Bathroom Pie

I'm sure your mind is conjuring a number of pretty gross images that could depict "bathroom pie".  Poop, mostly, I'm sure.  But, no, I'm not talking about feces here people, pay attention.  I'm going to tell you a ghastly tale of love, loss, danger, learning to overcome adversity, and one slice of pumpkin pastry.

Val (that's my kid) and I were getting ready one morning.  She and I in the morning are something like those people in the movies who suddenly find themselves on the cusp of an apocalyptic state of emergency.  We both lazily ignore our alarms in favor of our '5 more minutes' mistake until the last possible second we can sleep before I lose my job and a truancy officer knows us by name.  When we finally pull ourselves from our beds, primal panic takes over our bodies and we become, in a sense, lunatics.  We race past each other in the hall, get your shoes! where's my backpack?! did you brush your hair or teeth or either? get in the car Val! get in the car Val! get in the car for cryin' out loud Val!  Classy.

This particular morning was no exception.  I was mid where-the-hell-are-my-keys when her small voice broke all four of my current trains of thought.

"Can I have this pie?"

I looked up to find her, not dressed (of course), hair a mess (of course), holding up a piece of pumpkin pie on a tea saucer (of cou - wait, what?).

"Is that...pie?"  We both looked at it, me in shear wonder that pumpkin pie would materialize in my child's hand, her with shear delight that there was pumpkin pie to be had.

"Yeah, I think it's pumpkin.  Can I have it?"
"I, I mean, I guess.  Where did you get it?"

"The bathroom."

Now we stared at each other, me in utter confusion that she would find pie in our bathroom, she in utter confusion that I wasn't pouring a glass of milk for her to enjoy with her Bathroom Pie.  I don't know, really, what was going through my head.  Why was pie in the damn bathroom?  Where did it come from?  Who put it there and why didn't they eat it?  Why the hell did I tell her she could eat it before these questions were answered?

To her dismay I took the pie from her to examine it.  It was relatively fresh, no sign of the weird pie dew that forms on the top when left out, it was room temperature, it smelled delicious.

"Can I eat it now?"

What was I supposed to do?  I saw the MythBusters episode, I know what happens when you flush with the lid up.  How could I let my precious 8 year old daughter consume Bathroom Pie that was possibly bedazzled with microscopic shit bits? 

"Sorry, kid."

She looked down at her shoes, I knew she was disappointed.  I tried to console her.  "Tell ya what, kid, go brush your hair, and if you happen to find, like, a chicken leg or something in there, it's all yours."

She brightened up a bit.  "You promise?"  
Sigh.
"Cross my heart."

That evening I had all but forgotten about the shit bits.  Jonas came in, happy as always, so I started my evening ritual of telling him all the crap about work that he jovially ignores.  I was following him through the house recounting the day's happenings until he stepped into the bathroom.  He pulled back the shower curtain, looked around the tub, beside the toilet, behind the door.

"What are you lookin' for, babe?"

He then turns to me, in all seriousness, and says,

"You seen my pie?"

I felt my stomach turn.  My upper lip started to curl and my eyebrows shot up to my hairline like those 7th grade girls who think it makes them look tough but really they look like they just smelled a dirty diaper.  The Bathroom Pie was his pie?  My sexy, muscular, college-educated, Greek god-like man eats Bathroom Pie?  UGH!  The man who I whole-heartily believe I was designed specifically to complete eats Bathroom Pie?  In the midst of my major life alteration he brushes passed me in the hall and heads toward the front of the house.  I heard his voice coming from the living room.

"Val, you seen my pie?"
"Yep, but Mama wouldn't let me eat it."
"Then where is it?"
My child, my sweet little baby, puts on some hateful, accusatory tone I had never heard come from her tiny pea head and tells him, "I don't know, she probably ate it just so we couldn't."

What?!?!  I took off down the hallway, through the kitchen, into the laundry room. I scooped up the trash can and took into the living room.  Holding it up at both of them I yelled "Look!  Bathroom Pie!  Right there!  Of course I didn't eat it, I'm not a whackadoo that eats Bathroom Pie for cryin' out loud! It's disGUSting!" I turned my glare on Jonas, "and the thought of you eating ANYTHING in the bathroom makes my stomach turn!  Who does that?!  Who takes food from the kitchen, into the bathroom, where the nastiest possible things happen, and consumes it like you're at Ruth's Chris and its completely normal?!  Who does that?!"  Back to Val, "and YOU, little girl, had better not EVER go behind MY back saying that I did ANYthing that I didn't, you hear me?  I don't care if you ARE just talking to Jonas that's SHADY and I'm not having it!"  I carried the can back to the laundry room, cussing under my breath.  Tell me I ate the damn pie, ya'll was trying to eat the damn pie I'm trying to save ya'll from salmonella shit bits.  Ingrates.  

