Your daily distraction 4/13/15 | Family dynamics

The backstory on the relaunch of A Wooden Nickel: I read so very many articles on the interwebs and want to start a daily link share. Today's posts all revolved around parenting (and frankly, some family dysfunction) so I went with it. In the future, I think it'll just be a collection of unrelated stuff I come across. Stay tuned as I shake out all the glitches.

I laughed out loud when I read the headline of this New York Times article. I'm forever grateful that my parents were so focused on keeping four kids alive and advancing their own careers that they never memorized my class syllabuses (syllabi is a hyper-correction, FYI) or rewrote my papers.

When Leaning In gets you nowhere: the (female) face and workhorse behind one of the most successful car dealers in the country got skipped over when her dad retired and left the business to his two sons. Infuriating doesn't even begin to describe this story.

On the opposite end of the parenting spectrum is this talented mother who photographs her daughters being fearless in a series she calls Strong is the New Pretty. The older I get, the more scared I get about trying new things. These photos are a fantastic reminder to stop worrying and start breaking new ground.

My friend Marie's beautiful niece, Hazel, had various complications at birth. Here is her Caring Bridge site. If you have a chance to read the journal and send positive thoughts to these first-time parents, please do so. #PrayersforHazel

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Remembering Paul Robert Delmore | 1952 - 2014

My very beloved uncle Paul passed away just over one year ago, and I think of him constantly. I was honored to give his eulogy last year and have been asked several times for a copy. While I certainly don't mind sending hard copies around, I'm also posting it here for posterity.



Paul Robert Delmore
April 29, 1952 - March 31, 2014


Because he spent his adult life a plane ride away, my family has spent the last 40 years waiting for my Uncle Paul to come home. And when Paul finally arrived for a holiday or gathering, two things always happened.

First, you heard his voice. It was an invitation - deep and booming, but impossibly warm. Every word had an air of bravada, as though he should be on stage instead of in your living room.

Then you’d make eye contact with him. And as he beelined toward you for a hug, Paul’s eyes crinkled around the corners, and twinkled wildly. Despite his rich Florida tan, he was still Irish in every way.

And that was when the landscape changed. He was not a performer after all, he was your adored - and adoring - son, brother, uncle, cousin, friend. The ultimate conversationalist, cheerleader, co-consipirator. Even when you hadn’t seen him in months, Paul didn’t bother with small talk. He always started five questions in, referencing small details that he’d heard from others while trying to draw out new information. In a word, Paul wanted to know *everything.*

In fact, my mom Sheila remembers her parents, Bob and Margaret, saying that when Paul was born, that little babe craned his neck around to see the world he had just come into. He was taking it in, and he continued to take it in. Paul was extremely observant - he saw it all, commented on it all, and had strong opinions of how things should be.

As the Delmore children - Kathy, Paul, Dan and Sheila - grew up, the most important value instilled by my grandparents was the notion that you are kind and welcoming to everyone. Paul took this to heart more than anyone. I’m sure all of us here today can think of many times where his thoughtfulness made a difference. It could have been an unexpected postcard that served as a day brightener, or a long phone call where he reminded you how great our capacity to love really is. Paul always knew what to say.

He had a genuine interest in people, and he was well-served in this regard by another Delmore trait, the steel trap memory. Paul never forgot a face, detail, name or relation, allowing him to make connections where no one else could, even decades after the fact.

Together, this true love of people and his memory, made Paul the greatest storyteller most of us have ever known. Delmore family gatherings always included stories from days long since past - growing up on Salem Avenue, attending Most Holy Trinity or Benilde High School, stories of local shops, shopkeepers, neighbors, fellow churchgoers and friends.

No one thrived on those memories more than Paul. In fact, if someone brought up a story blurred by the years, Paul was not afraid to interrupt with the long-forgotten details. It usually went something like this: “How can you not remember that the neighbor’s cousin’s best friend’s niece was also the cashier at Warner’s Hardware in the summer of 1972?” It wasn’t only that he remembered, it was that he was incredulous that this information wasn’t stored in everyone’s memory for easy access. And so he stood there, his voice eclipsing the original storyteller’s as he mimicked the exact original quotes, in the exact original voices, of every bit player in the story. By then, his perfect, unique and contagious laugh would set in and soon it would overtake the room. And the stories would continue all afternoon, making it all the more difficult when he left for Florida. We would have to wait until his next visit to get to return to that level of belly laughter.

Paul spent much of his life in service to others. He was humbled by the idea of making someone’s day better or brighter, and he did so in his personal life but also for many years as a flight attendant for Delta Airlines and the job he held after his retirement. He had an uncanny ability to make people feel welcome, and important - which was recognized by Delta executives who promoted him into first class service almost immediately. Beyond this, his over-the-call-of-duty approach was greatly appreciated by the regulars he served and came to know on his flights over the years.

In short, people felt cared for in his presence. He was truly devoted to his parents, with whom he talked every day on the phone - if not multiple times a day. Despite the geographic distance, Paul remained an incredible caretaker to them. He bookmarked news items he knew his parents would want to talk about, and always had a treasure trove of anecdotes to share with them. But the truth is, the content of the conversation didn’t matter as much as the fact that he was calling - their chats with Paul were the highlight of their day. Because of his easy ability to travel, he also came to town for the big events and often for no reason at all. Over the last few years, he has generously chauffered my grandparents around town to go to dinner or to take them on long drives around their old neighborhoods.

The second best example of his caring spirit was that Paul - not once but twice in his lifetime - became the adoptive dog father of a dachsund. Pepper, in his childhood, and “Doggy” over the last ten years or so in Fort Lauderdale. While both dogs had perfectly decent families attending to them, they met Paul and their lives were never the same. If you heard anyone else tell that story, it would have seemed crazy - but when you knew Paul, it made perfect sense that the dogs had chosen him, and that the request had been honored by all parties.

