind side to her… her demeanor is what I think of as an “English stoicism,” passed down from her earlier generations. She has a great, dry humor, wry smile, and yes, sometimes harsh judgment…  but nothing I haven’t been guilty of, myself.

Anyway, with all the deaths in my family over the past 10 months (if she goes, this will be #4 in my immediate family – Grandpa, my husband’s Grandpa, Grandma, and now her), it’s sad to see that the noise has died down, as if most have become numb to — or tired of — dying days. I get so indignant because I just want to say (and so I’ll just say it here):

IT’S NOT HER FAULT!!!!

I get it — people are tired of traveling for the dying. A lot’s gone on in the past year, also in my extended family. But I hate that it feels like Aunt Dot’s getting ignored because everyone’s tired. I know, it’s not the presence that really counts (it’s the whole lifetime of the relationship), but you know, I think there’s something to say about presence in those last days. Granted, she might pull through, but right now, she’s on the very, very sharp edge of a knife, and don’t you think it counts to FEEL loved, in that condition, regardless of which way it goes?

No too long ago, there was a great analogy to Aunt Dot on my favorite TV show, Grey’s Anatomy. There was a 90-something-year-old woman who was in there, and though she was childless, her adult niece and two nephews were there at her bedside. At first, the doctors were appalled because the relatives kept on asking if she was gone yet, if they thought it would be long (because of flights out, etc.). Later on, you find out that she’s been hospitalized and on the verge of dying something like a dozen times within the past few years, and they’re tired of being at the bedside, just to have her pull through. Pretty callous, right?

That is, until told from the woman’s side of the story. In a few moments of lucidity, the doctors were talking to her. The niece and nephews were temporarily out of the room, and she asked about them since she’d just come to. The doctors made some comments about it being better that they weren’t there, and she looked up at them, clear-eyed, and said, “They are MY PEOPLE. You might not like them, but every time, EVERY SINGLE TIME, I’ve been in the hospital, they have flown in from all over the country to be at my bedside. So understand, they are MY PEOPLE. Everyone needs to have their PEOPLE.” The lady later (finally) died.

And funny, even though Aunt Dot was fine at the time I watched that episode, it gives me shivers to think that I thought of her when I watched it.

Right now, she needs HER PEOPLE.

And funny enough, it took me a week-and-a-half to get here… initially, I’d planned on coming earlier, but I swear, there was a bizarre voice in my head that with no hesitation told me to WAIT, regardless of the fact that they’d pronounced at the hospital that she probably wouldn’t make it through the night… 10 days ago. So I did, because I’ve learned over the past decade to listen to that voice– even when it defies logic — when it’s so strong. And this weekend, she’s now in the comfort of her own home (on Hospice, granted, but home), and I am here with my mother and Aunt Rose (Aunt Dot’s 1 remaining sister) to spend a little bit of time with her.

Last night, she was lucid for several hours. We talked and joked, and she even ate some ice cream and had a little bit of coffee. The best thing is that she knew I was there. Her eyes lit up when she saw me.

It was a great evening, and though I had felt pretty guilty for listening to “that voice” and not coming to see her a week ago (even moreso because the only people who’ve been here with her have been my mother, Aunt Rose, and Uncle Wasyl), I’m glad it turned out the timing was right. And though she might not remember it consciously today (we’ll see), I know that somewhere underneath it all, she knows in her heart that she’s had some of HER PEOPLE here during her time of need. Because Lord knows, she’s been the helping hand (see the previous post on Helping Hands in Our Lives)  for many others during theirs.

So everyone, please don’t let life wear you down… and open your heart past the every day distractions so you don’t forget who needs THEIR PEOPLE. Because one day, it very well might be you in that sick bed, and who will be there for you?

Love you, Aunt Dot!

Noticing the Hands in our Lives

Last weekend, we were in Virginia, visiting my (maternal) grandmother in the hospital. I won’t go into details, but if you read down further in this blog (see May the Road Rise Up to Meet You, from August 2008), you’ll know I lost my (maternal) grandfather last summer. In between then and now, my husband’s grandfather passed away, as well. So I guess you’d say we’ve had our share of loss over the past six months.

Anyway, my  grandmother is an important woman in my life who’s always been a strong and in charge kind of person. Through a bad series of events, the woman who just six months ago was a rock is now basically weak and struggling on her deathbed, and I’ve found I’m completely unprepared for it. It’s funny; the men seem to go in our family — we’ve come to accept that — but the women tend to hang around for a long time. Really, we’re supposed to be immortal, right? Come on, now… she’s only 84!!

So, seeing her declining so quickly, I just wanted to sit by her bedside, hold her hand, and take it all in. She wasn’t in a talkative mode, but I was pretty sure she enjoyed the company; the entire time I held her hand, she held on pretty tightly.

It was during one of those quiet moments, while I just sat holding her hand, looking at our hands grasped together, and feeling that unfamiliar connection, that I fully realized in a wave of emotion how much I love this woman, and how much a part of my life she’s been.

A flood of memories then filled my mind, not just of holding the hands of those who were important to me when they were on their way out — such as my grandfather, my father, my great-grandmother — but many others. When I thought about it, I realized that though I haven’t held hands with many, I could recall their hands in detail, even though I’d never consciously thought about it.

They were all beautiful… and unique.

Though you hear the saying, “The eyes are the window to the soul,” the hands… well, they tell the story. Rough and strong? Small and delicate? Petite but tough? Decisive and hard-working? Every set is marked from life in one way or the other, with the individual’s experience almost etched in like a tattoo.

While I sat there thinking about that, looking at both my grandmother’s and my hands together and feeling very close to her, I thought a lot about our relationship throughout my life. Though until my adult years we hadn’t really been a conversational pair with each other, she’s always had an important supportive role to me. She’s been my silent helper through times of trouble, whether emotionally, financially, or just because she was there (even when I didn’t realize it, at the time). Even later, when she became somewhat more open with discussion, there have been times when I’d touch on a sensitive subject, something with which I’d had problems, and she would voice her support with few words, or even a look — and though I’ve never felt comfortable relaying a lot of my petty details to her, it’s always felt like we’ve understood each other, anyway, and I could feel my connection to her.

