I have just returned from 5 days in the Midwest. This trip had a few unusual perks - I had both partners with me, we stayed in our own place and we had a vehicle. I got to see two longtime friends and be a little more of a tourist in my hometown (which, admittedly, was fun).
I haven't yet been home12 hours. My ears have mostly popped, I've unpacked and already have laundry started. And I realize that I'm angry. Really angry.
I've reached a point of no return with my mother. The older I get, the less we have in common and the less I enjoy her company. This, in and of itself, is guilt-inducing because I know there will be a day in not too distant future when she's not around.
However... I also cannot ignore the overwhelming desire to shake her violently. My mother is in her mid 60's but has the coping skills and maturity of a 10 year old. Does this make me sound elitist? Damn fucking right it does. I've spent much of my adult life in therapy learning how to be a mature person with appropriate coping skills and appropriate boundaries. My mother's approach has been to find a partner who will cater to her whims and SOMEHOW ignore the fact that she's never really grown up emotionally.
Cases in point:
We had reservations for Christmas brunch. My mother was unhappy with where our table was located in relation to the buffet. She asked the hostess if we could move to a closer table. The hostess went to check and while she was gone, my mother complained loudly about how long it was taking. When the hostess returned, she explained that all the tables were reserved and we could not be moved. My mother said "But I just had knee surgery and can't walk that far." The first part is true, the second part... not so much. The wait staff offered to get/carry her plates for her while my mother remained silent. As we started to settle at our table (which was rather pleasant because we were away from loud children/people), my mother loudly said "And I made these reservations MONTHS AGO." The hostess again apologized while my mother continued to grumble. When she doesn't get what she wants, she will often treat the wait staff poorly. It's kind of like ignoring your best friend as of yesterday at lunch today. Really fucking childish.
And THEN... she had her heart set on taking us to a brewery for lunch on our last day. We realized it would be our last chance to eat at a local fast food restaurant that Edward and I love and had been talking up to Stuart for oh... five years. I told her that we would prefer to do that instead. She opted not to join us for lunch at all.
My therapist says that resentment is poison for relationships. And I resent the hell out of the fact that my mother behaves in the way that she does.
Ultimately, I know that if there was ever a time to summon my superhero coping skills, this is it. But I don't know if I'll ever truly be able to silence the child who really feels she deserved a better role model.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Home Alone
I really thought I'd had enough alone time in my nerdy somewhat socially awkward childhood. As an only child with divorced parents, I had to become good at entertaining myself and being alone. And this was true... until I became poly.
As the wife of two husbands, mom to two cats, step-mom to two dogs and a cat, and personal trainer to the stars (not exactly but my clients are pretty fabulous), I am rarely alone. I have learned in the last couple of years that I really DO need my alone time. It's important. Really important. The difference between sane and crazy important.
It's tough to get. Both husbands work at home so unless there's a commitment that takes them away from the home and doesn't include me, I am not alone. And for reasons I can't really explain, alone time cannot happen unless I am truly alone. Partner may not be in the home. Really, it's preferable if partner is in an adjacent zip code (or farther). I have to wonder how much square footage I would need to be in the house with another person but feel alone. Would 5,000 square feet cut it? 10,000? Couldn't tell you.
Both husbands have graciously offered to leave the home to give me alone time. I haven't figured out how to say yes without feeling terribly guilty. Perhaps it's because I imagine one (or both) of them wandering grocery store aisles aimlessly and sadly caressing discount cans of soup. I'm not sure I could truly enjoy my alone time (which I tend to spend in frivolous ways - I am not solving the world's problems. I am trying to figure out how Kim Kardashian gets those cool smoky eyes) knowing one of them is intentionally staying away and checking the time to find out when they are allowed to come back. That is sadder than any movie where a dog is carted off to a farm where "he can run and play."
Edward left this morning to visit his father before meeting me on Thursday to visit my family. So, I have an actual 4 days to myself. One of the strange things I discovered is that when left to my own devices, I do things I do not generally do. Like cook. I tried a new recipe today. I almost never cook for myself. My interest in cooking is extremely limited and I'm usually only interested in healthy recipes as Edward has pretty well mastered recipes that would make Paula Deen blush. I also made myself a dirty martini. In a shaker. With ice and everything. I never do that either.