The fast-changing world was difficult for Paul to accept. He would be the first person to say he didn’t like computers or cell phones, but I think what he truly didn’t like was how they changed people. Paul loved to make connections, to strike up conversations and offer his quick, quirky wit to strangers. And so as everyone started to quicken their pace, and spend more time looking at their phones than the world around them, Paul was dismayed to lose what he considered to be a pillar of the human condition. The power that comes from a random shared experience with a stranger who becomes a friend, if only for a moment.

The great mystery of Paul’s life, and now his death, is that he was able to show staggering levels of love, selflessness and kindness to everyone he met, but unable to give himself that same level of care. And so as we put him to rest, we ask that you remember the lessons he put on display for us everyday.

Be there for people, and love them. Show them they are important, by asking the questions no one else would, and not judging them for their answers. It may be that you have to put intention behind it. It may be that you have to slow down. But you will find that by offering kindness, it will be returned to you.

And when that kindness is returned, know that you are deserving of it. Recognize your value, and recognize that you are in fact invaluable. Know that those whom you love, love you back. Do not be ashamed or afraid to ask for what you need from them. Do not be afraid to be who you are. And know that who you are is enough. In fact it, it has always been more than enough.

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Maintenance

It's time to admit to you guys that I grew up in a broken home.

Wait wait. My parents are still together, and they're pretty much obsessed with one another.

But everything in their house is broken, and has been for quite some time.

Issue 1:  Lightbulbs burn out, and aren't replaced - including in the refrigerator, which has been void of wattage for at least six years now.
Back story:  Bulbs burn out at an alarming rate in that house, even though electricians have said we don’t have faulty wiring. We choose to blame the ghosts of my paternal grandparents, because a psychic once told my aunt that they were fighting for my dad's affection from the grave.

Issue 2: For a few months, we had an enormous piece of hockey tape holding the dryer door on after a screw fell off.
Lame excuse: No one could find the number for the home warranty hotline. Once that was located, no one wanted to stay home for the repair appointment window.

Issue 3: Any time a printer is needed, it requires a 45-minute process of downloading drivers, adjusting settings, shaking print cartridges, and screaming at my father, an IT guru who is somehow rendered useless when the technology is coming from inside the house.
What gives? Nothing. I think my dad is just sick of fixing stuff by the time he gets home.

__

In short, we’re not so good at maintenance. As an adult, I'm realizing I'm also a hot mess.

Rather than labeling my mailbox as directed, I waited until the mail carrier wrote a threatening letter to me seven months after move-in. (I didn’t have any tape.)

One month after we started dating, Jeff forcefully drove Suze the Subaru to AutoZone to see why my check engine light was on. What were you going to do?  he asked incredulously. Just drive it until it blew up?!

NO. I said calmly. I was going to drive her until the light went back OFF, as it has several times before.

(This was not the answer he was looking for.)

Anyway, I turn 28 tomorrow. And this shall be a year of maintenance, people. I will back my phone up to the Cloud. I will sew the buttons back onto my favorite fall coat, which I wore last year as an open blazer. I will permanently fix the piece of plastic that falls onto my passenger’s laps when I drive Suze.

Mark my words. I’m pulling it together. Just as soon as I can figure out which computer I last backed up to six months ago.

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Beautifully Different (Reverb10, Day 8)

December 8 – Beautifully Different
Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful. (Author: Karen Walrond)

__________

Hey at least our prompts are lightening up, eh gang? Is anyone else noticing there is NO ROOM FOR SARCASM IN THIS CHALLENGE?? I’m gasping for air here, people.

Now that I’ve got that out, I think I can start. What makes me different is that I’m the catalyst for weird within my friend group. I reflected on this on Mother’s Day, when I shared that my strangeness is a direct result of growing up in a family where goofiness was currency. Until I was a teenager, I assumed everyone’s dad had an original song they sang to their mom (my dad’s being “Boooootiful Sheera (broken English for Beautiful Sheila), you’re so cuuuuuuuuute!”) when she was yelling at a gaggle of children not to eat an entire box of fruit snacks in one day.
Turns out, it was just my family.

It probably would have been easier not to make up nicknames, songs, words and ‘bits’ (Tali and I being the transgender lesbian moms of our adopted son, Joel, being the best and longest running) to keep myself occupied. Looking back, however, I can’t think of a time where my proclivity towards kook has resulted in negativity. I could just be oblivious but I prefer to think that most people are weird and afraid to own it. When they see people acting like fools, almost all appreciate the silliness and some take it as a much-needed invitation to let their freak flags fly.

Now, as an adult, originality is a spark for everything I do well – coaching, writing for my company as well as this blog, being a good friend, keeping my sanity in moments of high pressure and chaos. I’m so glad that as a kid my parents were never the ones hissing in the grocery store “Can you just act normal for once?!”

I think they knew they didn't have a leg to stand on.

Bootiful Sheera and John, Halloween 2010

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Between a rerun and another war

I attended a DFL rally this weekend with my mom and youngest brother. In addition to hearing from MN Senators Amy Klobuchar and Al Franken and Democratic candidate for governor Mark Dayton, we saw President Obama speak.

The speeches were all eloquent and the tone was highly charged – though it switched from offense to defense more than I’d like. In all, though, what affected me the most didn’t happen when I was listening to the politicians I voted for two or four years ago. It was in the five hour line that preceded the rally itself that I saw both the best and worst of politics taking place.

The worst
Early on, we ran into a woman handing out antagonistic flyers. My mom, annoyed by this first woman, refused another further down the way. She assumed this lady was also a Tea Party-esque protester when in fact, she was passing out flyers regarding peace policies and shutting down Guantanamo Bay. She nearly sneered at my mom and began lecturing her until we were able to move past. My mom, slightly bewildered, said to me, “It’s just so hard to know what they stand for, and if you’re really on their side or not, when they’re so angry.” She was right. Politicos often become so enveloped by their cause that they are embittered; anyone who isn’t standing on the front lines is an enemy instead of a potential supporter. From the outside, it’s easy to diagnose their policies’ inevitable failures as self-fulfilling prophecies- their bubbling rage the nail in the coffin. It was so frustrating to see my mom’s confusion. Why is this woman, who I ultimately agree with, yelling at me?

