Thank You for Asking

Alone

Now that Beloved is gone he seems, in memory, almost perfect in every way.  No, no!  he hasn’t died!... instantly and painlessly, after leading a long, happy and productive life; leaving the children and me intact here with nothing to divert our interests but a wealthy and handsome new widower neighbor from Texas who is very masculine due to cattle round ups and such; though not such a hick that he doesn’t know his way around a good Gevrey-Chambertin …but I digress.  No, Beloved has taken the younger boys back to Florida for Easter break.  Oldest and I have stayed in San Francisco so he can attend his crew practice and I can attend to all those things I never get around to because of my domestic responsibilities. 

There are, in fact, so many things I have not attended to that my head spins thinking about them, and I promptly come down with a horrible virus.  Oldest has spent the night with a friend in Sonoma, so I am all alone.  It is awful being sick by oneself.  I  lie on the bathroom floor and cry softly thinking how sad Beloved would be if I were to die.  Then I remember no one is there to witness my pitifulness so I stop.  The only thing that keeps me going during that long night are the weigh-ins with my bathroom scale in-between crawling from bed to vomiting and back again.  

 Micki calls me first thing the next morning to see how I am…okay, fine,  I call her first thing to tell her I am very, very ill.  “You are?!  Did you throw up?  How many pounds did you lose!” she asks as if asking how much money I won at slots.  She promises to bring me some ginger ale but warns me the weight I’ve lost is really water weight, and if I drink too much I’ll ruin my kick start.  I hang up after assuring her I’ll not drink too many liquids.

I lie in my bed unable to do much but think about how much I miss my family.  How darling my boys are!  What a good man Beloved is and what a wonderful profile he has!  I can’t believe I even considered thinking about some red-neck-y Texan!  I start to cry again and decide to call Beloved in spite of the time difference.  Youngest answers the phone, and in a feeble voice I ask him if he’s having fun.  “Oh yes Mommy!  So much fun!  Grandma is so nice!  Way nicer than you.  She actually counts when we ask her to time us and doesn’t just yell ’18!’ when she thinks we’re done.  Can we stay here forever?!” 

When Beloved finally comes to the phone I resume my pitiful voice and tell him of the horrible night I spent.  “Really!  How much weight did you lose?” he inquires cheerfully.  “Um, not sure yet…just waiting to get a bit more dehydrated before I…”  “You know, now that you mention it I am not feeling so well myself.  My mother may have to watch the boys a bit while I rest.”  I hang up before we get in a fight.

The phone rings, and I'm thrilled to hear it’s my darling Barb!  She is in New York having the time of her life with a group of friends.  She does not seem to notice the pain and frailty of my voice.  As she tells her stories of  their merry-making my voice gets fainter and weaker until finally she yells, “Can you please speak up!  I can’t hear a word you’re saying!  Ohhhh…you’re sick?  Really!  That many times?  How much weight did you lose?”    

 

Winter Break Holiday

I think these pictures describe my winter break in Florida better than I ever could.

I know San Francisco is known for it's organic, locally grown, Alice Waters-inspired cuisine, but if there is anything better than blue cheese dressing on iceberg lettuce I am not yet aware of it.

 

 

If one prefers eating at home there is always my favorite market.  They are known for their customer service and go the extra mile by wrapping all produce in plastic wrap! Very hygenic.

 

 

 

We love visiting Beloved's home town of Winter Park.  The beautiful brick streets are canopied by Live Oak and Camphor Trees heavy with Spanish Moss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We also visited my hometown...

 

Our little community is quite industrious.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I felt a teensy bit guilty taking this photo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So I had Middle do it (goodness, how dramatic that boy is!)

 

Yes, Florida has a somewhat mixed reputation, but I love it.  There is something for everyone!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The boys were thrilled with the sight seeing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, that was our trip.  I really have nothing more to add.

Just kidding...of course I do.  More later.