I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time I held her hand. And then I asked myself, why not? I hold my husband’s and children’s hands regularly. But why does everyone shy away from holding the hands of those they love, even when it’s not those two types of relationships (and sometimes not even those)? Is it because that’s too personal, and touches too much on emotion, which as adults, we’re not supposed to have?

She’s definitely been one of the helping hands in my life. So I guess I felt like it was time for me to be one for her, even if it was just to hold her hand while she’s fighting a declining battle for her life. This time, I wanted to be her support. All I could hope for was that she could somehow win this fight… or that if it was to be a lost battle, that it would end as quickly and painlessly as possible.

I love you, Grandma. Regardless of what happens, thank you for being a helping hand in my life.

Where’s the Diamond in the Pile of Rubbish?

Here I sit, in my office, covered with its standard New Year’s winter coat of papers, files, boxes, and other general office junk strewn around. I literally had to climb into the room  and tiptoe into my chair while skillfully avoiding the paper cutter and various other items just to make it to the desktop and this computer without breaking something or impaling myself.

Why, you ask, is this such a mess?

Well, it’s a new year. Time to clean out the old, right? Bring in the new? I find that every year, right after New Year’s, I begin cleaning out everything with zeal… and if I don’t get it all done before going back to work, I tend to leave what I started until I can… find… some… time…. to… get… it… done. Right.

For example, last weekend, I decided that after living in this house for almost 12 years, that while we were putting away the holiday decorations, we needed to move the furniture in the livingroom around. Desperately. Because come on,  let’s face it — how many people do YOU know who have had their furniture in the same formation for 12 years? Good grief! How many people even live in a house for 12 years anymore besides my alien family and me?? Anyway, that task alone — because I’d set my mind to it — took AN ENTIRE DAY. One room (OK, I’ll give you the holiday decorations all around the house). We’re not talking mansion-sized here, folks, just a plain ol’ 17′x17′ room. But when we were done, the dogs didn’t feel comfortable walking in there for awhile, because they were scared. That was actually a very funny thing to watch… if only they could talk! One of my dogs went to every singular item in the room and stared at it in a startled manner, as if to say, “What the heck is THAT doing THERE?”

The effort, of course, bled into the dining room and kitchen areas. And overly ambitious, I started on my office after that.

I own and operate two very different businesses, I manage the household finances, and my two children often find it necessary to dump their weekly work in here in front of me to review, so paper abounds in my sacred office space.  Eventually I start feeling claustrophobic, because even for the two weeks a year (usually the 2nd and 3rd week) that I keep up on my filing, it’s just too much to get it all put away!

This year’s been a doozy. It seems like somehow, the papers in here  reproduced on their own. Can that happen, in today’s digital world? It must, because I can’t seem to get to the bottom of it.

But I will.

It will probably take me into next week, but I’m determined to get to it and REALLY get it done. Because it’s a new year… and I don’t know about you, but from my perspective, last year really needs to be filed away and/or thrown out! I could really use that vial of fairy dust I haven’t been able to find for the past couple of years. And my rose-colored glasses. Because once I do, I will don both and never look back over my shoulder.

It’s time for a good year. Really, a SPARKLING one!! Change it all around! Look at everything in a fresh way! Make it work for you! THAT’S my resolution.

Now that being said, it’s been awhile since I’ve moved anything around in the office, too….

The Twilight Series and Personal Relativity

For a book series that many assume to be focused on tweens and teens, all I can say is, thank you Stephanie Meyer — thank you for Edward and Bella and the whole Twilight series. I picked up the books due mainly to my 12-year-old daughter, who’d read them all within the past year. I started them with the vague interest of someone interested in fantasy and stories about mythological creatures, and finished them with a fervor that transported me back 16 years.

Because as corny and SO UNLIKE ME as it sounds, it reminded me that my husband is my Edward.

There was a vague uneasiness I had by the end of the first book, but I didn’t put my finger on it until the painful developments of the second book, when I was able to unbury intensity I hadn’t felt in years. And that’s when it hit me — take away the idea of the vampire and the wolf boy, add on about 5-6 years to Bella’s age, and it was eerily like Ms. Meyer pulled a story right out of my past, from the depths of my memories and the feelings that had long been buried under day-to-day dealings of business, children, and making the mortgage payment in the happily ever after.

In high school, I remember being crazy about the so-and-so of the week/month/year, and having giddy feelings about them. I did fall in love once or twice, and fell in like many more times than that.  Unlike Bella, I’d actually had quite my share of dating and guys.

I was 23 and I’d been out on my own for about 5 years when I met him, and I’d had more than my share of wildness and chemistry. When we met, both of us had a lot stacked up against any kind of long-term relationship:

• We’d both been badly disappointed in other relationships, and subsequently had built quite a shell around ourselves;
• Because of tales from my family, I’d sworn I’d never get involved with someone in the military, yet he was in the Navy (Murphy’s Law, right?) — him being in the Navy, he knew what his commitments were and didn’t think he had time for a real relationship;
• Both of us had relationship-challenged parents (that’s PC for DIVORCED — my parents many more times than his), and due to that, we were very negative about the prospect of getting married.

So when we met on that fated Wednesday night (who’d have known it would be so important to take a friend out for a drink for her birthday that one time?), we already had 2.5 strikes on each side as to why we should have no interest in someone long term… forget about finding each other!

However, chemistry won over in the end. The moment I saw him on the other side of the pub as we walked in the door, I told my friends he was mine. Really. How weird is that?