The best
A group of women dressed like psychotic roosters (The Radical Roosters, their jackets said) paraded down the line squawking and holding up signs that said ‘No More Wars!’. A 10-year-old boy standing in front of us pointed them out to his dad, who was wearing a US Armed Forces jacket. His dad agreed that they were funny, then gave a short age-appropriate lesson on the importance of looking at all sides of an issue. I texted myself some of the better parts of his mini-speech and it went something like this:

“You’re right, they do look pretty funny huh? I don’t agree with what they’re doing though. They are saying that we should stop all wars but it’s not so easy as that. You can’t just dress up in a funny costume and make demands. I was over in Iraq and Afghanistan, remember? And I know that those countries needed us, they needed my unit to help them at least for awhile. War isn’t something that you can just say, let’s never do that again. You have to think about what’s at risk if you do go to war or if you don’t. For every big decision that politicians or militaries have to make, you can’t just rely on a cool sign and a costume. You have to really think about everyone who will be affected. Do you understand?”

The dad and son continued to talk, as I continued to creep on them and listen to the best parenting lesson I’ve ever witnessed firsthand. I reminded myself that my interest in politics shouldn’t be rooted in anger towards people like Michele Bachmann, or in loving support of every syllable that comes out of Al Franken’s mouth. It should be in the policies and the consequences of the policies that these elected officials enact. Not exactly a new thought, I know- but it’s hard to keep this in perspective between the mud-slinging and theatrics of election season.

In fact, only 24 hours after I made my ‘look at the gray area’ vow, I made a really snotty remark about the Republican candidate for Governor. Tom Emmer has a history of drinking and driving, as do several people who have worked on his campaign. When I casually referenced this as a reason not to vote for him, my friend called me on it. He asked me what that had to do with his candidacy or ability to run a state. He was right. (Sort of.) I had pulled a “Radical Rooster” without meaning to, and I apologized before stating my real opinion. I think Tom Emmer would make a terrible governor for a thousand reasons that have nothing to do with his inability to call a taxi after hitting the bar.

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Turn Around, Bright Eyes

Growing up, my parents nixed all expensive extracurriculars. As a result, I've never learned to ski, golf, or play tennis. I never went to overnight camp. Instead, I spent my summers putting on backyard carnivals, the finale of which was a one-woman acrobatic show that culminated in a forward diving somersault from the A-frame of the jungle gym. When that wrapped up for the season, I started a calligraphy business- my best seller was a neon sign that proudly proclaimed "God Bless This Mess!" in what I called 'Victorian script'. When a friend recently told me he once spent a summer building a to-scale replica of the Chicago skyline, I totally knew where he was coming from. I'd spent an entire childhood learning how to entertain myself.

I love the way I grew up and I wouldn't change any of it to have attended hourly lessons at a country club or make lanyards at Camp Hochiwaka. Yet every once in a while, I'm reminded that my upbringing puts me at a bizarre disadvantage. Like today, when I had to go on a golf outing for work, which I'd completely forgotten about until I showed up at the office this morning.

There I was, taking my first ever swing right off the tee, in front of co-workers I've known for exactly two weeks. Good times.

It was in this moment that I cursed my parents- first for getting my mom's utter lack of athletic ability, second for not ever having been brought to a driving range. Then I cursed myself for forgetting about the outing.

Then I started to pay attention instead of thinking of all the people I wanted to curse, because in my usual daydream state I putted the first hole with my 7 iron. Which was actually not the most embarrassing moment of the day- that came when I hit my head on the golf cart as I got in. Two different times. Ask to see my bruise if you are wondering if this entry is purely hyperbolic.

Before you start wondering if my co-workers now hate me, or just feel bad for me, I should mention I lucked out because one of them was also a first-time golfer and the other was skilled but not at all judgmental. Plus...

Something happened on hole four- I hit the ball on the first try, and it went sailing IN THE AIR instead of skipping like a smooth rock across the water as all my others had. It went pretty far, too- the hole was a par-4 so I didn't hit the green but I did stay right in the center of the fairway. In the end, it was the best shot of the day for our group. A sigh of relief, as always, in these situations- I'd just hoped to be pass-able.

Much like my calligraphy sign business, my day job is to find the right words for the right moments. Like my one woman carnival show, my night job now is to pick the best combination of music, costumes, and choreography. It's impossible to not see the parallels between the five-year-old me and the adult me; the life I'm mapping out now is perhaps just a more lucrative, adult version of the one I started twenty years ago. I'm grateful I learned early who I was, and why it was important for me to stay equal parts word nerd and bedazzled spinning top.

I'm grateful I learned when to laugh at myself, when to take pride in myself, and how to remain unscathed by moments that others would find embarrassing.

Most of all, I'm grateful my parents never splurged on a video camera so there is no evidence of me bossing around my light man (neighbor) as I walked across the stage (backyard) in a gold leotard and fringed skirt to begin my opening number, a Total Eclipse of the Heart/Toni Braxton mash-up.

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Hodge Podge

I have a lot of material left over from the alphabet blogging challenge- half-typed posts saved as email drafts and the like. As that challenge put me over the edge on blogging and I'm now detoxing from the intense pressures I felt for a full month, enjoy some miscellaneous thoughts that weren't worthy of their own posts.

Name:

For all of 4th grade, I signed my name "Regina". Every paper, spelling test. I even got my gym teacher to write it on my Presidential Fitness Certificate. I thought it was extremely regal, and I also wanted to personally use the expression 'I usually go by my nickname'... which would have been my given name, Gina.

Over the years, people have additionally been shocked to hear that my full name isn't Virginia.

