letting go

After hanging up on yet another particularly volatile argument with my sister I sit in reflection writing and wondering where it all went so wrong. For as long as I can remember my sister and I have been at odds. I don't understand why. I have wracked my brain trying to put it into perspective. Out of respect for her feelings, I have an idea yet cannot share these innermost musings. This situation saddens me to my soul. I watch other sisters share a relationship born of love, understanding, and most of all communication. I believe this is the core of the issue, the lack of communication. Ironically that is my sister's profession yet when it comes to personal life, falls short. Through the years I have worked many jobs, but the one constant was waitressing. Working as a server for so long one learns to communicate with many walks of life on all levels. There is no more direct line of communication than in restaurant work. One must be able to relay orders to a kitchen, a bartender, a bus person, other servers, a manager, and most importantly their own tables. One little blip in the chain and there went my tip. Supporting myself this way I could not afford to allow any ripple in the lines of communication. Needless to say I made it my job to learn how to communicate. With so many years of relationships under my belt including my own marriage, communication has never been an issue. When it comes to my own sister it is an issue. To be fair, there are two sides to every story in every relationship. There wouldn't be discourse if there wasn't another with which to argue. I am bossy, sarcastic, opinionated, a tease, and extremely independent. I don't like unrealistic demands placed on my lifestyle nor do I like feeling as if I have to explain my every action. I can be selfish and mean. I am also loyal and loving to those I feel warrant my affection. My friends are like my family and I love them fiercely and deeply sometimes holding back my words out of respect for our relationships and the love I feel for them. We all do this when it comes to loved ones. Family is also extremely if not more important to me. Marrying a man who is half Lebanese I was introduced to a culture I knew nothing about. The unconditional almost clannish love these people have for their own blood brings tears to my eyes. No one is more welcoming then my husband's family even if all is not harmonious on the home front. My mother-in-law and I have our problems, but there is never any judgement and we always talk out our issues and I love her as much as my own mother. Plain and simple we are there for each other not unlike my own family yet my own family feels I've been swallowed up by all this and have forgotten my own blood. This couldn't be farther from the truth. Of course I am immersed in my husband's clan because we all live in the same city. Crossing state lines to visit my own parents or sister can be costly and sometimes inconvenient. The past six years have done a number on my emotional state what with trying to raise a child, keep a business afloat, and wait for my husband's career to take off. Due to my work constraints, there hasn't always been time or money to drive or fly just for a visit. This does not mean I love them any less, it just makes it difficult to see them and I always end up having to over-explain my reasons while feeling guilty and frustrated. Here is where the situation gets sticky. My sister feels somewhere through the years I have wronged her. The time and distance have taken their toll. When trying to explain and explain myself, her old resentments continue to surface and I am always mud in her eyes. I have tried continually to skirt around her extreme sensitivity and firecracker temperament. For the past 20 years I have beat my head against a wall trying to find a common ground on which to communicate. If I offer advice I'm against her. If I ask questions about her career I'm not supportive and don't know what I'm talking about. If I disagree with any one thing she says I am met with the stinkeye and cold shoulder. I can't tease or joke like I do with in-laws or friends because again, I'm against her. The tantrums over the years have made me feel cold and distant and hesitant to be in her company. I try to live life simply and enjoy the small things without the drama that takes over one's younger years. There is nothing simple or small about my sister. She is intense, hard working, complicated, quick to explode yet extremely loyal and loving to friends and family. Somewhere in there one would think we could work this out. I long for her to be a part of my life, of her nephew's life. I am tired, oh so tired of being the only one liable for the strife in our relationship. Today I asked her why I am always to blame. She didn't think her behavior warranted any reflection. Here lies the big problem. As stated above, it takes 2 to tango. I have prayed that someday my sister would wake up and realize I am not the blue-eyed monster she makes me out to be. I have prayed her insecurities would not play such a big role in our relationship. Unanswered, my prayers fall on deaf ears and nothing changes. Because of this I am letting go. I cannot continue this relationship this way anymore. I love her, will always love her, but the constant drama and tears is exhausting. I'm numb. My words in this post will only anger her more yet I too feel wronged, jipped out of a bond that I've never known. Maybe someday....Good afternoon world.