Now I admit, in the beginning, it really was all about that chemistry. It turned out we had physical compatibility that was just…. in Meyer’s words, dazzling. It seemed the more time we spent together, the more time we wanted to spend together. I was never much into PDA… yet we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other, regardless of where we were. I remember my best friend at the time actually walked out of a bar once when we were all there because she was so embarassed by our physical affection. That was totally unlike me. It was like we were addicted to each other… much like the way Edward and Bella are in the books. Historically, I’d considered guys to be various flavors of ice cream — different, but all mostly yummy. A few… what, weeks? months?… after meeting him, it was like he was in gorgeous, vibrant color, and all the other men of the world were in drab shades of gray.

We just forged ahead with abandon without looking to see if we were going anywhere… probably because neither one of us were looking for it to go anywhere to begin with.

And then, four months into our whirlwind of bliss, he almost died in competely bizarre, unavoidable car accident (where his then-roommate did die).  It changed me; it tore away at my heart and made me a different person. When I first saw the photo of the remains of the car, I almost threw up… because the only thing senselessly left in tact of the entire car was the driver’s seat, where he had been sitting when they had to use the Jaws of Life to get him out.

That was when the sugar coating and the shell was simply brushed away — to expose us, raw – so the fabric of our beings could meld together.

It was intense. Moreso than I could ever describe.

We moved in together shortly afterwards, even though I’d sworn I wouldn’t live with someone (again… I’d done it before and it was catastrophic) until I got married, because somewhere down underneath it all, I knew I would marry him.

We still had this insane chemistry, but I could never describe the underlying intensity that we had with each other layered underneath it all after the accident, except that I could feel it when reading about Edward and Bella. I remember I sometimes hated it when we started falling asleep at night (or sometimes in the morning), because I always thought I’d miss him too much during our slumber. It still makes me uncomfortable to think about, because I was brought up to be completely in control about everything, as was he. Go figure.

A year and some months later, we eloped, on a mountain in Alaska (during the summer). We’d already been engaged, but it was on a lark — we were so overwhelmed by the intense beauty in Alaska that it just seemed perfect for us to get married there.

And then began a two-year period when he had to finish his duty to the USN by going on his ship, out to sea. I stayed in upstate New York; he was based on his ship in Virginia. There was no e-mail from the ships at the time (this was the mid-90s), so when he was out to sea, I sometimes had to wait several weeks before I started getting letters from him. And they were so achingly, painfully melancholy and somber… but beautiful. I counted the days until we saw each other again, which ranged from a week to a month to several months, and the reunion was always bliss. But the departures… well, Bella’s description of the hole being torn open in her chest really hit home. I’d forgotten about that. It was like every single time I dropped him off at the airport (or vice versa), our place seemed too quiet, lonely, and tearing that hole wide open again. I’d cry — no, make that sob — almost every single time.

Don’t get me wrong — I’m not a cryer. Ask any of my friends that. In fact, it’s a running joke with most of my friends that I’m just hard and cold — because I never cry. I think I cried almost all of my tears out during those two years, because they were the most painful and slow years of my life, while I was trying to get on with my life even though I was waiting for him to be done so we could get to the other side. Eventually, we did, and today it’s nothing but a vague, painful yet blissful memory .

I did have my version of Jacob, too, but that’s another story, for another day. And all I have to say about that is, passion, intensity, and depth win out in the end, and I do believe that you can love different people, in different ways. But yes, that passion and intensity is like a drug…

So once again, thank you, Stephanie Meyer. Because through reading the Twilight books, I was able to tear away the layers and feel it once again.

Because like I said, it took away the day-to-day irritations, misunderstandings, and stressors, and I remembered that my husband is my Edward.

May the Road Rise Up to Meet You…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

R.I.P. Anthony T. Gill 1921-2008

I was so blessed to be there when my grandfather passed away a few weeks ago! He’d been so frustrated and so trapped in his body with advanced Parkinson’s (and then at the end, lung cancer as well) — see my blog Please Take Him Soon, from November 2007 — that it was truly a gift not only to be able to see that face free of frustration and sadness after so long, but also to actually see the peace on his face right after he passed on, as he was such a special person to me!

As an adult, he told me many times of the fact that I had been the only baby in the family it seemed he was allowed to hold and nurture — all the women had otherwise taken the reins for all the others, and I could tell that it had been very special to him. So I guess I took great pleasure in being there when he went, because I always felt more bonded with him than with many others.

And now, I do miss him, and I guess I’ve just started to really reflect on my memories with him over the years. My sister, always the one wanting the pomp and circumstance of things, volunteered to do a eulogy, and has asked me to send her memories she can incorporate into her speech. I guess I’ve resisted that quite a bit, because my memories are very personal to me, and it’s hard to pull things out into bullets when the whole picture adds up to more than the sum of its parts. So I figured I’d write out the swirls of thought forming a picture in my head, and she can take what she needs, though I feel like it would be difficult to adequately and effectively incorporate this into someone else’s perspective.

Feeling isolated and lonely — a forgotten child in my family’s sea of deep complexities during a very, very serious period (again, see the earlier blog, listed above) – Grandpa was always the one who paid attention to me. My sister had tight bonds with my grandmother and great-grandmother, and my mother was busy being a single struggling mom in the ’70s and ’80s and not around a lot. And I had no siblings close in age to me (my sister was 6.5 years older). So I often felt l was just this added annoyance and a pain to everyone… except Grandpa.

He was a light in the grayness of many days of my childhood, and though I’m sure there were times when he just wanted to relax and unwind after a day/week at work, he never made me feel like I was an unwanted presence anytime I’d go upstairs to see him. He would always give me the big, wet “Grandpa smooch” and show interest in my day, or what was going on with me. He most always seemed cheerful in my presence, and often gave me the lift I guess I subconsciously needed.