I came home excited in 5th grade to share that my name was in the word "original" and told my mom that it was going to inspire me to be my most original self. (She was very bemused at my early life-coach tendencies, if I remember her reaction correctly.)

I was slightly less enthusiastic when I hit "Family Life" class in junior high and the boys delighted in telling me that my name was not-so-well-hidden in the word for the lady nether-regions.

Vocabulary:

My dad had to miss my brother's first baseball game of the season because he was traveling. That night I listened to my mom give him a Dick Bremer-esque recap of every inning. It was unbelievable, if only because my mom seems to never know the specifics when she is at the game. One time, after witnessing a pitcher's sidearm style, she said "Oh, ISH." Apparently when she's attending by proxy and knows she'll be quizzed, she can give details like:

• They finally put T in a the mound, and he removed all doubt. 5 Ks in the first 2 innings, then another in the 3rd.
• Once he came out though, the other team's bats really started going. They were just rocking CC. And every hit to the gap- at least 4 runs scored in one inning. Just brutal.
• We were able to come back because they kind of fell apart in the 6th, a few errors and a pitcher that couldn't hit the third strike walked a few guys on full count.
• T hit a blooper but it was good enough to round in N from 3rd due to an overthrow
• Overall, it was a good game but it would've been a whole different game if we could get rid of these hometown umps.

I had my computer right by me so I could type her rant as I laughed hysterically. She definitely didn't absorb this much knowledge at the 12 years of dance competitions she attended.

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Equality

E is for equality. I have one of these on my back bumper:

At my brother's grad party, a relative asked what I was driving and when I pointed to my car, she responded:

"No, not that one there. Not the one with the GAY sticker?"

"Yes, with the gay sticker." - me

"Oh dear!" - relative

"Wait, wait you have a rainbow sticker on your car?"- another relative

"No. It's an equal sign sticker. It's for equality." - me

"It may as well be a rainbow sticker. But I guess this just looks cooler, huh?" - relative

Sweet mother was it hard to hold my tongue. Yes, the equal sign appeals to me because it's subtle and aesthetically pleasing. I would probably not put this bumper sticker on my car:

Sadly, not a real bumper sticker

But I believe everything that it says is true, and that there are a lot of other laws and ordinances still standing that should be overturned simply because they go against the assertion that all men are created equal, and thereby deserve equal rights under the law.

Moreover, I sport that bumper sticker in the hopes that people who oppose homosexuality will begin to realize that their neighbors and beloved relatives are members of the LGBT community not by choice but by birth.

Harvey Milk said of coming out, "The first step is always hostility, and after that you can sit down and talk about it." I hope that can translate to simple discussions surrounding the issue- and I think it can.

Here's hoping that at our next family gathering, I can muster up the strength to continue the dialogue I started. I might need a glass of wine for courage.

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Bonding

B is for bonding. J and I aren't exactly waifs, but we realistically deferred to boyfriends, dads, and brothers for the heavy lifting of oak dressers, oversized chairs, and our 2-ton pull-out-couch during the move-in process. This would be commendable on any day, but it was especially impressive on the hottest day of the summer so far. Post-schlepping, there were many adorable handshakes and pats on the back. Meanwhile, our moms were also assisting and mostly just commenting on how cute everything was.

"LOOK at that painting. Just look at it. It was made for this apartment. I just can't get over it. Sheila, come look at this."

"Oh my GAWD, Dianne. Can you believe it?! Oh you girls, you're just going to have so much fun here. Don't you wish you could live like this again?! Oh my word...." Etc. etc.

The dudes held the furniture together, and the moms held each other together. They're both pretty sentimental and I think otherwise would have been crying about the loss of their only daughters to the big bad city.

Then, J and I bonded by unpacking and assembling crappy Target furniture for 3 days in 90-degree heat, without air conditioning. It was one of those "Ain't nobody gonna break my stride" kind of weekends, where we were too excited to dream of complaining that we might get heat stroke and pass out in the comfort of our own home.

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Smile upon your face, welcome to the human race

Things I love today:

1. This website that tells you if it's time to drink iced coffee yet.

2. The new Jeremy Messersmith album which you can download at your own price here.

iTunes informs me that I've listened to each of the songs on this album 15-55 times in the 2 weeks since I purchased it. The obsession is in full force and I wish I had self-control because soon I'll hit the moment where I shelve it for a year because I'm so sick of it I could die.

3. Outdoor professional baseball at Target Field. The game on Friday night was EPIC. The hot dogs were, too.

4. It's finally sundress season. I feel approximately 95% cuter during sundress season.

5. In the 5 hours I hung out with my excessively demonstrative extended family today, I was told I was loved at least 15 times. Sometimes you just need to be hugged until you can barely breathe.

6. In approximately 40 hours I will be attending James Taylor and Carole King in concert with my parents. My excitement level is somewhere between Election Night '08 and the Christmas where I got the Barbie Dreamhouse with a working dumbwaiter. Prepare yourselves for the most enthusiastic post of all time on Tuesday evening.

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Off the rails on a crazy train

I was lame and didn’t blog about my dear old Ma on Mother’s Day. Hoping the ‘better late than never’ sentiment applies...

If you know my mom and I in real life, then you know that we’re pretty tight, and also freakishly similar. I’m glad that I have always taken it as a compliment when people remark on our shared personality traits, or my adolescence would have been insufferable.

I’ve mentioned before that my mom likes to make up her own words and pass them off in casual conversation- which has often lead to many fits of hysterical laughter when I repeat them unknowingly around my friends.

Last year while wrapping a gift, I tore the paper and had to tape it back into place. It looked a little shitty but I left it, knowing it was going to be ripped open an hour later anyway.

“Alexsonder Good-E-Nof” I said in a slight Eastern European accent after surveying the damage.

“EXCUSE ME?!” was Joel’s response.

It turns out that not everyone’s mom calls satisfactory things by the name of a fake Bulgarian diplomat. Seriously, who knew?