It wasn't until much later that evening that I addressed the Bathroom Pie again to Jonas.  I explained that it was the NASTIEST thing I could imagine; eating in the bathroom.  And the thought that either of our kids could have easily consumed it and become violently ill really pissed me off.  He explained that he likes to eat while in the bath.  He sits in the tub and soaks his knee and eats.  Ugh.  I tried to empathize, but couldn't get passed the reactive disgust.  "I don't want to live in a house with food in the bathroom.  I don't want my daughter to see that I think its wrong but that you think its ok and then she's left confused and forced to make a decision that could leave her feeling like she's having to choose between us."

And that's it.  That's my problem.  My anger didn't show it's face until I felt like the kid was pitted against me.  And she said what she said because she felt like I was pitted against her and Jonas.  "She probably ate it just so we couldn't."  I was terrified that this was a sign of what was to come.  Our kids having to choose sides because Jonas and I were of opposing opinions or actions.  It made me sad.  It made me angry.  

Jonas and I talked about this at length.  For days, really.  We would get heated and hurtful and back away to cool down.  We (sadly) threw some your-kid-my-kid grenades.  He took a few I'm-a-better-parent-than-you bullets.  I suffered a few this-is-why-your-relationships-implode machine gun fire.  But we didn't stop talking about it until we both agreed that our best strategy as co-creators of our blended family is to show a united front.  If that means telling either kid "let me talk to your mom/dad first" then that's what we do.  If that means going into another room to throw emotional grenades until a common ground is identified, then so be it.  No good-cop-bad-cop, no mom-said-no-so-I'll-just-ask-Jonas.  And, for the love of sanitation, no more Bathroom Pie.

I Got Your Bitch

Don't flinch at the title.  Also, for the record: if spelled phonetically as I speak it, it should read "I gotchur Bitch."  It's a South End thing.

Jonas and I have been living together for a year now.  And, since I'm in a reflective mood, I've been thinking back over the past 12 months of co-habitation.  They were, if I'm being honest, the Longest. Twelve. Months. EVER.  Um, duh, I love Jonas, he's my penguin, my bestie, my boo.  But seriously, longest ever.  Ever.

Many moons ago a beautiful soul named Gator told me that if a couple can make it through their first year of marriage and come out smiling, they're good to go.  I'm going to assume that his prediction applies to couples living in sin.  I was married before and I came out of the first year with packed suit cases and squashed credit.  Jonas was married before and it lasted damn near a decade, so who the hell knows.

Jonas and I fought from day 1.  We fought over furniture placement, for cryin' out loud.  We fought over who was responsible for what, what time my alarm should go off, why I don't wake up with my alarm, who should get the bathroom first, how we should parent, or not parent, each others' kids, house guests, money, TV time, nail clippings, detergent brands.  The laughter diminished as swear words and animosity moved in and took up all the empty space between the ill-placed furniture.  I tried every approach to "talk" to him about it.  I tried active listening, lectures, texting, metaphors, crying, ignoring, reverse psychology, an actual psychologist and even some ugly ultimatums.  Every single time his response was the same: "Stop being such a bitch."  

I got your Bitch!

How frustrating is that?!  He has spent months blaming me for all our problems.  As though if some Bitch Fairy waved a magic wand that zapped all my bitchiness out, we would be just fine.  What a douche!  Some days it was so depressing and disheartening I wondered if I had made a huge mistake.  How could I live with a man who was so infuriating and inconsiderate?  How could I spend the rest of my life with a man who claimed I was "being such a bitch?"  

I got your Bitch!

But I stuck it out.  I kept thinking he would change, be better, nicer, more helpful, more considerate.  Every single day I came home from work and had to be the house (wait for it....) bitch.  Cook dinner, set the table, fix drinks, serve the food.  Grrrrr!  And he just sat there (like a douche) waiting to be...well, waited on.  Geez.