He was a WONDERFUL storyteller, too! He loved history, and had been in WWII himself. Some of my most cherished childhood memories were at family gatherings, when I’d park myself by Grandpa and my (grand-)Uncle Tommy — who had been in WWII, as well — and in the fog created by a mixture of cigarette smoke and the smell of beer, listen to them talk about their war stories, and get into debates about which was more important/better/you name it — the Army or the Navy (as Grandpa had been in the Army and Uncle Tommy had been in the Navy). I LOVED those times! When Uncle Tommy passed away in the mid-’80s, Grandpa so missed their debates that while waiting for Uncle Tommy’s inurnment at Arlington Cemetary, I’ve been told countless times about how he’d take Uncle Tommy’s ashes out and talk to him (as he and my grandmother were keeping the ashes for my aunt during that period).

History was definitely not my favorite subject in school, but Grandpa made it come alive for me. There were many times I would go up to see him just to get some clarification on something, to help me with my homework, studies, a project, or just about anything. I recall him spending several hours once explaining the Truman Airlift to me, because I had to cover it for a report… and I was so enthralled in his account that I barely wrote notes, but was easily able to recall almost everything he told me afterwards, and cited him as a historical resource in my paper. I think he missed his calling as some sort of history teacher, because I would’ve done much better in the subject at school with a teacher like him!

He patiently tolerated me practicing the piano downstairs and would regularly listen to my flute progress, as well…. while repeatedly reminding me that he played the fife long ago, himself. He also had a penchant for music, too — another bond I had with him — and loved when he took up the concertina and accordion. Proud of his Irish heritage, he would joke about one day learning the bagpipes… though I’m sure it was my grandmother who steered him clear of that!

At larger family gatherings, such as anniversaries, landmark birthdays, and weddings, Grandpa often seemed to be the life of the party. There are more than several occasions I remember Grandpa leading the Conga line on the dance floor, and dancing with me, too. He was great at telling humorous stories  and jokes, as well, and naturally attracted people to him in those settings because of the sparkle in his eye and smirk on his face.

I know I didn’t see him much during my mid-teen years — as is typical, I guess — but after I’d moved out of the house and been on my own for awhile, I forged a whole new relationship with my grandparents. It was then that I was able to sit and listen to Grandpa talk about our Irish heritage, and he would tell me about the historical research he’d done on his family over in Ireland. In fact, stored in the depths of the crawlspace of my house is a booklet of information he sent me — unsolicited – years ago, after I’d gotten married and settled down, which contained a detailed account of what he’d found… which I cherish.

As an adult, I became more interested in the history of things — or should I say the mystery of things — and I would still love to puzzle with Grandpa about a wide variety of subjects, from random facts of little importance to the historical vs. Biblical findings of the life and times of Jesus. He loved having someone with whom to puzzle over such things — it was like going on an exploration together – and I quickly learned that I shouldn’t debate with him unless I had researched and was well prepared to go to battle! These kind of conversations always drove me to learn more, and I thank him for spurring me on to look at the actual history and related accounts behind any story.

I also learned of his quirks and biases as well. First of all, he was very biased in terms of being Irish. I found out there had been quite a few family scuffles over the years regarding his view of the non-Irish ethnic background of someone or the other. However, I myself never really noticed that until I was dating my husband, and I’d brought him for a weekend to meet the family. Scott already had a bonus in Grandpa’s book — he’d heard that Scott was in the Navy — and at that point, I’m sure he’d been chomping at the bit to talk military for about 7 years (since it had been that long since Uncle Tommy had died). So, the next all-important question was presented in this not-as-subtle-as-he-thought way:

“So, Scott, what’s your last name?”

I remember laughing abruptly, and Grandpa looked at me all wide-eyed, as if he didn’t understand why I was laughing. Before Scott answered, I remember cutting in and saying, “Coulter, Grandpa… is that Irish enough for you?” Though he denied his intention for a moment, I quickly saw that mischievious sparkle in his eyes, and then he laughed too, acknowledging his exposure. Once that was settled, he progressed right into asking a million questions about his experience in the Navy… and that was the end of that!

Another quirk of my grandfather that always caused me to laugh — of course, after everything was deemed OK – was the fact that he was a bona fide clutz. He was constantly hurting himself due to various accidents! I remember him breaking his foot once when falling off a ladder while working on an A/C wall unit in the house I grew up in. He’d trip, fall, bang into things, you name it… that was just Grandpa. Personally, I think it was directly related to the fact that he was always thinking, thinking, thinking about some other topic or subject instead of focusing on the matter at hand. One time, when I was 16, I remember him driving me to my part-time job at a nearby mall, and he got so involved in a conversation with me that he blew right through 3 or 4 stop signs and red lights on the way, causing me to wonder if I was going to arrive there in one piece! When I said something (after about the 2nd stop sign he missed), he just laughed it off in his impish way and said something along the lines of, “Did I? Well, it doesn’t matter. There wasn’t anything coming the other way, anyway.”

Shortly after we’d moved to Virginia, my grandparents and grand-aunt followed suit, sold their houses and moved to an apartment right up the block from us. At that point, it had been 9 years since I’d lived in the same house and 8 years since I’d lived any closer to my immediate family than  a 3.5-hour drive, so I admit it was great to have them a long walk away. I had my first child right after they moved down; shortly after getting home from the hospital, I brought her to their apartment and, remembering how he’d gushed about being able to hold me as a baby, went straight to Grandpa and handed her to him. How stiff he was, but how happy! And again, I heard him recount how I’d been the first baby he’d been “allowed” to hold, now with the next generation in his arms. I have a picture from not too long after, when my sister and her family were visiting, when we took a picture of Grandma and Grandpa with all of the 5 of them. My oldest is in his arms, and the picture just caught the right moment as he was looking down at the baby, with that same combination of stiffness/nervousness and happiness that I remember.