In 40 years when my brothers and I remember our childhoods I know we’ll think of her much-deserved rise up the corporate ladder and her dedication to attending every sporting event and dance competition on our family calendar. Mostly though, I know we’ll remember her coming up the stairs yelling out our goofy 10-syllable nicknames (Gina-Bo-Bina-Lo-Lina-Fo-Fina is mine...) in a sing song voice at 7 AM.

Once, a new-ish friend said to me, “I was NEVER weird before I met you.” I relayed this on to my mom, saying “You made me this way.”

She shrugged and said unapologetically, “Well yeah, but what’s the fun in being normal?"

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And I'll lead you all in the dance, said he

Happy Easter! My cousin read out of the children's Bible today and said "Then Jesus went to Pilates (pronounced like the popular yoga-esque exercise)". She's 31. We're pretty die-hard around here.

Today I 'read' the recipe for my mom's famous holiday potatoes. If you think the recipe, below, seems too easy and want an additional challenge, you should try making it while your dad is assembling a brand-new toilet in the bathroom one room over (naturally, ours broke down yesterday in anticipation of the 25 people we invited over for Easter), your mom is glazing a ham a foot to your right, and assorted brothers are screaming about video games, coffee preferences, and the Duke game last night. And a semi-blind (due to a poor haircut, not old age) dog is meandering underfoot, attempting to knock you off balance every chance she gets.

Sheila Mo-Patty's Potatoes

• 1 pkg Ore Ida Hash Brown Potatoes
• 2 cups shredded swiss cheese
• 1 pint heavy whipping cream
• paprika and salt to taste

Line bottom of 9 1/2" X 13" pan with the hash browns. Sprinkle cheese liberally over them. Ditto with the entire container of whipping cream. Salt and paprika on top. Cook in the oven at 350 for 90 minutes. Spend the next week trying to get your arteries back on track.

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Family Ties

Quick post today- what were we all thinking, starting this challenge on Easter weekend?! Too many people to see...

I love the NYT's Modern Love column. You can read the archives here.

This week's article is by a woman who found out in adulthood that her dad had two families- he was married to her mother, and also with another woman with whom he had two daughters.

Some of the story is expected- the second wife was his much-younger secretary, and she lived in Ecuador where he did much of his business (so there wasn't any real danger of overlapping). Other parts seemed strange- he drove the same car as he did in the author's childhood, had pictures of his other family on similar vacations to the ones he took the author and her sisters on. Rather than escaping his first family, it seemed like he just recreated it.

I'm sure the family dynamics differed, as did his private relationships with his wives. And perhaps his keeping so many things constant was just a skeezy way of making sure he didn't slip up- Remember the white Range Rover we had? being a question both women could answer.

Or perhaps he felt he could justify his behavior if he gave the families similar experiences. To have favored one family with a vacation and not the other would have been him choosing sides. In came "separate but equal"- a notion that we all know fails miserably every time. It did here, too- by making the author realize that her life was not only hers, but shared with 3 other people who she doesn't even know.

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A distant motorcade... and suddenly, there's joy

This week marks the one year mark of my return to Minnesota after 4 years of college in Madison, WI. As my seven diligent readers know, it's been a rough year. In all fairness it's been a bipolar year more than anything else.

I've been beaten up by a seemingly endless job search, only to be rewarded with a job 100 times better than all the ones that turned me down. I've missed my Madison friends and roommates more than I ever imagined, while spending time with the people who first made me who I am. I've been confused over a breakup that, for some reason or another, took a different trajectory than the ones in which I have previously participated. I've been tossed back into single-dom, a place I haven't been in well over 2 years. I've been trying to become a full-fledged member of my immediate family while simultaneously trying to hold fast to my independence. I've lived one final year alongside someone I know came to me by an act of divine intervention five years ago.

Here are a few things that have been keeping me busy, rejuvenating me and making me feel like I’m finally getting it together:

Dance
Perhaps the most exciting news I have is that I'm going to be a dance team coach at my high school this year. After a slight fear that my full-time job was too chaotic and unpredictable to take on a second, I was assured by several co-workers this week that I too deserve a work-life balance. As my first duty, I went to freshman orientation last week (alone!) to give a short spiel on our team to the incoming students. The mini speech went fine- it's easy to talk up a team that gave me confidence and leadership skills when I needed them the most.

As I drove out of the parking lot after the short meeting, I was cat-called by a small group of the freshman boys I had just spoken to in the audience. I pretended to ignore them, impatiently fumbling with my music selection as one of them knocked on my hood as a last-ditch attempt to get my attention.

I'm glad to know that high school boys haven't changed in the last ten years, actually. I want to find the smart but amiable freshman girls on my team and warn them: Do not flirt with the freshman football player with an earring, who is from the suburbs but thinks Tupac understands him best. His mom picks out his clothes. He'll ask to copy your homework, and then he'll lose it. After all your trouble, he'll end up dating the girl on the volleyball team that makes out with guys in the hidden hallway on the 3rd floor.

I want to tell them but I know that they all have to experience it firsthand. I hope, as in my case, that they come out on the other end of high school bent but not broken.

Block
Every day that I log into Facebook, the same four or five people bring down my chi with their negative statuses. For some, it's their work or co-workers. I find this to be in extremely poor taste in general, but I also think that anyone with a job right now should realize how lucky they are. Nothing is guaranteed in this marketplace- why give anyone a reason to doubt your loyalty or enthusiasm?

The other, perhaps more obnoxious, contributors to my daily depression are those in tumultuous relationships. I can't imagine trashing my boyfriend one day and then declaring my undying love for him the next, but these people exist. They exist and they NEVER. STOP. POSTING.

Being the good ex-Catholic that I am (I only retained the guilt!) I cannot fathom de-friending them. Most are still within a few degrees of separation and there is the potential that I will see them around town. So, what to do? I blocked those assclowns. They no longer show up on my feed, but are still technically my "friends". It sounds silly, but I cannot tell you what a sense of relief I feel logging in and knowing that I will not be bombarded with rageful traffic updates from a girl who lives ten states away. It is true what they say- negativity breeds negativity. I have no time for these nay-sayers in my new, fabulous life.