I also allow myself to indulge my OCD'ness a bit more. This occurs for two reasons. 1) I don't have to explain it and that is nice. I really cannot explain why I want to wipe down the washer and dryer after the laundry is done but the fact you ask reminds me that it's really probably kind of crazy and unnecessary BUT I WANT TO DO IT ANYWAY (and then I feel defensive about it even though it's a perfectly acceptable question). 2) No one will mess it up. Except me. And I suppose I could get mad at myself but I generally don't. I do get annoyed with other people getting their grimy fingerprints all over my OCD. Generally, it's safer to stay off that road. And because of that, I get slightly gleeful at being able to do it without irritating anybody. It's like OCD Home Alone Christmas. Minus Macaulay Culkin or Creepy Santa. Win.
As the wife of two husbands, mom to two cats, step-mom to two dogs and a cat, and personal trainer to the stars (not exactly but my clients are pretty fabulous), I am rarely alone. I have learned in the last couple of years that I really DO need my alone time. It's important. Really important. The difference between sane and crazy important.
It's tough to get. Both husbands work at home so unless there's a commitment that takes them away from the home and doesn't include me, I am not alone. And for reasons I can't really explain, alone time cannot happen unless I am truly alone. Partner may not be in the home. Really, it's preferable if partner is in an adjacent zip code (or farther). I have to wonder how much square footage I would need to be in the house with another person but feel alone. Would 5,000 square feet cut it? 10,000? Couldn't tell you.
Both husbands have graciously offered to leave the home to give me alone time. I haven't figured out how to say yes without feeling terribly guilty. Perhaps it's because I imagine one (or both) of them wandering grocery store aisles aimlessly and sadly caressing discount cans of soup. I'm not sure I could truly enjoy my alone time (which I tend to spend in frivolous ways - I am not solving the world's problems. I am trying to figure out how Kim Kardashian gets those cool smoky eyes) knowing one of them is intentionally staying away and checking the time to find out when they are allowed to come back. That is sadder than any movie where a dog is carted off to a farm where "he can run and play."
Edward left this morning to visit his father before meeting me on Thursday to visit my family. So, I have an actual 4 days to myself. One of the strange things I discovered is that when left to my own devices, I do things I do not generally do. Like cook. I tried a new recipe today. I almost never cook for myself. My interest in cooking is extremely limited and I'm usually only interested in healthy recipes as Edward has pretty well mastered recipes that would make Paula Deen blush. I also made myself a dirty martini. In a shaker. With ice and everything. I never do that either.
I also allow myself to indulge my OCD'ness a bit more. This occurs for two reasons. 1) I don't have to explain it and that is nice. I really cannot explain why I want to wipe down the washer and dryer after the laundry is done but the fact you ask reminds me that it's really probably kind of crazy and unnecessary BUT I WANT TO DO IT ANYWAY (and then I feel defensive about it even though it's a perfectly acceptable question). 2) No one will mess it up. Except me. And I suppose I could get mad at myself but I generally don't. I do get annoyed with other people getting their grimy fingerprints all over my OCD. Generally, it's safer to stay off that road. And because of that, I get slightly gleeful at being able to do it without irritating anybody. It's like OCD Home Alone Christmas. Minus Macaulay Culkin or Creepy Santa. Win.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Clean-up on Aisle 10
My favorite superhero is Batman. Long before Michael Keaton, Val Kilmer or the disaster that was George Clooney (seriously?!?! They hired the handyman from Facts of Life?), I was captivated by the magic of Adam West. The TV show that aired well before I was alive kept me rapt many afternoons after 7.5 hours of public education. He was the pinnacle of suave and dammit, he lassoed villains like nobody's business. (I think I asked my mother once if cops lassoed criminals in the '60's. She replied with a brusque "No.")