 

 

 

Fathers

I am not sure I approve of Bjorn Bags being worn by fathers.  I know I have startlingly old-fashioned ideas when it comes to men, and I’m convinced it’s my own father’s fault.  He was (“is” actually, for some reason I always speak of him in the past tense -- I’m sure my next 15 years of therapy will get to the bottom of that) a cigarette-smoking, hard-drinking, never-heard-of-a-child’s-sporting-event-he-felt-compelled-to-attend father.  We all adored him.  I can assure you if they had Bjorn Bags in his day he would have thought they were just great…for somebody else. 

To be fair, it is not Bjorn Bags per se (Beloved himself was not above wearing one) that bug me.  It is more the type of father the Bjorn-Bag-wearing-man is likely to grow up to be.  If he is not careful, he will find himself one idle Halloween night in an adult Spider Man costume, or talking about sustainable produce or even using the word “artisanal*.”

Whenever I hear an overly solicitous father calling their child “sweetie” (yuk) or “nice-job”-ing it, or “it doesn’t matter if you win or lose…” I feel a twinge of appreciation for Beloved’s brusque fatherly manner.  Yes, yes I know I forced him to seek outside-couseling because, amongst other things, he never lets any of his boys win…no matter what they are playing.  They reached a point where they refused to play tennis with him because the victory dance he did after beating them was too embarrassing.  Youngest once asked me what “IN YOUR FACE!” meant and why did daddy say it every time he beat him at checkers.  After remarking what a good little basketball player I thought Middle was when he made a spectacular three-pointer Beloved said bluntly, “he’s not that good it’s just the rest of the team is so bad.”

Yet, they all adore him.  I suspect more than they do me!  I suspect that because they tell me that at least once a week.  Why?  I make so much effort…then I get mad because no one is appreciating how much effort I am making.  They all look at me like I’m crazy and no one is quite sure why I’m so mad (including me).  Then the four of them go downstairs, eat bad food and watch football.  No one tells them to pick up their socks or not throw popcorn all over the floor and if they do finally do something that bugs Beloved he just says, “knock it off” and forgets about it.  I can assure you I never “forget" about anything.  Including the fact that I was the sucker that wore the Bjorn-Bag!   

*not to be confused with other words I hate such as:

• Sensual
• Tush
• Make Love
• Climax  (seems there’s a trend here)
• Classy
• Nourishing
• Connected (as in “I feel so connected with you right now”)
• Probiotic
• Incidentally
• Heretofore (never actually heard anyone say this, but would pitch a fit if I did)
• Hunnerd  (instead of hundred…you’d be surprised!)

 

 

Honesty

Beloved and I have an honest relationship.  In fact, I sometimes wish he we weren’t  
quite so honest with me each other.  I totally understand that being honest is good, and I always tell my children that honesty is the best policy, but Beloved really takes it to the limit.  I am somewhat used to it, but it can be startling to others, as guests who come for dinner at our home can attest.  When Beloved decides he is finished with our dinner party he walks upstairs to our bedroom, dons pajamas and nightcap (if he had one), returns downstairs to walk the dog yawning loudly when he passes the dining room.  Our friends are a hardy bunch, and they don’t do anything rash like leave, but they do feel uncomfortable for a moment or two.

I appreciate Beloved’s no nonsense, honesty, especially after the exhausting experience of living with my own sometimes questionable character.  The problem is it seems to be rubbing off on everyone I come in contact with.  Rosee never fails to apologize for waking me (with a very critical look on her face) when she arrives every day at 2:00 in the afternoon.  It puts me in a difficult position, as she very well knows.  Protesting that, "of course I wasn't sleeping" makes me appear guilty.  She just can’t seem to get over those one or two times she arrived whilst I was taking a quite-common-in-Europe afternoon respite.  

The Ladies are another problem.  They are super sweet and everything, but I’m afraid they are living up to the stereotype of religious people being somewhat judgmental.  If we’ve had a party the night before I have to get up at the break of dawn and hide all the evidence.  For a long time I chalked it up to a language/customs barrier, but I’m starting to think it’s just rude when they look at the number of bottles, speak to each other in a disapproving Portuguese manner, then ask how I am feeling this morning.  I trill a happy little non-hungover laugh and say, “Why I feel fabulous…ohhhh!  d’ you mean because of those (looking with surprise at the bottles as if I forgot they were there since they have so little to do with me)?  Goodness, we had scads of people over last night, a huge party in fact.”  At which they begin to pointedly stack the dirty dinner plates (a far lesser number than I intimated).
 
