When I was a kid...

Let me start by saying that when I decided on the title of this blog post I felt that, while appropriate for the content, it seemed strange to me.  Most days, most hours really, I still kind of feel like a "kid."  I still really enjoy trampolines, roller coasters, candy bars, Disney Pixar movies (really, though, who doesn't).  I think it's SUPER funny when people fall, I ABSOLUTELY hate getting up with an alarm and I still have a favorite color.  But I'm gonna call it like I see it and say for all intents and purposes I'm grown.  I vote, pay bills, work, raise a kid, yada yada.

In the process of raising that kid I've noticed an increasing frequency of the words "when I was a kid" flying out of my mouth.  You know the script: When I was a kid we ate whatever mama cooked, When I was a kid we didn't have an xBox, we had our imagination, When I was a kid people didn't shoot schools up.  I've heard that prefix from every parent I've ever spent more than 30 minutes with.  I'm sure you can think of a few your parents used against you, maybe a few you've used against your own kids.

A few nights ago for dinner I cooked baked chicken with fresh garlic, sea salt and basil.  Yes, it does sound delicious.  Peyton (that's the boyfriend's son) didn't want to eat his chicken.  He's eight.  I'm 31 and I prefer Chicken McNuggets so I can't really blame the kid.  Jonas (the boyfriend) told him "Eat your chicken, Peyton, its good for you."  Sidebar: don't ever ever ever try to persuade any human under the age of 24 to do anything because it's 'good for you'.  You may as well tell them it's battery acid and will disintegrate their insides.   Peyton was still reluctant to eat the battery acid chicken so Jonas followed up his argument with "When I was a kid we had to eat everything on our plate."  To which I promptly responded with an exaggerated eye roll.  Jonas asked, "you didn't have to eat all your food?"  Umm, no, my parents love me.  Obvi.  Think about it; did the kid choose his meal?  His portions?  No.  Did he ask for baked chicken?  Nope.  Should he be gracious and accept the blessing to the nourishment of his body?  Absolutely!  Does he have to like it?  Hell no.  And, for the record, not all the things from when you were a kid are relevant to our children.  

I'm not taking a stand against eating all your food, that isn't the point I'm trying to make.  What I'm saying is that using your childhood experiences to make well-rounded, sound judgments in parenting is a fantastic idea.  Lording the rules and punishments that were inflicted upon you as a child over your kid as a tool to diminish, discredit or demean their choices or desires is shitty.  And I'm just as guilty.  Stay with me here: In my personal experience the majority of the time when my dad began a sentence with 'when I was a kid' I didn't hang on the edge of my seat in eager anticipation of the sage wisdom he was about to lovingly bestow upon me.  No, I rolled my eyes in utter dismay at having to suffer through another example of his presumed suck-ass childhood.  If he were to collectively tell all his "when I was a kid" stories you would be strongly inclined to call child protective services to have his parents retro-actively charged for abuse, neglect, wanton endangerment and schizophrenia.  But if you ask my dad "how was your childhood?" he would respond with a sincere "It was great."  Now tell that to a ten year old who wants to stay up 30 minutes past bedtime but can't because her dad never could.  What?

And who's to say that the rules you were made to follow or the punishments you received were the most appropriate for you, or are the most appropriate for your child?  Let's reverse the role a bit; when I was a kid (see what I did there) I played in the street, with no adult supervision, for hours until it was too dark to see the dodge ball.  One neighborhood kid was in charge of yelling 'Car!' and NO ONE was in charge of reporting stranger danger when people walked by.  I was about nine.  If my kid asked to do that now I would lose my shit and lock her in her room for 15 years.  She could be kidnapped, killed, raped, sold for meth, given meth, talked into becoming a politician, fall onto a dirty needle.  The possibilities of impending doom are endless.  What was perfectly acceptable for me when I was a kid is unthinkable for my kid now.  When I was a kid I wasn't allowed to have my elbows on the dinner table.  Why?  My forearm is ok but my elbow is unacceptable?  Is this real life?  Are we having tea with the queen? Will someone faint at the sight of my boney elbow while they eat?  It's a little ashy, but not that bad.  

