As my students take their semester 1 finals I check my email. Advertisement, advertisement, email from Mom, Facebook friend request.
From Him.
A boy I loved at 18.
A boy who hurt me.
A boy I'd washed my hands of, but here he is, begging me to add him as a friend.
"Let's catch up!" he says. Catch up on what? How I've managed to go on living without you telling me how to do every little thing? On the "good times"?
"Please, please, please add me!" he begs. Over 15 years have passed and yet, I still feel the tug to capitulate. I am such a pleaser, and he seems to remember that. How can it be that I still care what this person thinks of me? Never mind the fact that he was emotionally abusive; I feel the need to make him happy once again.
and the kicker:
"I finally found you!" Here's the master stroke. The winning line. He's been searching for me, you see. I have been on his mind. Suddenly I'm 18 again and here's this boy who NEEDS me.
What can it hurt? It doesn't mean anything. I mean, look at all of the other people I've added. I comfort myself that he's unhappy and looking for old friends, that I'm in a much better place than him.
I add him as a friend. My stomach roils.
I look at his profile. Married. Three kids.
It hurts just to see his face.
Why did I do this? Does it mean I'm weak that he can hurt me just by existing? Would it be a sign of weakness to remove him now that I've added him?
Suddenly, I'm back in Melissa's truck parked next to him at a red light pretending to laugh so that I don't cry.
What do I do if he sends me a message? What if he wants to apologize? What does he want from me?
I don't care if it means I'm weak. I remove him from my list of "friends". As meaningless as that word has become I can't have him there.
My stomach settles.
Back to the finals.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Monday, January 11, 2010
Thursday, October 15, 2009
It's a Long Way From Your Heart.
My dad isn't big on sympathy. This has a lot to do with being raised by two no nonsense parents on a family farm, but more to do with his super human pain threshold. The man has suffered more physical pain than 10 people put together, and he has never, ever, let it stop him. As an adult, I can understand why these two things have short circuited his sympathy receptors. As a child.....notsomuch.
Growing up, if my siblings or I got hurt in some way and came up to him (or, to be honest, Mom who was generally sitting near him) crying and holding our injuries, we were told to "stop your blubbering. It's a long way from your heart." The other, even less comforting response, given most often when he was feeling a little more irritated and/or obnoxious was: "we could always amputate at the neck." I know it will shock you, but as a child I never found either of these responses overly comforting. Have you ever tried to stop your blubbering mid blubber? It's not as easy as you might think. And amputation at the neck? Even as a very small child I was pretty certain he was kidding, but......
Now that we're adults we laugh about it, often using either of these catch phrases as a short hand explanation for our adult behavior. For instance, after spending nearly 24 hours in excruciating pain before heading to the emergency room, I could quickly explain why I hadn't considered my condition serious: "I figured it was a long way from my heart."
When I arrived and they asked me to rate my pain on a scale of 1 to 10 (which is the most idiotic thing ever. Hmmmmmmm. I'm doubled over and crying from the pain in my abdomen, and you want me to choose which sad face best resembles what I'm feeling? Really??) I said "Uh, eight?" and the nurse rolled her eyes at me and said, "You're at a 10." Well, if she KNEW, why did she ask me? Huh? I mean, ask a stupid question....
On a side note: My dad had a massive heart attack a few years ago right before Christmas. It was terrifying, but after it was clear that he was going to make it all of us kids admitted to each other that we'd each been tempted to tell him to suck it up 'cause "it's a long way from your heart." I don't know that he'd have found it as funny as we did.
Why do I bring this up? Well, the other night as I was chopping lettuce for a Chinese Chicken Salad to take to a work potluck, I cut the heck out of my thumb. It was a little like this:
It took several bandaids, nearly an entire roll of toilet paper, and a lot of swearing to finally get the bleeding under control (I think it was the swearing that finally did it). Once it stopped bleeding through multiple bandaids in a matter of seconds I decided I'd be fine. I mean, it was a long way from my heart, and so what if my thumb had developed a pulse so pronounced I could both see and feel the blood pumping to the injury site?
When I spoke to my sister Christy later that night she asked me if I had considered going to Urgent Care to make sure it didn't need stitches. I told her, "Pffft! It's a long way from my heart. If it's still bleeding profusely tomorrow I'll go."
I know this makes me sound super tough, but down deep I think I might have been afraid they'd decide to amputate at the neck.
Mission accomplished Dad. Mission accomplished.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Not yet...Maybe later?
I was talking to a couple of friends at work this week who'd never seen this little chestnut. This has got to be one of my favorite things on film ever. Enjoy:
Enjoy.
Enjoy.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Something I'm thankful for...
Every Thanksgiving it's my job to make the dinner rolls. It's a long process involving multiple risings and a big mess, and I love every second of it. I love the smell of milk and honey, of yeast and flour. I love the sticky mess on my fingers and the melted butter in the bottom of the pan. I love watching the dough rise as if by magic and the beautiful brown color and smell of the rolls as you take them from the oven. Most of all I love the memories it brings back.