Reconnect
I've been lucky enough this year to get back in touch with a few different friends from my past.

Earlier this summer, a friend and I had conflicting plans for Memorial Day weekend and had to drive to a cabin separately from the larger group. Unexpectedly, the 7+ hours of travel proved not to be enough time to discuss our future plans and goals, and what might stand in the way of them. As we segued from self-induced stress to the importance of finding a career that fulfills you without skipping a beat, I realized that I hadn’t had a conversation like this in years. Perhaps, ever. We continue to keep in touch, sharing both insights and music, and I am grateful that our inconvenient scheduling yielded an opportunity to bond over the quiet pressures of being a 20-something with an uncertain future.

A few weeks ago, another friend returned home for law school, and we made plans for dinner. I was ecstatic to see that he’s still brilliant but self-effacing, and has the same wicked sense of humor I remember from when we were kids. Oh, and he came bearing mix CD’s. We have plans to keep exploring the culture of Minneapolis together (it must exist, somewhere deep below the Nickelback concerts and Twilight pre-screenings) and I'm loving that I have a go-to music/politics/societal commentator in my midst again.

On a different but happy note- Teresa also made a quick comeback appearance, in her 2-week overlap between Colombia and Madison. As we sat at dinner, playfully communicating via an “OH REALLY?!” followed by a few eyebrow raises, we busted into giggles. Bobby asks incredulously, “How long were you two roommates?” and we both are still laughing as I say “Three glorious months.” You could chalk up our dynamic to having been raised in parallel environments, or that we are both interested in journalism, writing, and media. I know the truth- that we pretend to be tough but will sob our way through sad movies; that we are sarcastic but know when we’ve gone too far; that we have had the same best friends for decades because we like to grow alongside them rather than replace them. We’re the same in a lot of ways, and to have her even 5 hours away is a great relief.

It’s the beginning of a whole new year, and to a certain extent, a whole new life. My period of maladjustment is coming to a welcome end, and I’m excited to finally be finding the balance between the two very different lives that have been pulling me apart since last May.

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A day late and a dollar short

Years ago, I remember begging my dad for something as he was making up his weekly grocery list. He was refusing to budge, and I was whining. 

"But I WANT it," I moaned for the fourth time.

He continued to gather up his coupons and double check his list, seemingly not paying attention to me as he sang loudly to himself.

"I saw her today at the Re-Cep-SHUNNNN," he warbled off tune. "A glass of wine in her HAY-und."

I stared at him, utterly confused as he continued on with a lyric about a footless man. I thought he was ignoring me until he finally made it to the punchline of his musical joke.

"You CAN'T always GET what you WANNNNT," he sang loudly in his best Stones voice. "I said, YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT!"

I remember laughing hysterically, promising to stop begging if he would just end the impromtu kitchen concert. He didn't. I got full verses, and I think a little air guitar. 

"But if you try sometimes, you just might find (You just might find!) ... you get what you need!" he couldn't help himself as he slammed the front door shut. To this day, I don't think I've ever seen him so pleased with himself. 

I remember thinking I had the coolest dad EVER. Other dads yelled (and mine did too, of course) but they never used classic rock in critical teaching moments. Mine did. 

He also begrudgingly took part in Dad-Daughter performances at the year-end dance recital (ask me for pictures of him dressed as Danny from Grease. So priceless.) When I brought home my first boyfriend, he changed shirts after I told him that his cutoff Adidas basketball tee that reads "Ill Wit Da Pill" might be slightly intimidating. When I was in unemployment hell this fall, he knew when to tiptoe around me and when to give me encouragement.

Happy Father's Day to my wonderful dad- a man as likely to read this blog as Jagger himself.

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Rob ties the knot, we all tie one on

My older brother got married yesterday. I spent the day coming up with these observations, in between well-timed cocktail breaks.

Everyone is given the best chance to be themselves at weddings. Weddings may not bring out the best in everyone (ask me later about a guest named Pigeon), but I think they bring out the truth. Those who come but leave early, right after the dinner and before the real fun starts. Those who do not come at all. Those that groan when the Electric Slide comes on. Those who shake their heads at all the idiots dancing, but never get out there themselves. Those that don't care if they turn the wrong way during the Electric Slide, and those who will remember the horror of that clockwise turn forever.

It brings out the truth in people like my dad, who stoically sat through the ceremony and shot me the look of death when I informed him I needed some drank money. Cut to two hours later, as we confer on the next song to request. His fists raise triumphantly as Sweet Home Alabama came on, he spins me around, and has some pretty sick moves for someone who only dances once every five years. It's surprising only to the people who don't understand that his constant Marine poker face is really a facade for a secretly silly man who kids adore for his spot-on Donald Duck impression.

My mom and Rob dance to James Taylor, and everyone who knows the backstory takes a moment to appreciate the appropriateness of "Shower the People". Mom rocks a gorgeous dress and perfectly coordinated jewelry that belonged to my grandma. She wears uncomfortable shoes for the ceremony, but they are mysteriously missing once the reception starts. She's never been one to subscribe to the "Beauty is Pain" mantra.

My shy younger brother first shocks the crowd by giving a tearjerker speech about his big brother, and then again when he requests a slow song for his girlfriend and him. They spend the rest of the night in a corner talking. It's like every word he's kept in for the first 17 years of his life now can't come out fast enough.

My youngest brother uncharacteristically dances the whole night away, even whipping out the always appropriate Soulja Boy "Superman that Ho" move when prompted. I catch him staring at my middle brother and the gf, and I wonder how he feels about his built-in best friend growing up without warning. He seems to have gotten over it when he sprints across the dance floor and then does a full belly slide perfectly in rhythm with the "ba ba BAAAA" of Sweet Caroline.