Then something REALLY infuriating happened.  It was late, my kid was asleep, Jonas was (of course) resting.  I went into the kitchen to get some Pepsi and realized there were no clean cups.  I was INSTANTLY pissed!  I scanned the counter, of course finding dirty dishes in the freakin sink and on the freakin counter.  Why the FUCK don't I have ONE CLEAN FREAKIN GLASS for my Pepsi???  

Then I had it.  My Oprah "ah-ha" moment.  I was pissed about the dirty dishes, because Jonas always washes them.  Always.  Twelve months, I had never noticed.  Never even thought about it.  Probably because I was busy packing for the all expense paid guilt trip he was about to take for never cooking.  

It really got me thinking.  What else hadn't I noticed?  The oil in my car.  Always changed.  My car insurance.  Always paid.  My alarm, wailing for at least 45 minutes every morning while I snored like a grown man, all right next to him.  My daughter.  He throws her onto her bed every night, sometimes like she's on a roller coaster, and she laughs hysterically and falls asleep smiling.

I got your Bitch.

The mail is always on the table when I come in.  I don't even know how many times I have sighed audibly and smacked it down on the DAMN counter to get it off the DAMN table so I can fix your DAMN dinner and serve you like a DAMN private chef.  How many times I've literally KICKED his shoes into a corner because they were in front of the door, maybe because he had just walked the trash to the corner and picked litter out of our yard.

I got your Bitch.

How many times have I fired a hurtful "your big ass coat doesn't go on the back of my chair"?  All the while, my clothes don't even leave room for oxygen in the closet.

Yeah.
I got your Bitch.


And its me.

I hate it that he's right.  Not because it means I'm wrong.  But because it means that for the longest twelve months of my life I was the antagonist.  The bad guy.  Not every single time, he's a flawed human like everyone else.  But all the horrible things I suffered were a product of my own ego.  All the while I was waiting for him to change, all I had to do was take his sincere advice, and stop being such a bitch.  So it took about three glasses of Flat Rock Red, a half a pack of Marlboro Special Blends and some real-shit soul searching to really admit to myself that the one who needs to change, is me.  This time, I gave myself an ultimatum.  I was either going to start focusing on all the fantastic benefits of our relationship, or set that poor boy free.  Because he's fucking awesome.  Like, legit.  And I don't ever want try to recover from losing him.  But more than that, I love him so purely that I couldn't stand the thought of him being stuck with a bitch out of loyalty.

Is it perfect now?  Don't make me laugh.  Do I still get frustrated?  Absolutely.  Do we still fight?  To the fucking death dude.

But not everyday, and certainly not over furniture.

Its whatev's

My mother, Karen, has said to me several times through-out history "How a person handles a disappointment shows a lot about their character."  She's probably right.  Think about it: if you see some snot-nosed six year old asshole at the Buy n Bag crying into his mom's crotch over a toy she won't buy for him your first judgement (shut up we're all judging him) is that he's a snot-nosed asshole.  Then you look to his mother and assume that she must be defective for having raised such a little Shit Box.  If you don't have children you're internal voice is saying "when I have kids they'll never act like that."  They probably will, by the way.  If you have children who are even semi well-behaved your internal voice begins a ticker-tape parade of being better than a stranger: "Shoo, I'm glad my kids don't act like that," or "My kid would never show her ass like that in public!"  If you are the mother of the Shit Box and your mom-jeans are now soaked with mucus in all the wrong places, don't feel bad.  All kids can be assholes, and there's a decent chance that it isn't because you're defective as a parental unit.  Maybe he's tired, or upset about something else.  Or maybe you've just spoiled him to the point that he doesn't realize what a turd he's being.  It's whatev's.

Anyway my point is that the Shit Box's reaction shows us that his character is less than appealing.  We can safely assume that he lacks humility, gratitude and/or consideration for his mother's reasoning.  We make this safe assumption because he has suffered a disappointment, and his reaction is bat-shit-crazy.

I, on the other hand, am a full grown Shit Box a lot of times.  But instead of crying, kicking, screaming and the like, I'm pretty passive-aggressive about the fits I throw when I don't get my way.  But we'll get back to that in a few.