 I won’t even go into Youngest’s honesty issues.  I’ve tried to explain to him time and time again that honesty is a very good thing, but sometimes it’s better to be honest with Mommy privately than to be honest, for example, to the transgender person at Cal Mart.

The frustrating thing is with all this honesty being directed at me I still let everyone else off the hook.  When one of my acquaintances show up with a completely new face and say it is because they started curling their eyelashes do I show by even a glimmer that I am anything but completely accepting of their explanation?

When I compliment a friend on the necklace they are wearing and they say, “thank you, it was handed down from darling Grandmama” do I remind them that I was actually with them when they bought it?

When someone talks about the year they graduated that is years later than I know it was from a university that I’m pretty sure they didn’t attend I never point out that that would make them my babysitter’s age.

And when some silly person talks up the super important PR career they had in New York when I know very well was little more than an assistant’s role, do I remind them…well actually that’s me and of course I don’t, but you get my point!

 

Catastrophe

I find myself filled with outrage, pain and confusion with the latest distressing news streaming across the airwaves perpetuated by irresponsible journalists.  I don’t normally take such an interest in current events but this one affected me to my core.  It goes against everything I believe in and has rocked my confidence in our so-called civilized society.  I find it reprehensible, and I don’t think I’m the only one.  When I opened the newspaper that fateful morning and saw the story…well, I’m only now able to speak about it at all.  And no wonder!  To wake up confident of one’s standing as a diplomatic, urbane, easy-going Libra only to be casually informed you are in fact a…a…Virgo!  Why not inform me via e-mail that I was adopted, that my child was switched in the hospital, that my husband is a Russian counter-spy specializing in forensic accounting (actually…).

After a stiff cup of English Breakfast Tea to calm my nerves I settle into my office to try and get to the bottom of this Zodiac catastrophe.  My first call is to Micki who seems confused and has no idea what I’m talking about.  Barb is next, but she isn’t answering.  As a last-ditch effort I try Beloved who hangs up on me as soon as he hears the word “Zodiac.” 

Since I have a long 4 ½ days left until my next therapist appointment I try to apply some of the techniques learned over the past 15 some odd years I have logged in a psychotherapist’s office.

First of all, what is really going on here?  Am I distressed over the fact that the earth’s rotation has changed, which sounds scary, or did I attach myself too blindly to my Libran character traits?

For example, if Beloved is irritated at my “mad wanton spending”, I am able to shrug it off due to the fact that Librans love luxury.  It is not my fault.  It is written in the stars.

If Beloved thinks I am a little too loud or shrill at a dinner party and he “can’t get a word in edgewise”, it’s not my fault I’m vivacious and good-looking  (I didn’t say it!).

If Barb and Micki have had it with me showing up a teensy bit late occasionally, I just shrug in a charming manner and say prettily, “you know us Librans…” (and try to change the subject quickly before they really get annoyed).

Suddenly I’m supposed to be a Virgo?!  When I looked up their traits I almost fainted!  They “plan” and “work toward goals.”  They “analyze, solve and assess.”  Any of those words taken alone would make me want to vomit, but all at once!  It’s just too much!  Yesterday I was a Libra that was over-achieving in self-indulgence, today I’m a Virgo that’s messy. 

I think the only way to deal with this is denial, and maybe a nice long soapy bath followed by a nap…with a hot cup of tea and a good book…and a tiny snack whilst I converse with friends regarding this travesty. Thank goodness Middle is home sick today.  He can help out until Rosee arrives at 2:00.

Imperfections

Beloved thinks I’m taking our reversal-of-fortune situation a little too far.  I think I’m just being pragmatic.  Why shouldn’t our kids start contributing?  How hard can child acting/modeling be?  I must say, my children are cute…especially Middle (no offense Oldest and Youngest), and I’m pretty sure they can go to school, do sports, and whatever else they do whilst having lucrative careers as child actor/models.  It’s not like I’m not doing my part.  I am furiously working on my Romance Novel which I’m confident will solve most of our problems.  In actual fact, I find our reversal of fortune a little comforting.  Everything seems somehow sweeter, more poignant.  Life’s choices are more straightforward as there are fewer of them.  I almost feel, what is the word, smug!   In our new, simpler, not-spending-money world order our decisions are made for us.  This Christmas is an example of the joy we received from simple togetherness...a-a-a-l-l-l Christmas break long.