haircut

Well, it is that time of year again or as one mom put it, "the most wonderful time of the year!" This is the time of year when our dear little charges dressed in their brand new clothes with their brand new giant backpacks reminiscent of turtle shells wave good-bye to their parents and head into those hallowed halls otherwise known as freedom, er, I mean school. This is the time of year when I can barely contain my tears as we near the red brick building. This year will be no different. This year we finally enter kindergarten! We are moovin' on up to the second floor. After an extra year of pre-k, my son is graduating to real school. He is ready. We are ready. This time of year is always bittersweet for me. I dread the end of summer. I nearly cry when the pool closes only to be drained and remain a bleak empty concrete hole for nine months. The light changes. Days shorten and leaves fall. Winds pick up and my beloved lake will turn gray and frosty. I hold on to summer until I'm too cold and chicken to venture out on my frosty lake with board in tow. But we are not there yet. It is still warm with plenty of sun and paddleboard time left. With my son joined to my hip at every waking moment this summer, I am looking forward to a little me time. Those few glorious hours I don't have to worry about child care and can race off to run or paddle or treasure hunt for the shop. Whatever I want! My personal freedom. Don't get me wrong, I love my child more then life, but this summer has been challenging. Age 5 was tough. The constant arguments over getting dressed, getting a bath, getting in the car, getting his hair brushed, etc. etc. Fiercely independent and taking no prisoners. No being the operative word. The main word of his vocabulary. He wields that word like a finely sharpened saber aiming at me every chance he gets. Even now as I write I am interrupted by a thud and a "don't come down here", yeah right, like that's going to happen. As I trudge down the steps I find him climbing out the window seeking his independence. Lord, all mighty this little big man is going to put me in my grave. Boys. Never take your eye off them. As you can see, I'm ready. Ready for someone else to take over for a little while. Time for Catholic school. Time for conformity at it's finest. My husband and I have our reasons why our son will spend his school career dressed in uniform and playing by different rules. Rules that even at our age would have trouble abiding, being fiercely independent and strong willed ourselves. This was my husband's path and so it will be our son's. Free spirits don't like rules yet such is life, play the game. The hardest part of this whole business is not the uniform or the religion, but the haircut. This I hate. Who cares how long your hair is? The Catholics care so therefore we cut. After almost 6 years of long blond surfer tresses the hair had to go. I was dreading this moment. His hair was his personality. Wild and defiant yet beautiful. I was fearful if the hair went so would that spark that defines him. I likened it to Sampson. At that my mother-in-law scoffed at me and said if I made it a big deal so would he. Well, I have to give credit where it's due because she was right. As my girlfriend prepared to cut and my son peered at me from under his locks with those steely blue eyes, I held it together. If he saw me upset it would only go to Hell in a hand basket from there. For an hour my brave child held still while my friend razored and snipped and snipped and snipped. When at last his face emerged and I saw the brilliant smile as he flipped back what was left of the front, I saw a boy. My baby was gone and I was left with this tiny version of my husband. At that moment the tears came. He flung the smock to the floor, stood taller and flashed me my husband's grin as he went about his six year old business. Hugging my friend, my anxiety gone, I realized he was ready to fly and I was the one holding him back. Growing up is hard, especially for this mom. So freedom, I mean kindergarten, here we come! Good evening world.

gay

No, I'm not coming out. I'm quite happy in my heterosexual lifestyle. Homosexuality is not normally a subject I would even try to conquer. I mean really, I'm a straight white girl. What could I possibly know on the subject or even hope to offer? I do know that with all the beautiful things happening in my city by the lake, maybe a straight white girl perspective can be heard. As a child of the eighties it was a traditional, conventional, Republican world in which I lived. My neighborhood, white middle class. I had not a clue about love between same sexes. I remember the movie Making Love coming out and my father snorting and walking away from the television. I had no idea why he was discontent and all I could think about was how cute Michael Ontkean and Harry Hamlin were. I was not allowed to see the movie, it was quite forward for that time. In fact, to this day, I don't think I've ever seen it. I remember the commercial previews and seeing the men kiss on my small screen. What I do remember most vividly is seeing the kiss and thinking hey, this is new, so raging were my hormones. The lack of any other reaction to TWO MEN KISSING was apparently foretelling. All I could muster was a hmm. A few years later or maybe the same year, I was infatuated with vampires. At the time The Hunger was the big thing. Watching the love/sex/blood exchange scene between Catherine Deneuve and Susan Sarandon, I was again left with that hmm what is this feeling. To me it was sex, but different. It didn't strike me as weird that it was TWO GIRLS KISSING. At that age hormones weren't picky, they just liked sex scenes, much in the same way I would sneak the teen sex movies when my dad wasn't looking or seek out the sex scenes in my grandmother's hidden Harlequin Romance stash. Okay so now I've painted this picture of a sex crazed teen girl, but hey we've all been there. That innocent, not really innocent lusting after sex or whatever came close without going all the way. Through my years at Kent State I had brushes with gay people, but still pretty clueless and naive on the whole matter. I hate using the words "gay people" because I feel it places the men and women in a category that sounds distasteful or calls more attention to the situation. I suppose it's the same with "straight people" making us sound all high and mighty or something other than just what it is, a label for a grouping. It is hard to know just what is a politically correct way of addressing this group, so quickly we offend these days. I tend to just call them my friends. No differentiating there, I could be talking about anyone. It wasn't until I entered the restaurant business where I became fully schooled on all matters gay. So many different personalities and walks of life came through those doors and I don't mean the customers. Working so close, side by side, in a fast paced environment, there was no time to give any thought to sexuality. Nobody cared. The only thing that mattered was getting through the shift, counting your money, and running for your cocktail. Restaurant people tend to hang with each other every night after work. There is that we just went through Hell camaraderie that bonds you together and goes hand in hand with flowing drinks. So gay or straight we were all one, all in the same boat, enjoying our late night libations after hours of hard work. In short, it didn't matter to me. If you were cool I liked you. I never cared with what sex you coupled. Sooo many years later I am out of the restaurant business. I have a child now and married the cook in the kitchen. He is now a teacher and we live a normal nuclear life. Having just returned from vacation, the first one without any of my boys around us, I reflect upon past years and the company we've kept. One year my husband was surrounded by three men, our child, and myself. He just shrugged his shoulders and loved that the living room got vacuumed. I opened another bottle of wine and Sully loved having all these men to play with. So many "uncles". I can't describe the joy I feel knowing in my house, whether home or on vacation, this child will know no lines, no bias. This is a new world in which we're living. It will be fought with hatred. At the risk of sounding preachy, I do believe that love is love and this is what will keep us moving forward. The display of love Cleveland has provided recently has me near tears. Such a big step so long in the making. So cheers to you friends because gay or straight there is no difference. Good afternoon world.