As a child, my father's favorite punishment to inflict upon my sister and me was to write sentences.  For example: if I lied, I would be made to write "I will not lie to my father" about a bazillion times.  One of the most infamous instances of this punishment is the epic "I will not say ugh" sentence marathon of 1992.  Whenever my dad told me to do something that I didn't freakin wanna do my immediate reaction was to slouch my shoulders, throw my head back and say "Ugh!".  I had the opportunity to do this a few times before my dad was fed up and made me write the sentence 200 times.  Not a terribly difficult task, it probably didn't take very long.  But it wasn't the action of writing that I remember.  It wasn't how long I sat at the kitchen table or the 2 times I had to sharpen my pencil or the trip to the bathroom.  It was his reaction to my completed work that drove home the message.  I carried the loose leaf into the living room and held out my work to my father, waiting expectantly for the praise that was sure to follow for my flawless penmanship and follow-through.  And in that pivotal moment my dad taught me the most valuable lesson I had learned to date: how not to deal with disappointment.  Standing there, 10 years old, holding up what I thought he wanted, he didn't even look my way.

I held my breath, for about seven years, with anxiety rising in my gut, my eyes fixated on eyes that were fixated on the television.

"Here Daddy, I'm done."

Nothing.

"200, like you said."

"Throw it away."  His voice was distant, nonchalant.

"Don't you wanna see-"
"Throw it away."  My hand dropped.  Tears burned the back of my eyes, the anxiety churned and turned in my gut and became something ugly.  Anger.  Indignation.  Disappointment.  All this "feeling' welled up from my core and through my limbs and my forehead wrinkled and my shoulders dropped and before I even knew what I was doing I uttered the most heinous word in the English language.

"UGH!"

21 years later I still have flawless penmanship.  And I still say "ugh" (although now, in disgust rather than disappointment).  I don't know if he was crafting a genius plan to instill in me that ability to show grace during a let-down.  Maybe it was serendipitous.  Maybe I've just over-analyzed it until I gleaned from the experience what I needed.  It's whatev's.

According to Wikipedia, passive aggressive behavior is the indirect expression of hostility, such as through procrastination, hostile jokes, stubbornness, resentment, sullenness, or deliberate or repeated failure to accomplish requested tasks for which one is (often explicitly) responsible.  According to Carripedia (just made that shit up), passive aggressive behavior is the crap I do when you piss me off and I can't cuss you out or throat punch you because we're in public or at work or running late for something.  Sidebar: most of the time I will just cuss you out because you pissed me off.  It's been a long time since I punched anyone because I'm old and tired and my mom can't make bail.  

We all experience disappointment in one form or another.  Some are ongoing: a couple tries for years to get pregnant, a high school honor student is rejected by every university.  Some hit us out of the blue, knocking you back and robbing the wind from your lungs: being laid off from a job at which you really excel, finding out someone you admire is a fraud, discovering infidelity in a relationship.  All incredibly disappointing.  And we all react in our own ways.  Jonas (that's the boyfriend) is a champ at handling disappointment.  Small-scale example: if he bids on an item in an online auction and doesn't win, he just finds a comparable item and bids again.  Large-scale example: the company we both worked for down-sized and he was let go in the middle of a Tuesday.  He graciously thanked the assholes who canned him and moved on.  I, on the other hand, would be the Shit Box that anonymously flags the auctioneer as spam and keys the boss's car on the way out.  Because fuck you.  It's whatev's.

In the movie "We Bought a Zoo," Benjamin Mee (Matt Damon) tells his angst-riddled teen that 'whatever' is the laziest word in the dictionary.  That may be true.  But in my humble opinion, it's the hardest working word in a person's limbic system.  Sidebar: That's the part of the brain that basically creates, or omits, or maybe controls emotion.  By saying, or more importantly, feeling, "whatever" about a disappointment is a conscious effort to dismiss something that has affected us, usually in a negative fashion.  I'm not talking about the What do you want for dinner? It's whatever whatever, I'm talking about the you got a metaphorical punch in the gut and it fucking hurts but you work through the pain and manage to put it behind you whatever.  The you didn't get the job, the pretty girl did whatever.  The My name is Carrie, I'm so very, fly oh my but you didn't notice because The Walking Dead is on whatever.  Is it the most graceful way to recover from a disappointment?  Probably not.  The healthiest?  I don't know I'm not a psychologist.  Does it work for me?  Most of the time.  Maybe it will work for you though.  Maybe not. It's whatev's.