I was sad to have to move away about 4 months later, because I’d actually enjoyed being close to them again. However, we were still within a 3.5-hour drive, so we visited as frequently as we could, and my daughters adored him! He would let them sit on his lap and share his snacks with him, whether or not we approved. Before the Parkinson’s set in too badly, he taught the girls how to play Mario Brothers on Nintendo, and that was a joy and the cause of many bouts of laughter in itself! He would heave his body back and forth with the controls, so much that one time my mother called to let me know he’d had quite an accident and banged his head because he’d been playing the game, got so excited playing it, and missed the edge of the bed he’d been sitting on when jumping up and down and landed on the floor, hitting the edge of a desk or table on the way (again, back to the clutz factor…).

As the Parkinson’s took hold of him, and his mobility and communication skills declined more and more, I would sit with patience while he struggled to get the words out, wanting so badly to relive the way we’d discussed things years before. That was painful for me, but I hung on to it, knowing it wouldn’t be a very long time until I wouldn’t have the luxury of his voice at all anymore. Though he couldn’t move to play with the girls, I could see his delight in them by the look in his eyes when we paid a visit. However, he still had a sense of humor, and I always found a way to laugh with him that came easily.

Though we knew his time was short, when the time came, he actually dove downhill very quickly. About a week before he died, my mother called to let me know he’d basically been confined to his bed, he’d stopped eating, and they didn’t think it would be long. I toiled over whether or not to go and make one final visit, because I knew how bad he looked, and that it really wasn’t him that I would see — especially when I knew he’d become skeletal and somewhat comatose and unaware.

Unfortunately, the commitments of business ownership had prevented me from visiting since February — on my birthday — and I sort of liked the idea of that visit being my last one with Grandpa. Because, regardless of how terrible he looked or felt or how little he could communicate in discussion, he was able to sing “Happy Birthday” to me almost perfectly, without a stutter, hesitation, or hiccup. And because of that, he must’ve sang it to me at least a half dozen times that day — it became sort of a joke between us, because every once in awhile, I’d lean towards him and say, “Grandpa, I’m feeling sort of unloved at the moment. I think I need someone to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me right about now…” which would cause him to burst into another robust round. (Today I wish I would’ve recorded it on my cell phone. I enjoyed myself so much that day that I didn’t even think of it until afterwards…. what a great way to remember him!)

In the end, I decided to go, but would wait until that Saturday afternoon to make the trip. My sister made it down from NY earlier in the week, and there was a really good chance he wouldn’t make it through until I made it there. I was OK with that; again, the last time I’d seen him, I’d told him I loved him, and had really enjoyed seeing him. Plus, regardless of not having it recorded, I can still hear him singing “Happy Birthday” in my head, and I won’t forget it anytime soon.

But I went, and he was still hanging on. I looked at him there, in the bed, a shriveled up shadow of the grandfather I’ve loved so much since I was a little girl, held his hand, looked in his glazed over and half open eyes, told him I loved him, and that the girls loved him, and kissed him… and knew that deep down, I really had wanted to see him one more time, and was glad I had made it.

That next morning, he died. I’d literally stepped down to my grand-aunt’s apartment down the hall to tell her where things were, and he died about 2 minutes later. And when I went back in afterwards to say goodbye, it was all summed up his face. Peace and freedom, at last.

Now, I remember when I was somewhere around 17 or 18, and a very good friend of mine lost her grandmother, who was “off-the-boat” Irish. I went to the funeral, and marveled at the party-like atmosphere of the family’s get-together afterwards. I remember recounting it to Grandpa, who told me that was the way the Irish did it — that it was time to celebrate the life of the person who’d just passed on instead of mourning them. In fact, he told me, “…when I die, that’s what I want… sit me up in the corner, put a beer in my hand, and have a big party!” And I know he said it a multitude of times throughout the years, as well. And, though it is his turn for the pomp and circumstance of the funeral at Arlington Cemetary at the end of the month, I’m sure most in the family will remember him that way, and though we won’t be able to prop him up in a corner, I know for sure I will have a beer in his honor after he’s put to rest.

I’m sure somewhere he and Uncle Tommy are together again, already embroiled in the next Big Debate.

Rest in peace, Grandpa. You will always be in my heart, in my joy, and in my humor. And thank you.

Things I’d Write to My Younger Self

I’m stealing this idea from my favorite morning radio show, Bob and Sheri, where Sheri Lynch wrote on this subject (see www.bobandsheri.com). I really loved it, and it got me thinking…  hmmm, what would I say if I were to write a letter to my younger self, from say, maybe 22 or so years ago, when I was in the height of teenage confusion, rebellion, and (self-)destruction? Here’s a try:

Dear Me,

It’s me, sending you a letter from 22 years in the future. Pushing 40!!! Yikes! I know you think that’s a faraway place, but it will be here before you know it — take it from me.

Anyway, yes, we make it this far. And quite a bit goes on between now and then! I know, I know, you have a thousand questions, and you’re just DYING to know what happens! I won’t spoil it; you must live it for yourself, because that’s what makes us what we become (which is a good thing). Plus, then it won’t be any “fun”!

However, I will give you a few words of wisdom from our experience:

• Learn how to laugh — really laugh — sooner. It feels really good, and is a remedy for almost anything. It could easily replace that junk you’re doing, and it’s much more permanent (and much less harmful).
• If you must find a guy to be with, find one that makes you laugh, not cry. Get rid of that loser you’re with; you’ll probably have a lot more fun over the next few years if you do (I WILL give you this spoiler: the relationship WILL end, and you really will be much happier when it does. I PROMISE).
• Speaking of relationships, stop ignoring your “gut,” and go WITH it. Be more assertive and go after what you really want; don’t settle for what’s there on a plate for you if it’s not what you want. You deserve it! You do eventually figure that out and are much better for it, but PHEW! what a bumpy (and somewhat wasteful) ride along the way…
• Your parents love you, regardless of what you think. They just have their own issues – lots of them — and there is no way you can have the maturity now to understand what they are. You may not like them, but you can love them, and one day, you may lose them, and then it will be too late. Ditto for the others in your immediate family. Celebrate their quirkiness, and realize that EVERYONE’S family is quirky in one way or another!
• You are a whole lot smarter than you think.
• You are a whole lot stronger than you think.
• You are a whole lot more beautiful than you think.
• Stop wasting your time cutting classes, and get your schoolwork done! It would’ve been a lot easier (and faster) getting through college if we’d had some scholarships to help us out (this also points back to the fact that you’re a lot smarter than you think). And it really wouldn’t have taken a lot more work than you did.
• Do yoga. It helps. Everything.