My paternal grandma taught me to make these rolls when I was a very little girl. I was so little that she'd put the giant ceramic bowl on a stool and bend if half while she mixed the dough so that I could help stir. She taught me the "feel" of good dough and just how to push it through the circle of your thumb and index finger so that your rolls will rise high and smooth and uniform.
She also taught me how to make her cinnamon rolls with their complicated twists containing cinnamon and sugar and caramel coated crispy bottoms.
But most importantly, by teaching me her secrets, she was telling me how much she loved me.
And, although she's been gone a long time, when I make these rolls, I feel like I'm telling her the same thing.
My paternal grandma taught me to make these rolls when I was a very little girl. I was so little that she'd put the giant ceramic bowl on a stool and bend if half while she mixed the dough so that I could help stir. She taught me the "feel" of good dough and just how to push it through the circle of your thumb and index finger so that your rolls will rise high and smooth and uniform.
She also taught me how to make her cinnamon rolls with their complicated twists containing cinnamon and sugar and caramel coated crispy bottoms.
But most importantly, by teaching me her secrets, she was telling me how much she loved me.
And, although she's been gone a long time, when I make these rolls, I feel like I'm telling her the same thing.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Who loves ya baby?
I'm a mama's girl, and I'm not ashamed. It helps when you have a mom like I do, because she makes it so easy to be one. As we grew up my 5 siblings and I fought over who she loved best, citing pretty convincing proof. The problem was, each of us had a compelling case. It wasn't until we were all adults that I think we all (with the exception of Matthew who still believes he's the ONE. We let him think this, it's just easier. If you know my brother, you know what I mean.) realized that Mom's love for each of us couldn't be ranked on a scale like that; she loves each of us differently.
I won't attempt to explain her relationship with any of my siblings, but I want to talk a little about her relationship with me. I'm my mom's baby girl. I think that there's something special about a mom's last girl, not to say that my mom's other girls aren't special to her, I just think that as I grew up she knew I was her last chance at girliness. Added to this is the fact that all three of my sisters left at once after my 9th grade year and Mom and I were out numbered and had to band together. Anyway, on to the reason for this post today.
My mom, dad, and Aunt LuAnn just went to Wyoming to spend some time with my grandma who at 98 years old has finally reached the point where she can no longer live on her own. To call my grandmother stubborn would be a vast understatement, and we all envisioned having to drag her bodily from her house as she spread-eagled the front door with her fingernails dug into the door frame. It didn't quite work out that way, as she ended up in the hospital with a terrible case of pneumonia and then my father tricked her into the long term care facility by telling her she was simply changing rooms. I know it sounds cruel, but if you knew my grandma, you'd understand the need for such devious trickery. Bless my father's evil genius.
This trip was to see Grandma and to dig through the vast amounts of "treasure" my grandmother has been compiling for the past 45 years: quite an undertaking. A few years ago my mom and I went to visit and saw what we could become if we didn't change. We were scared straight and each went right home and cleaned out a couple of closets. Anyway, my mom called each of us asking if any of us wanted the super special collection of limited edition Native American plates made by the Franklin Mint. Shockingly, she got no takers. She asked me, "Is there anything you want from Grandma's house?"
Whenever I think about my grandma's house, the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of my childhood come rushing back. My favorite room in the house was the front bedroom. It was the room I most often slept in when we visited as it's location just down the hall from my grandfather and his epic snoring made it less desirable than the rooms in the converted garage.
It was my mother's old room, and I loved to imagine her lying on the bed gossiping with her girlfriends, primping at the tiny, built in vanity my grandfather lovingly made for her, or picking out an outfit from the closet. Apparently when my grandfather built the house my 15 year old mother dreamt up a lavender and white color scheme, even making a bedspread in those very colors in her home ec class at school. My grandpa loved his Cargy Vee, but he couldn't resist a bargain. As a result, the entire house was painted with the garish colors of the bargain paint bin resulting in among other things, a flamingo pink living room. As horrible as that was, my mother had something even more devastating awaiting her. All she wanted were white walls, but as she ran into her room she was greeted with screaming neon yellow. She sobbed in agony, knowing that they would stay that color (my grandparents didn't have the money for new paint) forever.
They didn't. Some time between my mother's high school years and my birth my grandmother wallpapered the entire room in flocked floral wallpaper. As a child I loved to sit on the floor and pet the walls, amazed by the texture of the paper. The wallpaper at our house certainly didn't feel like this! When I shared this insight with my mother she responded with something like, "I should hope not!" It took me a long time to understand what she meant.
That wallpaper became a source of laughter and ridicule among my family members over the years, one more charmingly strange thing about my grandmother's house. Even when I knew I should hate that wallpaper, I just couldn't. I made fun along with the rest of my family, but each time I visited the house I'd sneak into the room and surreptitiously stroke the walls.