Now people have taken to social media to lord those rules and punishments over the younger generation.  And you sound like a grumpy old person who can't figure out all this new fangled techno babble.  These memes brag about being spanked like it's the sole reason you aren't a raging alcoholic serial killer who wears human heads as hats.  There's an underlying judgement against a generation of children that YOUR GENERATION RAISED!  Think about that while you enjoy the next photo.

MmmmHmmm.  So, riddle-me-this Batman; who bought the 10 year old the laptop, iPod and Blackberry? (which BTW no one owns a Blackberry...no one)  That's like parking your own car, then being angry at how your car is parked!  I know it's a generalization; so are all the jabs at the "kids these days."  Sidebar: One of my favorite quotes from a meme (sorry I couldn't find it!) said "Generation X invented the internet; show some respect Generation Y".  Is this real life?  That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Like ever.  

Will people stop saying "when I was a kid.." as a result of this blog?  Nope.  And that's ok, it's a time honored tradition of frustrated parents to try and rationalize with their mini-me's to get them to calm the fuck down about whatever injustice they feel they've suffered.  But, I would like to try and use this sentence enhancer in a slightly different way:

• When I was a kid my dad worked constantly, so I try very hard to be present with my child at dinner time.  Because I believe we're building memories she will one day cherish.
• When I was a kid I never saw my mom cry.  Because of this I felt shamed by my own grief.  I don't want my daughter to fight that demon, so I will show her my tears, in an appropriate way, to help her grieve freely and grow emotionally.
• When I was a kid I watched my parents playfully express affection with laughter and kisses and teasing.  I now find that same affection in my relationship and it makes me grateful that our kids see it too.
• When I was a kid my sister Jessie never let me wallow in self-pity, and now that she's in a health battle, I know how to pull her up just like she used to pull me up.
• When I was a kid my mother openly accepted every single friend I ever brought home, regardless of ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation or financial status.  She gave freely to panhandlers, tipped generously, smiled at everyone.  I grew up to be that kind of woman, and my daughter will do the same.
• When I was a kid my biological dad disappeared.  My step-dad didn't blink an eye, he just stayed right where he was; where he still is today.
• When I was a kid I was told constantly that I had immeasurable potential and that I would be loved unconditionally.  I am realizing my potential and loved relentlessly by my parents every day.
• When I was a kid we laughed every single day.

Because when I was a kid, life was amazing.

The Facebook Paradox

Hi, my name is Carrie, and I'm addicted to Facebook.

          Hi Carrie.

I've been Facebooking since 2009, I think.  It's really accelerated in the last 2 years or so.  At first it was just every once in a while, you know, if my friends were doing it.  Then my marriage got really rough, I turned to Facebook as an outlet, for relief.  Back then it was pure, you know, clean posts, just words and stuff.  Now all of a sudden it's cut and diluted and mixed with pictures and YouTube clips; and all these memes.  Fuckin' A, the memes are endless.  I just wish sometimes, you know, I just wish I had never even clicked in that What's On Your Mind box.  But, I mean, I'm hooked, you know.  I'm hooked.  And I'm not the only one.

As I'm writing this hullabaloo I have 472 friends on Facebook.  472.  In real life I think I have maybe 11, and that includes Jonas and our 2 kids.  I have literally ran into my FB friends in public and purposefully ignored them, as though I hadn't a clue who they were.  I've been approached in public by FB friends and didn't recognize them.  Not even a little.  This is the paradox we'll examine.  Sidebar: A paradox is a statement or proposition that, despite sound (or apparently sound) reasoning from acceptable premises, leads to a conclusion that seems senseless, logically unacceptable, or self-contradictory.  Also known as: shit that don't make sense.