So, do we end up happy? Definitely! Regardless of what you do to maybe make it a little easier, there is still a very challenging path along the way. However, I wouldn’t change that for the world; though I still wouldn’t say life’s perfect, NOBODY’S life is perfect, and the sooner you realize that, the better! Overall, though, you create the very life that deep down you really, really, want…. but are afraid to acknowledge. It will take a lot of work, but it will be worth it.

Because you’ll get here.

Nature vs. Nurture – for the Zillionth Time!

I remember the big debates in my college Sociology class about the whole “Nature vs. Nurture” thing. Over the years, I debated it with friends, coworkers, neighbors – you name it! You can debate it all you want, but the absolutely best clinical trial you get is when you have your own kids. And now that my husband and I are 12 years into our clinical trial, I feel I have ample experience — not just with my own children, but with those around me with children — to make this statement:

CHILDREN TEND TO ACT THE WAY THEIR PARENTS EXPECT THEM TO, AND THEY TEND TO GRAVITATE TOWARDS WHAT THEY KNOW FROM THEIR OWN LIFE.

Groundbreaking? Earth shattering? Not really. But a vast majority of the population turns a blind eye to that simple statement, totally ignoring their own actions and persuasions as parents, and refusing to take ownership of what they themselves molded. Exasperated parents tend to just shrug their shoulders and write it off to SOMETHING genetic.

OK, so I’m going to insert a disclaimer here. I’m not saying that EVERYTHING is behavioral; I do believe that there are SOME things that are genetically hard-wired into a person. However, I think the number of items is really shockingly small compared to what people tend to attribute to it.

So here’s my beef, and here I’m going to shout it at the world:

1) GIRLS ARE NOT BORN NATURALLY BEING SUBMISSIVE AND LIKING PINK, PASTELS, AND DOLLS;
2) LIKEWISE, BOYS ARE NOT BORN NATURALLY BEING AGGRESSIVE, LIKING BLUE, BRIGHT COLORS, AND TRUCKS.

There. I said it. That felt good.

I could write an entire dissertation on it, I think, with the experiences we’ve had over the past 12 years. But I won’t. However, I just want to show you some data, based on my experience with my 2 girls and their friends (both male and female):

1) I personally don’t like pink all that much (and I DEFINITELY don’t like ruffles and frilly things), and I definitely don’t buy into the girl-pink, boy-blue thing. Therefore, my girls weren’t dressed in pink and ruffles — and :::gasp::: I actually bought a lot of clothes for them in the boys department when they were younger, because that was the only place I could find the fun, rich, bright colors that ALL children deserve to wear (vs. all of the pastels in the girls’ section). I remember when they were babies; since ALL BABIES GENERALLY LOOK ASEXUAL (really, this shouldn’t be all that groundbreaking), and since my husband and I didn’t have the hangup that many parents have that it’s socially taboo to have a baby that DOESN’T look like its gender (per society’s standards), we never put garter belts on our daughters’ heads or insisted on inflicting the useless pain of pierced ears to PROVE that they were girls. They wore a wide range of bright, non-pink colors (except for the few pink pieces that friends and relatives INSISTED they get — because of them being GIRLS), and comfortable pants. We had plenty of people in public make the comment, “What a cute little boy! What’s his name?” and when I’d tell them and they’d realize it was a girl, they would looked shocked, like they’d made a monumental mistake and apologize profusely. My answer to that was usually along the lines of, “She really doesn’t care, and I’m sure she’s not offended in the least!”

2) My husband and I both hate the general idea of Barbie and that the ONLY toys girls should play with are dolls. Really? And that teaches them spacial relations and mechanics and how to compete in this overpopulated, dog-eat-dog world how? Yes, ALL children (that includes BOYS, too) need to nurture - whether it be a stuffed animal, a doll, or a sibling – but the key here is WELL-ROUNDED. One or two dolls, but also blocks, trucks/cars, science projects, sports, and puzzles. For EVERYONE. But that’s what my girls have had, and SURPRISE — though they’ve occasionally wanted a special doll (like American Girl, of which I fully approve, due to the “girls who overcame the obstacles of their society to be who they wanted to be” theme), they both have their personal preferences in playthings. For example, my younger daughter went through a phase when she just LOVED Matchbox cars, collected them, and made up scenarios with them. My older daughter LOVES myteries to solve, which includes stuff along the lines of CSI detective sets, and science kits. Besides that, they have books, games and games abound, outdoor/activity toys, puzzles, and many other activities. And funny — time and time again, when we have friends who have boys come over, they’re always surprised at how well they get along with the girls — because they actually speak the same language! It’s actually funny; even the girls who are expected to be quiet, demure, and to play with their dolls at home become different children when they’re at our house — because THEY CAN BE!

3) We also don’t believe that girls are naturally more submissive and less assertive than boys from birth. Contrary to what many believe, at birth, girls and boys have almost the same levels of testosterone, and there’s absolutely no significant difference until about 4-8 years old (depending on who you ask). So the “bouncing baby boy” theory is actually scientifically bunk. But we’ve seen it time and time again — someone who has both a toddler boy and a girl will reprimand their daughter for getting covered with mud,  making a mess, or being too aggressive; however, when the boy acts the same way, the parents say, “Stop!” then shrug apologetically and say, “Boys!” as if that’s an excuse. Then, not even knowing how they’re molding the behavior, they’ll go on to say how GENERALLY the girl is SO much easier, and how they’ve just “given up trying” to control the boy.

