This past weekend I was lucky enough to sit next to my grandmother for dinner. It should be noted that while she joined our family only a mere thirteen years ago, she is absolutely part of the family, and thus I pay the same respect to her as I would anyone from the grandparent generation.
However, it should also be noted that she tends to avoid - at all costs - ever paying me a straight, direct, just-so-you-feel-good compliment. For instance, last Christmas, instead of saying that my haircut looked nice she said, "I love your haircut because your last one really fell on your face at all the wrong angles." Oh, okay, thanks.
Or, earlier this summer at a family BBQ, instead of saying I looked nice she said, "You look great, you must have lost weight because your figure is finally beginning to show." Er, I've been the same weight for three years, but yes, thanks.
Last Saturday was no different. Except this time I must give her the credit and mention that our conversation was extremely positive, and she did, ultimately, say some very nice things. But this was my favorite:
We were talking about how my politics and lifestyle may, er, deviate from the rest of my family. I was a little confused as to what she was talking about because we haven't really had "the talk" that would merit this statement, but I went with it. I agreed, and said, yes, I was a bit more liberal than the others but I really didn't think family needed to revolve around vice-presidential nominations. She responds,
"You're absolutely right, and I really respect your ability to bridge the two worlds. I have every confidence that if you started dating an affluent boy from Newport, you would absolutely hold your own, despite your not understanding his background."
She was right. I mean, just that afternoon my family had taken a cruise on my uncle's yacht to check out the palaces that skimmed the Newport coastline. What simpletons we were, sipping white wine and nibbling crab cakes, reaching for our cable knit sweaters and country-club-specific fleeces when the wind picked up just before sunset.
I wondered what my boyfriend in Newport would look like; if his house was on the water, or simply at the end of a private drive. Would his parents both work, or would one stay home to tend the household? Maybe he would have an older sister, who was brunette, and single, and enjoyed long walks on the beach.
"You're right," I finally responded. "I just hope the boy I finally end up with is able to embrace our many differences, and appreciate our similar interests."
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Ten Stages of Drunkenness
1. Witty and Charming
2. Rich and Powerful
3. Benevolent
4. Fuck Dinner
5. Clairvoyant
6. Patriotic
7. Witty and Charming Part II
8. Let's Fire Up the Enola Gay
9. Invisible
10. Bulletproof
Baha Oklahoma
2. Rich and Powerful
3. Benevolent
4. Fuck Dinner
5. Clairvoyant
6. Patriotic
7. Witty and Charming Part II
8. Let's Fire Up the Enola Gay
9. Invisible
10. Bulletproof
Baha Oklahoma
Saturday, September 20, 2008
The Ex-it Strategy
Apparently there is something about me in a black dress that turns my ex into a "frat boy." Of course, this metaphor only stretches so far, as I have numerous "frat boy" friends, and my being in a black dress actually makes them substantially nicer to me. Unfortunately for this lucky individual, by "frat boy" she means "teenage boy" and thus reacts to said outfit with an edge of distaste and fear of cooties. This is all fine, we've been doing this dance for a few years now, and I try not to take it personally.
Last Saturday I was so lucky as to be both wearing a black dress and in my ex's company, and it took only me arriving for the ridicule to start. I withstood these smirks for about forty-five minutes before it just got plain uncomfortable. That, and I'd finished my whiskey soda, so it was new drink or new party. I decided that as fun as frat boy was making my evening, I missed my similarly dressed friends on the lower east side.
Another comment hit me like a tennis ball and that was it! I'd had enough! No more comments! No more making me uncomfortable for looking nice! And I was very proud as I announced this to the room - with most of its guests not giving a shit if I was in a skirt or a towel - that I was Leaving! Goodbye! I turned to make my theatrical exit (take that, frat boy) when I walked into the wall.
I had a choice: show that my nose may or may not be bleeding or deal with it in a taxi.
Theatrical indeed.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The Picnic
When my father set out to be an organic farmer in Montana during the summer between his junior and senior years in college, it took him eight weeks to reach the most important realization of his life: It takes a long time for trees to grow. Appropriately, he moved to New York and entered the busy world of finance, and never looked back on "what could have been."
But despite this decision to engage with something else that is green, my father has passionately commanded that we, his children and wife, perceive as an unabashed "outdoor kid." OK, Dad. A wardrobe of fleece and gortex makes you a real mountain guide.
Unfortunately for my father, and especially for my mother, he chose a wife with staunch indoor leanings. Her ideal weekend is spent in front of the computer EBaying with HGTV on mute in the background and our dog, Cookie, gnawing on rawhide by her feet. At no point in the day should she feel cold. She loves our place in Vermont because she can entertain her favorite weekend activities with an impressively nicer view. You can take the lady outside... you get the picture.