In fact, there was so much staying-home togetherness being had that by the time we were in the car on Christmas Eve driving to a friend's house, we had a knock-down drag-out that ended with me demanding to be let out of the car and Beloved happily obliging.  I had a lot of time to think and came to quite a few conclusions walking those blocks that night.  Number one, the next time I decide to pitch a fit and storm out of the car I will not wear my YSL leopard print pumps as they are super uncomfortable.  Number two, we may not be perfect, but I like the way we are (I might put that on our Christmas card next year).  Yes, there is the occasional storming out of the car/house/bedroom/hotel room/ski slope/mother-in-law’s house in Florida/camping trip (a decision I regretted immediately), etc., but all in all, I love being with my darling family.  I know the boys feel the same way, unpleasant comments aside:

• “ I hate you” (from any child to any family member in vicinity)
• “Why do I have to spend 'time' with you!  There is nobody I’d rather not spend 'time'with” (Oldest to Beloved and me)
•  “Fat Ass” (I know what you’re thinking, but they value their life and would never say that to me, rather it is said incongruously to each other)
• “Shut up” (which I really take offense to.  In fact, I made a rule those words were absolutely not to be said in our home.  "Fat Ass" seemed somehow less offensive, especially when directed at someone other than myself.  Beloved helpfully suggested they say, “stop talking fast” instead, which I suppose addresses the letter if not the spirit of the law.)

I guess when it really hit me that I find comfort in our little family unit because of our imperfections, not in spite of them, was when Beloved did a little “soul-searching” (I know!) and went through a brief but disconcerting “friendly” phase.  He ran around doing alarming things like chatting in a pleasant manner to my friends when they called, or asking  Rosee, in a chirpy manner, “how are you doing?” wherein she immediately burst into tears and had to be talked out of  handing in her resignation on the spot.  It was a relief to us all when he came in one night and in horrified tones asked what on earth I was thinking  hanging Christmas wreaths on all of our windows (as if I had plastered the neighborhood with expensive nude photos of myself)!  The next day he hung up on Barb when she called because I wasn’t home, told Micki it “wasn’t his department” when she asked if we would like to come to dinner, and brushed right past Rosee not bothering to answer her pleasant “Good Evening” wherein she immediately started fingering her rosary beads in gratitude to her answered prayers. That was when we knew it was all going to be okay. 
 

 

Discipline

I was waiting for Oldest to take his driving test at the DMV the other day when I heard a mother asking her child to please behave.  Actually, what she said was, “JERMAINE! YOU STOP THAT AND GET YOUR SKINNY BUTT OVER HERE…NOW!”  Then a funny thing happened, Jermaine stopped it and got his skinny butt over to his mother.  Well!  That was something new.  I started to ask her her secret, but when I saw how she was dealing with Jermaine I thought it best to study the situation empirically.

I was fascinated that, even though the area around her was teaming with people, the mother had no problem yelling at the top of her lungs at her child.  Don’t get me wrong, I regularly yell at the top of my lungs at my children, I just try to do it when there are no witnesses.  My kids are well aware of this therefore generally save their worst for when there is an audience.  
  

I couldn’t get Jermaine and his mother out of my mind for the rest of the day.  I had been told by countless books, therapists, classes, forums and lectures that this was not the way to handle children, and of course I agreed!  It seemed like such a precarious balance.  The slightest infraction on my part could send them careening off into drugs or religious zealotry.  I have horrible visions of Youngest’s picture splashed across the newspaper, him in a turban with a thuggish expression on his face having done some heinous deed and showing no remorse whatsoever.  It was fairly easy to imagine this as, except for the turban, this was the way he looked most days. 