:::sigh:::

By the time pre-adolescence hits, it’s been well instilled, and I think that surge in testosterone coupled with the expectations of the parents exacerbates something that wouldn’t be quite as extreme if it weren’t programmed into the child at an early age.

We’ve severely minimized TV exposure to our girls, and the relatively few to which they’ve been exposed have generally been picked because of their positive reflection of girls. I remember when my younger daughter went through a funk about a year ago. She LOVES comic books — that was all we could get her to read for awhile — and she’d noticed that the superhero movies that came out were all about BOY superhero. So at some point, she decided she wanted to be a boy. So when I asked her why, she told me, “Because all of the superheros are boys!” Shortly after that, we got her a subscription to Wonder Woman, Spidergirl, and one of the X-Men (since it’s a good mix). That appeased her, but she’s right — look at our blockbuster movies: Batman, Superman, Iron Man… the list goes on. Typically, if there’s a woman superhero, she’s just part of the group.

We also prohibited a lot of the “classics” from our household  — Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Snow White — because we wanted to teach our daughters that they should take a problem into their own hands and fix it best they can through their own means, not helplessly wait for some “Prince Charming” to come along and “save” them. They’ve actually been growing up during a good period — there have been some good children’s movies that have come out in the past decade that actually show females in a strong light — so we’ve had a decent variety in place of the other, more old-fashioned ones.

So, what’s the purpose of this rant? I just think that after 12 years, it’s really old. My husband and I have refused to bring up our girls in the “girl stereotype” — my crusade as a parent is to bring them up independent, strong, and of their own means, without needing any man to “take care” of them. As a family, the 4 of us have taken Tae Kwon Do together for the past 4 years, and we’ve all just gotten our 2nd degree black belt. At the ages of (almost) 10 and 12, they are self confident, vivacious, exuberant, strong, and comfortable with themselves. And I know we have the hurdles of adolescence ahead of us, but we hope we’ve gotten a good head start for them to make good decisions, of their own will, without any old gender stereotypes refraining them from being the best they can be.

 

Grandma, I can’t believe this…. but I think I understand!

When I was a child, we lived in the same house as my grandparents in Long Island, NY. While both of them worked,  I remember them coming home in the evening — my grandfather all kinds of, “Hi, how was your day?” before he went upstairs to the apartment that had been made up there. He didn’t seem to have a care in the world. My grandmother — nothing. She’d barely grumble, “Hi,” when she was on her way in and on her way out. And on the weekends, though my sister would go upstairs and spend time with her, I barely ever heard her speak. Even when I was up there with them — I would spend hours talking to my grandfather, yet I could barely get a few sentences out of my grandmother. What an extreme! And then, years later — I’m equivocating this to sometime around the time my grandfather retired and she was still working — it was like the dam broke, and she hasn’t stopped talking since!

I have to admit, she’s always been an enigma to me. I always wondered a) why she was SOOOOO quiet for all of those years, and b) why suddenly did she start talking, to another extreme, later on!

Very recently, the lightbulb went off over my head, and I think I understand. I UNDERSTAND!

I’m on a self-initiated talking hiatus at home right now, and I can see that it’s making my husband and my kids pretty uncomfortable. Because by nature, I am the communicator; before I started my business, my job was marketing and communications, so communicating was my LIFE. But I’m done for now.

By nature, I’m also a take-charge individual, and it was years ago established in an unspoken way that I would be director of the household, for EVERYTHING. Not that I wanted it; that’s just how it all went. And I didn’t really realize it — or mind it — while I was distracted and spending many hours with my work away from home. But right now, I’m tired of it.

And I’m just tired.

I remember sometime around 5 years ago, my husband went through this period when he was convinced that I didn’t love him anymore (I did), that I was having an affair in all of my work travel (I wasn’t), and that I was going to leave him (I wasn’t). It was mostly based on the fact that I was SOOO tired at the end of the day, that I was just done communicating — between directing my department during the day and directing everything else at home after work, I just couldn’t move my mouth any more! After the kids went to bed, I just wanted peace and quiet, and to turn on the boob tube and vegetate for awhile before going to bed so I could start the next day’s cycle all over again. On the other hand, he was a computer programmer and self-contained during the day, so he craved additional interaction at the end of the day. Somehow, without consulting me, he’d gotten himself all worked up in his head (without talking to me) that he made it a reality to him — and I had no idea, except the fact that he was cranky and sullen for awhile, and even though I’d ask him what was the matter, he wouldn’t talk about it. It took us having a really big blowup over some stupid things he did during this period — and me telling him I wouldn’t live like that — to find out the root of the problem and be able to work on it and get better.

I purposely worked on communicating with him more, paying him more attention, and it became more of a habit. So, by the time I’d decided to start my business and quit my job, we were humming along pretty well again. But here’s the problem — I’m a communicator, and spend a majority of my time with the plants now, which, though it is very soothing and balancing, leaves me with a deficit in the area of communication. I crave it, and 2 years later, I miss the constant, constant, constancy of having to do it! Before, I had a department of people and everyone related to my job to deal with every day. I had a group of friends that I saw at work all the time with whom I’d share a lunch break and regularly share and unload any issues that needed to be vented. And so, I could easily get past irritations around the household because I was able to study them, then release them, and then forget about them through my day-to-day interactions.

So, it’s been 2 years now, and though I do have a good group of friends, it’s a very different world for me now. I don’t have that regular interaction with others; most of my interactions are today very topical and, though friendly, just don’t do anything in the way of helping me work out the real stuff on my own. So I guess I’ve increasingly depended on my husband to be my sounding board, and I guess somewhere down the road over this period, I’ve also started to expect him to take a more active role in being there for me and maybe take on some of the household directing. Because having a business such as mine, until I can afford to hire someone (or go back to my old life at the office), that alone takes more time and stress than I’d ever imagined.

What a big mistake.