Needless to say, my parents' commitment to each other has resulted in a lot of compromise. Dad knows that Mom has negative interest in cross country skiing, but Mom knows that she needs to commit to at least three hikes and seven days of skiing per year, non-negotiable terms. It's obvious my father appreciates this gesture, as those hikes and ski days tend to revolve around minimal incline and maximum lunch breaks.
One of those non-negotiable hike days occurred but a few weeks ago, when I met my parents for a couple days at their condo in Colorado. I'd flown in from Jackson Hole and was not only acclimated, but also ready for a good, solid day-hike. I assumed that because my father shared this desire, Mom would remain happily at the homestead undisturbed for the day. You can imagine my surprise when I arrived to Dad pleading her to join us.
"Weir, please come! We're going to this gorgeous lake."
At first, she held her own.
"I don't really want to, Michael. You and Liz go."
"But we can go as a family! [and in a kind of whispery tone] She's only here until tomorrow."
That tone, regardless of what he actually said, meant, "Liz, help me convince your mother."
"Yea, we'll have fun! Please, I really want you to come." I was up to the task. Obviously. The notion of my mother with a fanny pack is hilarious.
After a few more minutes of back-and-forth excuses, Mom conceded, and slowly put on her hiking gear.
Mom wore a grin as we drove down the highway toward our trail head. It was sunny; classical music accentuated the mountains; she even contributed to our order at the deli. This was going to be just fine, said the little twinkle in my father's eye. Truth me told, I was skeptical. Mom was being just a little too agreeable.
The first five minutes of our "hike" was actually walking up a road from the parking lot to the actual trail. She stopped three times to "look at the flowers." When we reached the trail head, she need to "look at the map," and then she needed to "double-check our route," and then her back was starting to hurt. In her defense, there were some pretty flowers in the private residences we passed; and the map did present an array of various routes to our destination.
I've never been a great leader - my pace is typically faster than my counterparts, and I get impatient quickly. Today was no different, especially because it seemed that with every step I took forward, Mother somehow took five steps back. I was careful not to encourage her too obviously; if my mother is anything it is independent, and unless she is the one acting the part, she doesn't like "cute."
After four minutes I had to say something. "Mom, come on. You can do this - just keep walking." This was worse than any twelve-year-old camper I'd pushed up a mountain.
She kind of grunted a response. Dad tried to interpret said grunt and offered that perhaps she'd like to take off one of her layers. Her expression said that his was a sort of good idea. Long-sleeve shirt off, tied around waist (over fanny-pack), hands on hips. My dad and I cautiously continue walking. Mom does not follow.
"I think I'm suffering from altitude sickness."
"No, you're not." I responded coolly.
Twenty more step. Twenty more steps for me means it was negative one hundred steps for her. My dad and I looked at her incredulously. She was actually teetering backwards.
"I'm looking at the god damned flowers, Michael."
We couldn't contain it any longer. Laughter awarded the mountains with a free concert.
"I have a headache." Dad and I shook our heads. I looked at my watch. We'd left the car fifteen minutes ago. This was at least an hour hike with normally-paced hikers.
I told them that they should keep walking (in place) and I would run ahead to see if we were getting close. It should be noted that by this point, three hiking groups had passed us. All of which were larger, and all of which had younger children trailing (ha) along.
It took me less than three minutes to know that we were nowhere near the lake. I walked back to my poor, ailing parents, and figured either we force mother to endure the worst day of her life, or we admit defeat, drop her off at home, and go on another hike. The choice seemed pretty obvious.
When I suggested the idea and added that we all sit down for lunch on a nice looking rock (as we hadn't exactly reached anywhere with a view), my father was a little hesitant. I could tell her really wanted Mom to reach the lake. My mother was also hesitant, though more to avoid appearing overly enthusiastic. But I tell you: I haven't seen her eyes light up like that in years. We sat down on the nearest rock and I passed around sandwiches - we'd all ordered turkey with mustard and lettuce. There hadn't been ten seconds of content silence before,
"This is peppered turkey."
"So?"
"Peppered turkey hurts my mouth."
Shit. I offered an apology along with my bread, mustard, and lettuce folded into a nice veggie sandwich.
"No. Too many carbs."
My father offered her a Pria bar.
"No. Too bad for my teeth."
We couldn't help smirking.
And then she said in by far the saddest, most defeated tone I've ever head, "All I wanted for lunch was a turkey sandwich. It was the one thing getting me through this afternoon."
I apologized again, but it was uttered through so much laughter I'm sure she could only appreciate it so much.
We finished lunch and started the 500-yard trek back to the car. Ironically, my mother's back was suddenly fine. Her had headache had lifted. Her feet felt wonderful. She did everything but trot to the car, ahead of both Dad and me, beaming like a horse finally returning to its stable...