There are 4 types of FB friends:

1. People you genuinely want to connect with.  These are your homies, your work peeps, your long-distance-but-close-to-the-heart-relatives, your boo and his mom, maybe a cool teacher you had in school, the hot girl from work, and so on.  There is usually one or two you care so much about that clicking Like on their status update is almost reflexive because you're Team Whoever They Are.  They share a meme, you share that meme.  They type Amen on some fake ass oh-poor-guy story, you type Hallelujah and misspell that shit without a second thought.  Because you're pretty much all about whatever they're all about.  For me, my sister Jessie fits this bill.  Til she gets all churchy then I'm out.  Which brings us to number
2. People you want to debate.  Don't even act like there's not at LEAST one person on your newsfeed that makes your heart flutter with that amazing fight or flight reflex every time they decide to jump on whatever band wagon pisses you off.  I have about 40.  I'm probably that person to about 70 of my FB friends, and I'm cool with that.  Somewhere on your friends list is an asshole who's posts tic you off just enough to get you to either respond full throttle, or post some passive aggressive status that goes something like this: "Think itz time ta clean up my frend list cuz SOME PPL don't no how ta mind they DAM busness fa real.  Worry bout yo shit ima worry bout MY shit ok? fa real cuz these bitches wanna ack like they no me n they betta then me BITCH YOU WILL NOT MAKE THA CUT"  I made myself giggle.  You may have an articulate opponent.  They fall into a subcategory of #2: The educator.  You write a post, or comment on their post, about politics, religion, justice and it seems for a while that they aren't going to respond. Until you get a seven paragraph report on the subject complete with links to reputable articles and news affiliates.  I love that shit.  That shit is my crack!  Like, legit.  Anywho, these FB friends will more than likely remain your FB friends because somewhere deep inside you is an angry little elf who wants to ruffle some feathers.  Then there's number
3. People you don't or won't unfriend because you don't want to be a dick.  This is a fascinating relationship (I have more than a few).  Sometimes it's accidental; like when you go on a few dates with a guy, and his sister requests you so you accept but then you find out he has a deal-breaking obsession with Dukes of Hazard memorabilia so you stop taking his calls and he finally takes the hint and you forget she's even on your list until she posts something like "spent the afternoon with David, trying to cheer him up.  I know his Princess is out there somewhere, just got to get over the evil witches he keeps running into. #lovemybrother #fuckyouwhore"  Maybe that's just my problem.  Sometimes you just legitimately grow apart and you find yourself stuck in some strange balance between 'I have no valid reason to maintain contact' and 'I have no valid reason to terminate this connection.'  That's just awkward...I don't really have any advice for that one.  If you come up with something feel free to leave a comment, I'd like to know.  Then there's my personal favorite, number
4. Thirsty Bitches.  Yes, honey, we all know them, we all love them, some of you are them and I just want to say from the bottom of my heart, you're out of control, go sit the fuck down.  So a Thirsty Bitch is a person who is so starved for attention they will 'bait' their FB friends with various posts.  They really want somebody to either tell them they are attractive/sexy, feel sorry for them, think they're super amazing, defend them, etc.  Sidebar: if upon reading #4 you suddenly find yourself formulating a response, what you're actually doing is building a defense, because you're guilty.  True story.  These are the FB friends with whom you wouldn't spend any actual time, even if it was the good end of a plea bargain.  The FB friends who's posts immediately cause a compulsive eye roll.  The ones you judge relentlessly for a myriad of reasons.  Examples?  Sure!  a) being fat and posting stupid shit like #thinkingthin on Monday, then on Tuesday "dinner was on point today! Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cole slaw, baked beans, corn bread, bacon wrapped shrimp fried in Crisco, mac n cheese, pizza rolls, ice cream cake with banana pudding and cinnamon rolls"   b) posting an obviously filtered Instagram selfie captioned "No Make-Up"   c) the top of her page says she's in a relationship but her timeline is mostly selfies with her office ass on the bathroom sink (where her kid brushes her teeth BTW) with one hand in her hair and her Duck Face on, because every guy likes a squishy-ass platypus.  Classy d) The lonely heart: "Why is it so hard to find a good man/woman??"  eHarmony is pennies a day people.  The point is, these FB friends usually provide some level of entertainment value, and almost always make me feel better about myself in comparison.  I know, I know, that's awful. I don't care.  Sometimes Jonas and I will sit and thumb through our newfeeds and laugh at the #4's together.  On several occasions he has walked clear across the house with the sole purpose of telling me about a #4 and he always starts the conversation with "Did you see what this bitch posted?!"  So thank you for providing quality time with my boyfriend.  It's really enriched our relationship.  Like, legit.