re-entry

There is something to be said for a vacation that renews your senses and erases all your daily anxieties. Every year at this time, we throw suitcases in the car and race like bats out of Hell to make the trek to "our" beach house down south. We don't really own it, though I wish we did. For one glorious week every summer we pay the steep rent to live on the beach and escape reality. If you've been paying attention to past posts you will notice I've written a few times on this subject. In fact, four years ago yesterday, this little writing adventure of mine was launched. It is never easy leaving the sun, sand, and surf. This year was no exception. The car was packed to near bursting as we stuffed luggage, toys, towels, my son, my friend, her dog, and my husband and I into our vehicle. Leaving just a little porthole out the back window we pushed off at 9:00 p.m. and drove overnight to reach our serenity. The week was filled with the usual sun bathing, wave riding, vodka lemonades, piles and piles of fresh shrimp, and most important good friends. As a new widow, my friend used the time to heal, read, and get a good tan. We talked, we cried, we ate and drank. The next day we would do it all over again. Nightly trips to the grocery and shrimp shop were the only interaction with other humans with the exception of a marsh exploring 4 hour paddle board trip. Actually, there wasn't much human interaction there either, just the three of us, the water and a few sting rays. What lurked under the surface was best not thought of, let's just say it was motivation to not fall. As we departed in the pouring rain on Saturday, I took one last look at my beach and the usual sappy tears fell from my baby blues. If only... Well, we are back and so is reality. No human interaction for a week makes one all freaky feeling when faced with daily human activity. Coming home to the problems with my trashy neighbors had my anxiety right back staring me in the face. The wafting smell of eau de dog shit has me unable to sit on my front porch. Yesterday I found the idiots walking around MY backyard searching for their errant feline. I'm sorry, but you are trespassing on my fenced- in property and I'm sure your parole officer wouldn't like to hear that. Home is a place of respite. It's where our heart is and all those cliches. I am tired of feeling nervous when I return to my respite. Here's where I insert the big sigh. Like I said, leaving the beach is hard, but so is re-entry, a term my mother-in-law coined to describe that helpless wandering just back from the best vacation ever feeling. Re-entry is the reason I started this blog and am still writing to you lovelies. On a more positive note, yes the neighbors are awful. Is it forever? I highly doubt it. Bad neighbors are like gypsies and soon enough they will find another sucker landlord and destroy that rental and so on and so on. All the appropriate authorities have been notified so I am no longer alone in my quest to move them on out. It is also still summer which means more pool/lake-filled days until school starts. Birthdays, kindergarten(finally!) and a new career for my favorite man take us right into autumn. It has been a long hard road to get to this point and now that we are here, life is too good to let it be spoiled by a situation that is temporary. I will view it as balance and then run for my paddle board or my computer where I can release all my worries. A new phase of our life is about to begin and I am excited for the next ride because life is always an adventure and there is always the beach to go home to. Good evening world.