Rob shakes the hands of countless uncles, Jill accepts everyone's compliments graciously. They have no problem telling people that the wedding party was late to the reception because we all stopped at our favorite Bloomington sports bar (where they got engaged) for a jagbomb. Jill watches and laughs as Rob relives his club rat days, which is a kinder reaction than some of our conservative relatives have. Even when people aren't watching or clinking their glasses, they cuddle and kiss. The tables and hall are filled with the pink of the wedding, a final and fabulous reminder of the backseat Rob took in the planning of the whole affair.

After spending the ceremony trying to keep the tears from spilling down, I spend the night shaking my ass. I take full advantage of wedding dance etiquette, loving that I don't have to pretend to be sexy or worry about some creeper coming up behind me without warning. It's just me, a cousin or five, and all the Midwestern classic rock favorites. My favorite party animal cousin and I start a well-received Soul Train line.

Pay attention at the next wedding and I think you'll agree with me. There's a difference between your uncle Joe and your uncle Tom, and it is because one of them knows and loves the Macarena. Yes, much of my theory is centered around the drinking and dancing habits of the wedding guests. I never said it was scientific. I just said there's a difference between those who judge the absurdity and those who participate in it. I, for one, plan to be teach my grandkids the Cha Cha slide someday. Hands on your knees, hands on your knees...

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Post-Traumatic Catholic Guilt Syndrome

There was a two year period in my life, ages 8-10, when I genuinely thought I was going to be the next Virgin Mary. It was less of an "I am such a humble servant, guide me" belief and more of an "Okay, fine I'll be ready" situation. Those of you who didn't know this about me must be second guessing my sanity level, but Tal assures me that she went through this same thought process. Between a daily religion class, weekly school mass and Sunday church with the fam, I had learned that Jesus was coming again. From there, I decided there was no one more qualified and deserving of the motherhood position than myself. Can you tell I suffered from a devastating lack of self confidence at this same period in my life?

It all started out with some independent bedtime prayer. Much like I now switch to have my feet at the headboard if I can't sleep, I used to whip in a few Hail Marys if I laid awake for a long time. Eventually this led to me praying every night - one Our Father, One Hail Mary, one to my guardian angel and then all of the intentions to JC. I don't know why I left out the Holy Spirit. I do know that all this prayer led to me believing I was on the verge of being plucked for a big role in the 2nd coming of Christ.

I used to wonder when I stopped the gung-ho Christian thing, and now I wonder if I was ever really on board at all. If my main incentive to pray, even as a second grader, was to secure the world's second virgin birth then I guess I was always skeptical. You can almost visualize my frizzy 90's bangs hiding a sneer, can't you?

There's also the real possibility that I was a just an attention-starved middle child and my strange obsession was nothing more profound than Joel's phase where he damned his brother to hell all the time. We were both middle children desperately seeking attention- self-righteousness guaranteed that we got it. God loves me more than you, even if you came first.

At some point, though, I made the unconscious decision to not be the girl who includes her confirmation name on facebook, and urges you with subtlety to VOTE FOR CHOICE on Election Day by changing her profile pic to a fetus shot. I went to school with her and we learned all the same things- why it didn't take for me, I'll never know. Probably because deep down, she always understood she was not holy enough to be the Virgin Erin. And I was laying in my bed, prematurely gloating about how fantastic it would be to finally get that mandate.

I know I'm terrifying the vast majority of you right now, so let me try to sum up why this has been bothering me lately. I really think that my current lack of religion has nothing to do with a lack of belief in God. It is true, though, that I just can't wrap my head around the God I was raised on. I simply want to believe that God is bigger than the judgmental doctrine, the man in a funny hat who rides in a pimped out glass vehicle, and the nasally off-tune chants of a priest as he breaks the bread. I want devotion for the sake of devotion, not for the promise of a second coming (which I think we can all agree is a good thing, mental health wise).

Abe Lincoln once said, "When I do good, I feel good; when I do bad, I feel bad. That is my religion". It's a nice, simple sentiment but I think I need more than self-gratification and a logical pay-it-forward philosophy. Faith in humanity is good, but I think I could be coaxed to have faith in something unseen.

After a few conversations about this same topic, a girlfriend and I have been testing out new churches for the last month or so. So far we've tried Unitarian Universalist (too chill, but kinda awesome), non-denom megachurch (too big, great sermon), and an Evangelical Lutheran service (jigga what? we're at an evangelical service?! At least we can score some meth and some male hookers!)

We have acknowledged that we are looking for different things, but it's nice to have a "spiritual journey" partner. My main goal is to find somewhere that doesn't make me tune out the minute I hit the pew. Somewhere where the loudest noise of the service isn't everyone putting their kneelers up. Somewhere where the children don't fear the repercussions of disbelief- or aspire to play a large role in the Holy Family. Somewhere where "tolerance" is a four letter word and "acceptance" is the first commandment er, rule. Surely there must be more people out there like me, and they must congregate somewhere every Sunday morning. Oh, and there must be donuts. It wouldn't be church without donuts.

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We're gonna win, Twins, we're gonna scoooore

I just knew this was going to happen. I moved home and tried to keep my identity intact, all while my family looked at me like I was an alien. It may have been the morningstar veggie burgers, the hummus, or skipping out on family pizza night for sushi with the girls. They didn't appreciate me overtaking the fridge, but I've been pretty good at staying strong on the food front.

It's the ESPN front that I'm worried about. My brothers and dad are sports fanatics, and I have unwittingly jumped on board. This week I found myself voluntarily watching Sports Center alone. Upon seeing that the Mets had lost an important game, I silently cheered, knowing that the Brewers' playoff hopes weren't dashed yet. I understood a bad joke an announcer told about the Manning brothers' inconsistency. I read Pete Rose's wikipedia article, found out he had only bet for the Reds, never against them-and decided that he should be in the Hall of Fame. My jaw dropped when I saw that USC had lost to an unranked team in a Thursday night matchup that should have been a cakewalk. I feel confident that I could use the phrase "Manny being Manny" appropriately.