So, when my mother asked the question, "What do you want from Grandma's house?" I laughed and said, "I know I can't have it, but what I'd really like is a piece of that flocked wallpaper from your old bedroom." Silence on the other end stretched for a moment, followed by "Really?" We laughed about it and then I admitted my life-long love for the horrible wallpaper. I knew it would go no where. My mother isn't the type to go into her mother's house and willfully destroy anything. She's a rule follower and worrier (good thing I didn't inherit that! Ha!) and I didn't think any more about it.
When my mother called me and said, "I cut you a piece of that wallpaper," you could have bought me for a nickel(I earlier posted a combination of two sayings. My sister corrected me and I'm now ashamed of myself. Ashamed forever.).She even sounded a little defiant when I questioned her about it, saying "You wanted a piece of that wallpaper, so I snuck into the room and cut you a piece from right near the window." I pictured her sneaking into that room armed with a pair of scissors and a mother's love, defacing her mother's home in order to get me a piece of wallpaper that she personally found hideous.
That's love baby. Love.
Who's the favorite NOW Matthew?
I won't attempt to explain her relationship with any of my siblings, but I want to talk a little about her relationship with me. I'm my mom's baby girl. I think that there's something special about a mom's last girl, not to say that my mom's other girls aren't special to her, I just think that as I grew up she knew I was her last chance at girliness. Added to this is the fact that all three of my sisters left at once after my 9th grade year and Mom and I were out numbered and had to band together. Anyway, on to the reason for this post today.
My mom, dad, and Aunt LuAnn just went to Wyoming to spend some time with my grandma who at 98 years old has finally reached the point where she can no longer live on her own. To call my grandmother stubborn would be a vast understatement, and we all envisioned having to drag her bodily from her house as she spread-eagled the front door with her fingernails dug into the door frame. It didn't quite work out that way, as she ended up in the hospital with a terrible case of pneumonia and then my father tricked her into the long term care facility by telling her she was simply changing rooms. I know it sounds cruel, but if you knew my grandma, you'd understand the need for such devious trickery. Bless my father's evil genius.
This trip was to see Grandma and to dig through the vast amounts of "treasure" my grandmother has been compiling for the past 45 years: quite an undertaking. A few years ago my mom and I went to visit and saw what we could become if we didn't change. We were scared straight and each went right home and cleaned out a couple of closets. Anyway, my mom called each of us asking if any of us wanted the super special collection of limited edition Native American plates made by the Franklin Mint. Shockingly, she got no takers. She asked me, "Is there anything you want from Grandma's house?"
Whenever I think about my grandma's house, the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of my childhood come rushing back. My favorite room in the house was the front bedroom. It was the room I most often slept in when we visited as it's location just down the hall from my grandfather and his epic snoring made it less desirable than the rooms in the converted garage.
It was my mother's old room, and I loved to imagine her lying on the bed gossiping with her girlfriends, primping at the tiny, built in vanity my grandfather lovingly made for her, or picking out an outfit from the closet. Apparently when my grandfather built the house my 15 year old mother dreamt up a lavender and white color scheme, even making a bedspread in those very colors in her home ec class at school. My grandpa loved his Cargy Vee, but he couldn't resist a bargain. As a result, the entire house was painted with the garish colors of the bargain paint bin resulting in among other things, a flamingo pink living room. As horrible as that was, my mother had something even more devastating awaiting her. All she wanted were white walls, but as she ran into her room she was greeted with screaming neon yellow. She sobbed in agony, knowing that they would stay that color (my grandparents didn't have the money for new paint) forever.
They didn't. Some time between my mother's high school years and my birth my grandmother wallpapered the entire room in flocked floral wallpaper. As a child I loved to sit on the floor and pet the walls, amazed by the texture of the paper. The wallpaper at our house certainly didn't feel like this! When I shared this insight with my mother she responded with something like, "I should hope not!" It took me a long time to understand what she meant.
That wallpaper became a source of laughter and ridicule among my family members over the years, one more charmingly strange thing about my grandmother's house. Even when I knew I should hate that wallpaper, I just couldn't. I made fun along with the rest of my family, but each time I visited the house I'd sneak into the room and surreptitiously stroke the walls.
So, when my mother asked the question, "What do you want from Grandma's house?" I laughed and said, "I know I can't have it, but what I'd really like is a piece of that flocked wallpaper from your old bedroom." Silence on the other end stretched for a moment, followed by "Really?" We laughed about it and then I admitted my life-long love for the horrible wallpaper. I knew it would go no where. My mother isn't the type to go into her mother's house and willfully destroy anything. She's a rule follower and worrier (good thing I didn't inherit that! Ha!) and I didn't think any more about it.
When my mother called me and said, "I cut you a piece of that wallpaper," you could have bought me for a nickel(I earlier posted a combination of two sayings. My sister corrected me and I'm now ashamed of myself. Ashamed forever.).She even sounded a little defiant when I questioned her about it, saying "You wanted a piece of that wallpaper, so I snuck into the room and cut you a piece from right near the window." I pictured her sneaking into that room armed with a pair of scissors and a mother's love, defacing her mother's home in order to get me a piece of wallpaper that she personally found hideous.
That's love baby. Love.
Who's the favorite NOW Matthew?
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