Not to say that if one wears a turban one is not well-behaved.  In fact, possibly quite the reverse!  According to Rosee and Analeticia the way we “white” people raise our children is very confusing.  As they tell it, in their culture there is no, “oh darling please stop. I mean it.  Okay I really mean it!  I am going to count to three…one, two…two and a haaaaalf…that is IT!  There is going to be real trouble in one second…”  No, none of that.  Rosee told of being made to kneel on rice when she misbehaved.  Analeticia said hers was dried beans, but the point was the same.  Obviously, I find that shocking and abusive!  Not to mention it is super messy and no one listened to my orders to kneel anyway.

The problem with all this restraint is at some point one blows and does something worse than demanding rice and bean kneeling.  And if you think your kids will ever forget those moments you are sadly mistaken.

One long-suffering friend of mine finally had it, took the just-prepared snack of freshly-peeled carrots and threw them at her girls screaming, “Fine!  Make your own damn snack then!”  You can bet every time she serves them freshly-peeled carrots the girls never fail to wave them in front of her face and say, “remind you of something mommy?”

Oldest brings up an unpleasant misunderstanding he and I had quite a number of years ago at least once a week.  “Remember that time you slapped me in the face when I had pneumonia?”  or, “That reminds me of the time you slapped me in the face when I pneumonia.” and on occasion, “Was that before or after the time you slapped me in the face when I had pneumonia?”  Yes, in a court of law, I guess I did, technically, slap him in the face when he had pneumonia, but believe you me that is not the whole story.  It just takes too long to tell, and I really don’t  think this is the time or the place…  

 

Being Thankful

My friends have been so helpful during our reversal of fortune.  They listen to my endless tales of woe and give me endless pep talks; they tell me that everything happens for a reason and better things are just around the corner; they tell me my butt is my best feature.  I believe every word. 

I lay low (for quite a while) and finally feel I am ready for a bit of fun.  Sabrina picks me up and we head out for one of the many events she frequents. 

“I have to be frank, I think you're being a bit self-indulgent with this "general malaise" of yours.   Yes, your husband lost his company, you almost had to sell your home and you are left with nothing, but those are just things!  They mean nothing!  I think if you dug deep you would realize you have everything you need…right here.”  Sabrina pats her chest with a heavily jeweled manicured hand.  “Yes…absolutely.  Right here.”  I pat my own chest but a touch too enthusiastically and end up having a little coughing fit.  Sabrina shirks away with a distasteful look and asks if it’s really necessary to be so dramatic.  I say no and try to pull myself together before we reach the event.  

We arrive and I feel quite grateful to Sabrina for allowing me to accompany her rather than her gay boyfriend who is her usual escort.  I am reminded once again how useful a gay boyfriend would be to me.  It would go a long way to helping me get over my general malaise.  Plus the fact that Beloved is now working half the time in EUROPE (you know how excited I am at that !...not that he’s gone half the time…just that he’s working in EUROPE!) and I feel it would only make sense.  It is not as easy as it seems though.  First of all, most of the fabulous gay men are already taken by more social-y women who are younger, prettier and richer than I am.  The ones that are left have families of their own and don’t want to be dragged all over creation entertaining some annoying socialite…or, you know, available woman with nothing better to do.  As the photographer, who is trying to get a picture of Sabrina, gently moves me out of harm’s way of his lens I run down the list of possible candidates to be my gay boyfriend. 

I am pretty sure Jose, our gardener, is gay and Rosee (our new housekeeper…I know!) concurs.  He is SO nice and has worked wonders with our boxwoods, buuuut I’m having a hard time picturing him at an event like this.  For one thing, he doesn’t seem wildly impressed with me despite my extremely courteous way of interacting with him.  Secondly, and I mean this in no way disrespectfully, but he could stand to lose a pound or two.  What is the point of having an over-weight gay boyfriend when it only serves to accentuate the few pounds I could stand to lose.  If we’re going to go that route he would have to be fat, not just chubby, and even then he would have to wear a turban and have a super campy personality.  Jose is just not that camp and I can’t imagine trying to convince him to wear a turban.  This discourages me and reinforces what frankly I already knew, relationships are hard! 