What I've learned: Mom will win the battle, and she will win the war.
But despite this decision to engage with something else that is green, my father has passionately commanded that we, his children and wife, perceive as an unabashed "outdoor kid." OK, Dad. A wardrobe of fleece and gortex makes you a real mountain guide.
Unfortunately for my father, and especially for my mother, he chose a wife with staunch indoor leanings. Her ideal weekend is spent in front of the computer EBaying with HGTV on mute in the background and our dog, Cookie, gnawing on rawhide by her feet. At no point in the day should she feel cold. She loves our place in Vermont because she can entertain her favorite weekend activities with an impressively nicer view. You can take the lady outside... you get the picture.
Needless to say, my parents' commitment to each other has resulted in a lot of compromise. Dad knows that Mom has negative interest in cross country skiing, but Mom knows that she needs to commit to at least three hikes and seven days of skiing per year, non-negotiable terms. It's obvious my father appreciates this gesture, as those hikes and ski days tend to revolve around minimal incline and maximum lunch breaks.
One of those non-negotiable hike days occurred but a few weeks ago, when I met my parents for a couple days at their condo in Colorado. I'd flown in from Jackson Hole and was not only acclimated, but also ready for a good, solid day-hike. I assumed that because my father shared this desire, Mom would remain happily at the homestead undisturbed for the day. You can imagine my surprise when I arrived to Dad pleading her to join us.
"Weir, please come! We're going to this gorgeous lake."
At first, she held her own.
"I don't really want to, Michael. You and Liz go."
"But we can go as a family! [and in a kind of whispery tone] She's only here until tomorrow."
That tone, regardless of what he actually said, meant, "Liz, help me convince your mother."
"Yea, we'll have fun! Please, I really want you to come." I was up to the task. Obviously. The notion of my mother with a fanny pack is hilarious.
After a few more minutes of back-and-forth excuses, Mom conceded, and slowly put on her hiking gear.
Mom wore a grin as we drove down the highway toward our trail head. It was sunny; classical music accentuated the mountains; she even contributed to our order at the deli. This was going to be just fine, said the little twinkle in my father's eye. Truth me told, I was skeptical. Mom was being just a little too agreeable.
The first five minutes of our "hike" was actually walking up a road from the parking lot to the actual trail. She stopped three times to "look at the flowers." When we reached the trail head, she need to "look at the map," and then she needed to "double-check our route," and then her back was starting to hurt. In her defense, there were some pretty flowers in the private residences we passed; and the map did present an array of various routes to our destination.
I've never been a great leader - my pace is typically faster than my counterparts, and I get impatient quickly. Today was no different, especially because it seemed that with every step I took forward, Mother somehow took five steps back. I was careful not to encourage her too obviously; if my mother is anything it is independent, and unless she is the one acting the part, she doesn't like "cute."
After four minutes I had to say something. "Mom, come on. You can do this - just keep walking." This was worse than any twelve-year-old camper I'd pushed up a mountain.
She kind of grunted a response. Dad tried to interpret said grunt and offered that perhaps she'd like to take off one of her layers. Her expression said that his was a sort of good idea. Long-sleeve shirt off, tied around waist (over fanny-pack), hands on hips. My dad and I cautiously continue walking. Mom does not follow.
"I think I'm suffering from altitude sickness."
"No, you're not." I responded coolly.
Twenty more step. Twenty more steps for me means it was negative one hundred steps for her. My dad and I looked at her incredulously. She was actually teetering backwards.
"I'm looking at the god damned flowers, Michael."
We couldn't contain it any longer. Laughter awarded the mountains with a free concert.
"I have a headache." Dad and I shook our heads. I looked at my watch. We'd left the car fifteen minutes ago. This was at least an hour hike with normally-paced hikers.
I told them that they should keep walking (in place) and I would run ahead to see if we were getting close. It should be noted that by this point, three hiking groups had passed us. All of which were larger, and all of which had younger children trailing (ha) along.
It took me less than three minutes to know that we were nowhere near the lake. I walked back to my poor, ailing parents, and figured either we force mother to endure the worst day of her life, or we admit defeat, drop her off at home, and go on another hike. The choice seemed pretty obvious.
When I suggested the idea and added that we all sit down for lunch on a nice looking rock (as we hadn't exactly reached anywhere with a view), my father was a little hesitant. I could tell her really wanted Mom to reach the lake. My mother was also hesitant, though more to avoid appearing overly enthusiastic. But I tell you: I haven't seen her eyes light up like that in years. We sat down on the nearest rock and I passed around sandwiches - we'd all ordered turkey with mustard and lettuce. There hadn't been ten seconds of content silence before,
"This is peppered turkey."
"So?"
"Peppered turkey hurts my mouth."
Shit. I offered an apology along with my bread, mustard, and lettuce folded into a nice veggie sandwich.