And I know it! Why, after 14 years (now 16, since it’s been 2 years since I quit my job to work full time on my own business), I should expect him to even SOMETIMES take the wheel and honestly think about how to make my life easier and ease some of my stress without me having to repeat, repeat, repeat myself, is really sort of silly, I guess. I guess it would be like having to actually drive a car after being chauffered without a care for 14 years.

I guess I thought, due to those long ago problems, that he would REVEL in the fact that he is a more central part of my life now, and that I depend on him more as my partner in crime. That he would be happy that he has what he wanted and naturally want to be more front and center, and take some kind of leadership role to alleviate all of my stressors. But instead, he seems to have lulled himself into some blissful ignorance so he doesn’t have to feel my stress, and go about living life and expecting that everything will be taken care of and work out just fine. All the details, the dirt, and the ownership of everything, to make sure it gets done — that’s mine. And I apparently, in his mind, have more time to do that now, with me having a business at home. And if I mention it, all I get is, “Oh, I feel the stress… you have no idea!” Really? I really DON’T have any idea, because he’s not doing anything to actually HELP alleviate it all, and he doesn’t even listen to our conversations anymore — it’s usually very, VERY obvious that he couldn’t be bothered with talking to me, that I should just get on and TAKE CARE OF EVERYTHING, and let him go on with his day.

With that being said, even my “old role” doesn’t seem to work anymore. I communicate, I assign, I give deadlines, I explain financial issues, I try to be creative in problem solving — and over the past 6-12 months, I’ve noticed that it seems that no one is hearing me AT ALL anymore, husband and kids alike. In their eyes, it’s all on me, I guess. They don’t want to deal with the dirt, the difficulties, the stress, and so it’s obviously all on my shoulders, no matter how much I try to share it! I lose sleep at night, I have a constant pit in my stomach, it’s gotten to the point that I don’t enjoy my life anymore because IT’S ALL ON ME. And then, after I’ve tried to throw up red flags and asked for help, and dispairingly fallen back into the standard director role with which I’ve always been assigned, I have to repeat myself to my husband and my children over and over and OVER again, and STILL not be heard – and I HATE repeating myself to begin with.

Don’t get me wrong — it’s not like my husband doesn’t do ANYTHING. He does plenty — but he’s really like a robot. Typically, he only does something if I tell him it needs to be done, and usually, it’s nothing more, nothing less. That in itself is a problem, because after 2 years, I would think he would remember my guidelines about some things having to do with the business, but if I don’t outline the whole thing to a T, inevitably, it doesn’t get done. It’s like he just throws out all of the information instead of processing it, and just figures I will input all of the information every single time it comes up again.

Did I tell you I’m tired?

THIS is why. So I guess I’ve decided I just don’t feel like talking anymore, because a) it’s a waste of my time and effort, and b) maybe it will kickstart the thinking and action process of the others in my household so that it WON’T ALL BE ON ME. Because, for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m at a breaking point, I don’t know where to go from here, and I don’t feel like I have anybody to help me. But since I tried talking and yelling from the mountaintop until my face turned blue, I figured it would take much less effort for me to just zip it all up and let it go. I WANT TO NOT HAVE TO WORRY FOR AWHILE. Though I know I will; however, sometimes something has to break before it can be fixed. And I think my back has broken. Unfortunately, my husband is not the best at confrontation, either, so though I know he knows something is really wrong, he’s afraid to open the can of worms.

But I’M tired of doing it.

Back to my grandmother. She and I have very similar personalities in some ways. She likes directing and taking control. So maybe, at some point, she just decided to say “Screw it!” and clammed up. Because now that I think of it, she started talking again when my grandfather retired and she hadn’t yet. I remember her saying that he was driving her CRAZY. But it may have been that since his world changed, he took a different role, and she felt like she could talk again.

Good God, I really hope it won’t be years, like it was with her! I don’t think I can last that long in a stasis like this.

Hello? Is there anybody out there?

 

Last night, on the news, I saw a story that discussed an increase in local (NC) water prices (for those who have town water) because now that people aren’t using as much water (that would actually be called CONSERVING, last I checked), the water treatment plants aren’t making enough money.

 

All I can say to that is, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

 

I am continuously amazed and appalled at the whining of big industry that has an effect on or causes us to have an effect on our environment, such as water companies, oil companies, and everything related. I also continue to be amazed at the politics that are overall against us preserving our environment – our world – so we can continue in existence. Electric cars and or hydrogen cells? Been around for longer than most people think. However, the oil industry has its hands in so many political pockets that they’ve successfully kept it under wraps for decades. That’s right: DECADES.

 

More than a decade ago, when I lived in New York, we would gather our recyclables, take them up to the recycling center, and actually get paid for recycling. Isn’t that fascinating? Because when we moved down to North Carolina almost 12 years ago, we discovered rather shockingly that we have to pay to recycle here.

 

OK, so let’s get this straight:

• We pay more for water because people are conserving;
• We pay to recycle;
• We pay more for recycled paper and other recycled items than for items that take down our forests and other natural resources;
• We pay more for non-GMO (that would be non-genetically modified) produce because the pharmaceutical indutry has so flooded our commodity markets with GMO items (which we’re discovering have long-range negative effects on our environment and on us) that buying food grown from NON-genetically modified — and much safer and healthier — seed is today actually a NICHE market;
• We pay an extraordinary amount of money for petroleum products so… well, hmm…. so the oil companies can make more than any other company/industry in the world next quarter, yet again? When we’ve actually had the resources to use alternative fuels for decades?

So, what is wrong with this picture?

 

There’s a movie that a friend of mine recommended awhile back that was a sleepy Indy movie — and it initially seemed pretty dumb, yet if you paid attention to it, it was exactly where we’re going, and it was actually a brilliant movie with a brilliant statement — it’s called Idiocracy. Rent it, and then, please, THINK! About what we can do to fix this. Because if we actually start to think instead of just follow, we might wake up and fight to fix what’s so terribly, terribly wrong.