So, back to my original point: the Facebook Paradox of defining a 'friend' doesn't exist in any other application of the word.  A similar paradox may be found when attempting to identify a colleague; a "work friend".  In adulthood we adopt the term acquaintance in an effort to compartmentalize the relationships we have that are impersonal.  But to label a person as any kind of "friend" would suggest a personal relationship.  In the movie "You've Got Mail" Joe Fox (Tom Hanks) defends the corporate take-over of Kathleen Kelly's (Meg Ryan) book store with the old adage "It's not personal; it's business."  Her response? "Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal."  Classic.  So I started to think about the 472 "friends" I've chosen to connect with on Facebook.  How many have I chosen to connect with personally?  How many would I willingly donate a kidney to?  How many would I invite to my wedding?  A dinner party?  Coffee?  And the cold hard truth is; not many.  I have a slight twinge of guilt in my heart parts but the reality is that most people feel the same way.  

Why?  Because its just Facebook.  

I think I read somewhere once that it began as a platform for students of universities to share knowledge, ideas, research findings, etc.  Now it's where I go when I'm bored to see if my favorite Thirsty Bitches are still struggling for a drink.  They are, by the way, I just checked.  FB introduced to me the single greatest time wasting mechanism known to man; Candy Crush.  FB allows me to KIT with the people who told me to in my year book.  It's where I go to brag on my kids, share stories of subjects I'm passionate about, rally support of life changing decisions, catch up with people I love but can never seem to make time for.  I connected with each of these 472 people for a reason.  Either because I love them, I like them, I respect them or I really really really enjoy judging them.  But I don't feel bad about that; every time I update my status I'm subjecting myself to those same judgments from those same 472 "friends."

So to my 472; if you're a #1, I love you, and I'm so grateful that we have a way of staying connected on a daily basis.  If you're a #2, I have some thoughts on Clay Aiken's political campaign I'll be sharing later this week.  If you're a #3, I'm either going to start connecting with you, or set you free.  And if you're a #4, stay Thirsty, Bitches.

Is This Real Life?

I wonder sometimes, especially when I'm observing nouns (you know: people, places, things), if I've become prematurely old.  I recently watched the Grammy's with my bestie Lee Lee and I found myself repeatedly shaking my head in disapproval of the nouns on the television.  The mustache on the guy from F.U.N., the Smokey The Bear Hat swallowing Pharrell William's head, every single thing Lorde did, wore, said.  Watching these beautiful, young, talented, probably rich celebrities doing and saying and wearing things that I'm sure are very trendy I just kept thinking to myself: Is this real life?

Like, is this a real thing? Wearing some weird frost-bite style black shit all around the tips of all your fingers?  Is this what people do now?  Because....no.

This shit.

And it isn't just fashion and pop culture that has me feeling like a fossil.  It's the behavior of the younger people I'm around.  I overheard a conversation the other day between two late-teen-early-twenty-something ladies (really sweet girls) who, according to them, really need to start going to church to "find a guy that's not into Molly's".  Yeah, because Match.com ain't got nothin' on Jesus, and every guy who isn't in whatever church you grace with your ulterior motive is a Molly poppin' douche.  Is this real life?

Maybe my problem isn't age related.  I mean, I'm only 31.  Sure, I can't climb a flight of stairs without cussing and panting, but we'll blame that shit on Marlboros, fat cells and gravity.  And maybe I have a few wrinkles and a suspicious looking "freckle" (because the word mole isn't in my vocabulary).  Maybe I shouldn't judge at all.  It's a sweet notion, but this is true story, not a meme about being a better person so save that shit for Pinterest.

I don't know how I've made it to this point in my life still clinging to my wide-eyed wonder of all things ridiculous.  You would think that at this point I would be pretty jaded, maybe a bit bitter.  But no, I'm still fairly surprised at the stupid/frustrating/outrageous shit I see and hear.  The chubby bastard from North Korea who, for the record, if spotted at the mall on a random Sunday would easily be mistaken for a 17 year old, blows my freakin mind!  His insane sense of entitlement and violent tenancies have me completely baffled.  Seriously, is this real life?  Then Dennis Rodman decides to be his BFF?  Like, legit?