Now, lest you think, with all this talk of “housekeepers” and “gardeners” and “events” that I am somehow exaggerating our reversal of fortune, or insensitive to people with worse economic problems or a silly spoiled woman I will make a comprehensive list of everything I am grateful for forthwith:    

1. Beloved Husband who is smart and resilient 
2. Beloved Husband’s Business School Friend who kindly offers him a job in EUROPE (thrilling)
3. My smart, funny and happy kids…too much here to write
4. Gigi.  Our Havanese puppy who can finally sleep with me without peeing in my bed (this is even more advantageous now that Beloved’s side of the bed is often free as he is working half the time in EUROPE)
5. Rosee and Jose who work so hard and have turned into such dear friends.  Well, not Jose so much.  Really just Rosee.  And maybe only because I pay her.
6. EUROPE (yay!)
7. My sister who lets me write about her alcoholism and drug abuse.  A constant source of humorous anecdotes (I love you Kiki!)
8. Barb, Micki, Wendy, Angelica, NY Girlfriend, Serena (what would I do without you all!)

And so much much more.  Well, actually not that much more.  For example you might notice missing from this comprehensive list is…A GAY BOYFRIEND!!!!

 

Pink Elephants

Okay, where were we.  Oh yes, I was having a fit.  I am finished now. 
 

All I can say is, what a summer.  Whew!  To put it plainly, Beloved’s company went under.  So sad.  I knew it was my job to be strong for Beloved and the boys, and as soon as they were able to drag me out from under the covers, I was.        
          

 They say when crisis hits, a person’s true    character is revealed and I think that is true.  I coolly appraised our situation, realized Beloved was not sufficiently sympathetic to my trauma probably needed some quiet time to re-group, so the boys and I bolted to Florida and into the caring arms of my sister.  It was a God-send!  My sister put cool compresses on my head, listened to my story  (over and over and over) and brought me endless cups of tea.  What she didn’t do, and I don’t mean to be fussy, is to allow me to drown my sorrows in alcohol.  Somehow in the midst of my ordeal I had forgotten she is a recovering alcoholic.  Which I whole-heartedly support!  I guess I didn’t realize she took it so…seriously.  I (obviously!) did not expect pre-dinner cocktails, but really, not even a measly little glass of (proven to be healthful) dinner wine?  I mean I get it…for sure…it’s just that I was going through a CRISIS!  I wondered idly how my (imbibing) brother was doing in San Antonio.  But frankly, as sweet as he is, he would probably side with Beloved, give me no cool compresses and tell me to get my worthless self home to my husband. 

So there we were, in Florida, in July, stone cold sober. 

Then I met Harold, my sister’s neighbor.  We spent many a pleasant evening in his backyard discussing life.  He was darling man and very active considering that breathing apparatus he had to lug around.  Harold had some startling right wing ideas about the world, but I forgave him, and not just because he was generous with his gin!  He thought my sister’s “new age-y” sobriety slightly ridiculous.  “Ooh, so we’re all alcoholics now.  It’s just showing off that’s what it is!  In my day you weren’t an ‘alcoholic’ until you saw the Pink Elephants!!”  Well, he did have a point, and as I re-filled my coffee cup with gin & tonic, I told him so.     
 

It was all going so well, and I felt the trip was really doing me some good when a surprising thing happened.  I was laying on my usual spot on the sofa, drinking iced tea, yelling at the boys to stop bugging me to take them to the beach (it was HOT for God’s sake) when suddenly a shadow loomed above me.  I adopted my usual pained expression thinking it was my sister ready with a cool compress.  What a surprise to realize it was my brother-in-law home in the middle of the day (inappropriate if you ask me)!  He wanted to know if I was "quite comfortable" to which I replied I was.  He said he was delighted (I did not like his tone when he said that) then he asked how long it usually took for me to get over my "general malaise."  Well, I must say, it was rather a shock to realize the little value some people place on family.  I decided right then and there that the boys and I would not put up with that sort of attitude so, in a week or two, we packed right up and left for home.   

General Malaise

What?!  Is a girl not allowed to have a little general malaise??  Good grief!  It was only 3 months for Pete’s sake!  At any rate, as soon as I finish pulling out splinters, acquired from ripping the For Sale sign out of our front yard with my bare hands, we can begin again.