All in all, I am thinking that being knowledgeable about sports could be almost as much fun as celebrity gossip- and ten times more useful. Plus, the discovery of Bill Simmons has made me realize that you can use all kinds of pop culture references to better understand professional sports.

What clinched this renewed interest in sports was going to the Twins game on Thursday. Not just any Twins game, mind you- the third and final game of their sweep against the White Sox. The team we are currently rivaling against in order to win the AL Central. Yes, I did know all of that without googling.

My dad, trying to get me pumped for the game, explained its importance on our drive to the Metrodome.

"You see, if we win this game-"

"We would be a half game up against the White Sox with only three home games left to play in the regular season."

"Yeah, okay good. And do you know why that's important?"

"Because our only hopes for winning the playoffs are winning our whole division. We don't have a shot at the Wild Card because both the Rays and the Red Sox are in the same division and have way better records than us, so the loser of the AL East has already clinched the AL wildcard. Right?"

"Right..."

See? It's a good time. I'm also thinking that the MLB playoffs could be a welcome distraction from the shitstorm that is American electoral politics. Go team!

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"They teach this type of stuff on Blue's Clues"

"You've never watched the Kim Kardashian sex tape?" a friend asked me incredulously earlier this year. **

Er, no. Can't say that I have. For many reasons, the least of which being that I haven't ever seen anyone's sex tape and I'd like to keep it that way. I'll stalk celebs within an inch of their crotch in the limo exit pictures, but that's where the old fashioned gal in me stops. Also, I'm relatively safe with my computer usage- no downloads, clicking on pop ups, or password memory between log-ins. I learned my lesson the hard way when my dad had to completely rebuild my computer freshman year and unapologetically left me with only Pink Floyd- Z in my music folder. I still haven't fully recovered, and neither has my iTunes.

Imagine my confusion, then, when I start getting popups that say "DANGER! Your computer has been infected 2920 times. Click here to prevent permanent damage!" I hadn't run my clean up software in awhile, so I clicked. When I told my dad about the flurry of pop ups that came after that, he told me my computer was probably fine until I DID click on that pop-up, which was a virus. "Only people who know NOTHING about computers would click on that," Johnny tells me. Those tricky bastards.

This leads to my computer technician father cleaning up my computer and inevitably asking questions like, "What kind of sites are you going on anyway?" in exasperation. In reality, he'd probably rather have me lie than tell the truth. Liberal blogs, dad. Lots and lots of liberal blogs. I then recall all my friends who apparently watch Kim and her pals on a regular basis, and have virus-free computers. Those lucky bastards.

"How bad is it?" I ask tentatively. If I am not going to be getting back any of my documents and music, I don't want to be surprised.

"Let's put it this way. If I were at the shop, I'd call all the guys over to take a look at it and laugh at you," he says cracking up. Seriously, they must have interviewed him for the Nick Burns skit. It's uncanny.

In the end, he replaced my drive and handed it back to me a few hours later, still shaking his head at my stupidity. It's hard to feel animosity towards a man who replaces your computer's main parts for free in two hours, so I thanked him and apologized profusely. Secretly, I know he enjoyed it. I have a feeling my dad was the guy who filled in the "Enjoy very much" bubble on the "do you like to take things apart just to put them back together and make them work better?" question of the lame job placement test everyone takes in 7th grade.

I'm also sure he was relieved that my internet history didn't include "Kim Kardashian XXX". Being liberal is one thing. Supporting Ray J's film career is quite another.


** You know who you are

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And finally... golden slumbers fill my eyes

When I was home a month ago, I tried to pre-emptively clean out my closet in preparation for the big room swap. While struggling to reach even more scrapbooks and clothes on the upper shelves, a dusty old t-shirt fell directly onto my head. I could tell immediately that it was supposed to be black, but it was mostly faded and dingy with bleach stains. Light from both my old window and my lamp shone through the many holes, one of which my fist could easily fit through.

Curiously, I uncrumpled it and realized that it was my favorite "nightgown" from when I was little. In hideous green cursive letters, the shirt says Downtown Girl across the front. My dad brought it home from a store when I was six or so and I wore it to bed for years, somehow thinking it was glamorous or special. As a little girl, I loved going downtown for Twins games or to the hospital to greet a new cousin in my ever-extending Catholic family. I thought this shirt was very representative of my downtown lifestyle.

I remember my mom laughing when it got the huge hole in the back, saying that it was probably time to get rid of "Downtown girl" and get some real pj's. My eight year old butt was flashing through it, no doubt. I kept it defiantly over the years, and when it fell on me something clicked into place that I can't possibly describe. It represents... nothing, really. I didn't do anything important in that shirt, as I thankfully never left the house in it. It's just a shirt that somehow made the cut every time my mom ransacked my drawers for things to give away. It represents nothing more than the blissful oblivion of childhood- the only time in life that you would be truly jazzed about a free sample tee shirt from a crappy drugstore perfume.

Does it go without saying that I am wearing the shirt right now? Well, I am. It is as glamorous as when my dad first bestowed it upon me seventeen years ago. I've decided it's as good a way as any to snap out of the funk that I've been in lately. Since I've returned home, I've been more foggy than anything, trying to figure out once and for all (ha!) what I want to do with this seemingly brand new life. Trying desperately to keep in contact with friends from Madison without holding onto them so tightly that I forget it's time to fully embrace Minnesota. For tonight, then, what better way to get back to my roots than to toss on this absurd t-shirt, the source of the most inextricable comfort I've felt since I came home?

My bedroom door is locked tonight. The "nightgown", while still much too large to ever wear as a regular shirt, is not anywhere near covering my now-adult body. If my mom was embarrassed by my attachment to this shirt fifteen years ago, she'd be horrified to see what sticks out of it now. Somehow, though, I know I'll rest easy tonight.

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