A heavily trafficked freeway in my home town gets a brand new sign with a two-foot typo.  Come on, people!  Every single effin time I open a 2 liter of Dr. Pepper it explodes.  What?!  I can't substitute white cheddar bites for fries at Zaxby's because their register doesn't support that function.  Are you joking?!

But in all my frustration, when I really think about it, I guess I'm kinda grateful that I can still be surprised.  Like when my kid brings her already good grades up to great grades.  Or when I'm cramming to get work done and feeling stressed and incapable Jonas sends me a pic of our kids being ridiculously cute.

Being caught off guard isn't always a bad thing.  Sometimes, its exactly what I need.

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.

Like, legit.

Lets start by laying the ground-work.  As I'm writing this hullabaloo I am 31, I have an 8 year old daughter, a live-in boyfriend who has an 8 year old son and we collectively (really mostly me) care for a stupid cat named Tyson.  I landed my dream job just a couple months ago, we have a cute house in a sleepy subdivision and my kitchen table is gorgeous.  Who says 'you can't have it all'?

Jonas (that's the boyfriend) and I just wrapped up Round 1 of the January Semi-Professional Mortal Kombat I Love You But Hate Your Face tournament.  I won on a technicality (I got the last word as I walked out of the room).  'What were we fighting about?', you ask: my dad called me today to tell me that he loves me, worries about me and to remind me that geographical distance can't hinder his ability to be there "in a split second" whenever I call.  So, obviously, Jonas needed to know that he is failing as a human being because he has never said those exact words to me.  Like, legit.

Sigh.

Dad also mentioned that our neighbor of 20-some-odd years died last night.  Still not sure how I feel about that one.  I'm supposed to be sad on some level because I've known her since I was 5, right?  I'm supposed to be happy on some level because she's now "at peace".  Right?  Maybe I'm supposed to feel some balanced mixture of the two?  I don't know.  Mostly I just feel satisfied that after my glorious (technical) victory over my arch-soul-mate-nemesis he helped me trouble-shoot an issue with the intranet I'm developing for work.

So that's our pattern; Jonas and I.  One of us picks a fight by throwing an emotional grenade.  The other matches the effort with snide rapid-fire sarcasm.  Then we go toe to toe, matching volume, hand-gestures, eye-rolling, mocking, name-calling and smug dismissal of each others' perspective.  Then I go smoke cigarettes and he eats Vienna sausages and we meet up later to laugh about the crazy shit we said.  It's pretty awesome.  Like, legit.

But I spoke the truth today.  Jonas has never once said "Hey, I just want you to know that I care about you, and that if you need me just call me and I'll be there."  He never calls to check on me or asks how I'm doing.  When I hung up with my dad I felt a sting in my heart parts because I can't remember the last time Jonas said "I love you" first.  I stewed in that for a good 5 hours at work.  Mulling over in my head all the awesome things Jonas never says.  "You look great!"  "Dinner was delicious."  "I'm proud of you/your work/your painting/the Christmas tree."  Nope.  I get the pleasure of hearing crap like "Your head is massive."  "It's chicken, you really can't fuck that up."  "Babe I don't give a shit about what happens at your work."  Like, legit.

What do you mean he sounds like an asshole?!?  Rubbish. (tehehe)  It's true.  He sounds like an asshole.  What's that other over-used phrase?  "Actions speak louder than words."  Yep.

So here I sit, smoking cigarettes at my gorgeous kitchen table while he eats aged cheddar in the bedroom (we're out of the sausages).  And I'm feeling that all-too-familiar sting in my heart parts.  This one's guilt.   When Jonas says "Your head is massive," he's usually stroking my hair and giving me this coy half-smile that sets off the butterflies in my stomach.  At dinner today when he said "It's chicken, you really can't fuck that up," he was headed to the stove for seconds.  And when he said "Babe I don't give a shit about what happens at your work," he meant it.  And I'm cool with that, because the last thing I want to hear about after my long day, is yours.  Like, legit.