Aside from my adoration for Adam, I truly loved the Batcave. It was a secret hideout in a CAVE for Pete's sake. It was large enough to hold the Bat-equivalent of the copy machine as other machines with mysterious lights and buttons that did really cool shit. And it held the Batmobile. But the best part? The labels. Everything was labeled. It was if some expert from a TLC hoarding midget cake show came in there and Organized-Living'd the place. The little placards with the cautious writing and the complete lack of clutter... It was neat. It was tidy. It was beautiful.
And therein lies the problem with reality. It's messy. Disorganized. Sometimes the labels are wrong. (Who hasn't sugared their coffee with cocaine on a sleepy morning?) And that's just the STUFF.
People are even messier. Emotions and bodily fluids spill out like an overstuffed taco (you knew you were putting too much in there but you bet on hope that it would work anyway. Now you're eating your finger food with a fork. Fail.).
I dislike the mess and the unpredictability. And before you regale me with flowery quotes from the likes of Eckhart Tolle or Miguel Ruiz, I KNOW. The journey is more important than the destination, blah, blah, blah. Get off my lawn.
Despite what my husband(s) would tell you, I dislike illogical thinking and behavior. It feels like when you rub a cat's fur the wrong way. Nothing is ruined but it's WRONG and youshouldreallyfixitrightfuckingnow. This occasionally makes me a rigid asshole. I could apologize for it, but I'm not sorry. I own it, embrace it, and would ask the groomer to put pink bows on it if I could.
As one could imagine, this rather strong and stubborn trait of mine often makes me ill-suited for the real world. I try to assimilate, go along with the flow, and give the appearance of being flexible. But really, I'm just waiting it out. There's the tiny hope that eventually you all will see the error of your ways and come to your senses. And then we will have a big fucking labeling party. Ambiguity? Poof. Disorganization? Gone. Clutter? Eradicated. It will be beautiful. Then I will lie contentedly on my chaise lounged labeled neatly "Chaise Lounge" with my book labeled "Book" like a cat purring in the sun. And if you rub my fur the wrong way, I will cut you.
Aside from my adoration for Adam, I truly loved the Batcave. It was a secret hideout in a CAVE for Pete's sake. It was large enough to hold the Bat-equivalent of the copy machine as other machines with mysterious lights and buttons that did really cool shit. And it held the Batmobile. But the best part? The labels. Everything was labeled. It was if some expert from a TLC hoarding midget cake show came in there and Organized-Living'd the place. The little placards with the cautious writing and the complete lack of clutter... It was neat. It was tidy. It was beautiful.
And therein lies the problem with reality. It's messy. Disorganized. Sometimes the labels are wrong. (Who hasn't sugared their coffee with cocaine on a sleepy morning?) And that's just the STUFF.
People are even messier. Emotions and bodily fluids spill out like an overstuffed taco (you knew you were putting too much in there but you bet on hope that it would work anyway. Now you're eating your finger food with a fork. Fail.).
I dislike the mess and the unpredictability. And before you regale me with flowery quotes from the likes of Eckhart Tolle or Miguel Ruiz, I KNOW. The journey is more important than the destination, blah, blah, blah. Get off my lawn.
Despite what my husband(s) would tell you, I dislike illogical thinking and behavior. It feels like when you rub a cat's fur the wrong way. Nothing is ruined but it's WRONG and youshouldreallyfixitrightfuckingnow. This occasionally makes me a rigid asshole. I could apologize for it, but I'm not sorry. I own it, embrace it, and would ask the groomer to put pink bows on it if I could.
As one could imagine, this rather strong and stubborn trait of mine often makes me ill-suited for the real world. I try to assimilate, go along with the flow, and give the appearance of being flexible. But really, I'm just waiting it out. There's the tiny hope that eventually you all will see the error of your ways and come to your senses. And then we will have a big fucking labeling party. Ambiguity? Poof. Disorganization? Gone. Clutter? Eradicated. It will be beautiful. Then I will lie contentedly on my chaise lounged labeled neatly "Chaise Lounge" with my book labeled "Book" like a cat purring in the sun. And if you rub my fur the wrong way, I will cut you.
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