"No. Too many carbs."
My father offered her a Pria bar.
"No. Too bad for my teeth."
We couldn't help smirking.
And then she said in by far the saddest, most defeated tone I've ever head, "All I wanted for lunch was a turkey sandwich. It was the one thing getting me through this afternoon."
I apologized again, but it was uttered through so much laughter I'm sure she could only appreciate it so much.
We finished lunch and started the 500-yard trek back to the car. Ironically, my mother's back was suddenly fine. Her had headache had lifted. Her feet felt wonderful. She did everything but trot to the car, ahead of both Dad and me, beaming like a horse finally returning to its stable...
What I've learned: Mom will win the battle, and she will win the war.
Signs You Know it Was Your Birthday
1. Sheets are not dry
2. Advil loose in my back pocket
3. Confidence that absolutely nothing has changed since last year.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Same Chip, Different Cookie
Coming out is like... a box of chocolates. No, that's not it. Coming out is like... lily tickled air on a summer day. No, that's not right either. Coming out is like... coming out sucks. It's nerve-wracking and awkward and even for a girl who needs to constantly remind herself that she's not in a movie, this stage was enormous and daunting. But even without a movie script in hand I still did as the celebs do: take advantage of the night hours.*
*This is one of those moments where substances
are part of the story.
Because I don't want to admit that Mr. Beam told my secret to the masses, I like to think it was the dark magic of nighttime that prompted my confessional. But let's be honest - I came out six times in two weeks at the beginning of Sophomore year. And I'm not talking six different pods of people. I'm talking same group of friends, present for every conversation that actually read like a script by the end. "Guys, I have something to tell you," I'd begin after five or six vodka shots. The girls would look at each other. Not this again. "What's up, Parker?" "You're not going to like this." What they didn't like was knowing that they had another thirty minutes before the conversation, the SAME conversation as the previous night, would come to a close - either someone would interrupt, or I'd forget what I was talking about and suggest another shot. To this, they unanimously agreed. The next morning(s) I would awake a little confused, thinking that I'd maybe come forward, but then assuming I hadn't because if I had I would totally remember, right? To my friends' credit, they humored me and let me know, each time, that it was okay if I "sometimes maybe dated a girl." I was not gay. No, that was too declarative. Too major. I wasn't techincally bi. Too trendy. I was "not straight."
When I came out to my dad it was on the eve of our annual Christmas party. I'd always wanted to be the child that comes home from college and uses the holiday cheer to cushion the blow of her sexuality. We were standing in the kitchen sipping late-night wine and he was telling me how his friends thought I'd grown-up so nicely. Apparently that was all I needed. Tears streamed down my face. Little, pathetic sobs made my shoulders shake. Dad, understandably, looked alarmed.
"Bird? You okay?" Clearly no.
"It's just... it's just, I have something to tell you."
He offered the classic and very loving, "Whatever it is you can tell me" while I tried to regain composure. He totally knew what was coming.
"I'm [choke] not [bite lip] straight." I'm not straight? What the hell does that even mean? Scoliosis?
Dad handled it well. He put one arm over his daughter's shoulders and used his free hand to grab a bottle of champagne. We sat in the living room and drank while I told him the story of how I came to like girls.
I still only rarely admit my sexuality in the daylight hours, and even rarer do I use the G word. And I don't even pretend to "be above labels," - I love Seven jeans and Whole Foods as much as the next person. It's not that I avoid the terminology, as I frequently lament the lack of lesbians in my life and make fun of bulldykes and call my good gay friend a queen, but I let on my own leanings by dropping a pronoun or referring to a obviously female ex. Never, "Hi, my name is Liz, I'm gay." Always, "Hi, my name is Liz, last night I hooked up with this girl, but she's probably straight. I'm not, though."
Thanks, Liz, for that clarification.
*This is one of those moments where substances
are part of the story.
Because I don't want to admit that Mr. Beam told my secret to the masses, I like to think it was the dark magic of nighttime that prompted my confessional. But let's be honest - I came out six times in two weeks at the beginning of Sophomore year. And I'm not talking six different pods of people. I'm talking same group of friends, present for every conversation that actually read like a script by the end. "Guys, I have something to tell you," I'd begin after five or six vodka shots. The girls would look at each other. Not this again. "What's up, Parker?" "You're not going to like this." What they didn't like was knowing that they had another thirty minutes before the conversation, the SAME conversation as the previous night, would come to a close - either someone would interrupt, or I'd forget what I was talking about and suggest another shot. To this, they unanimously agreed. The next morning(s) I would awake a little confused, thinking that I'd maybe come forward, but then assuming I hadn't because if I had I would totally remember, right? To my friends' credit, they humored me and let me know, each time, that it was okay if I "sometimes maybe dated a girl." I was not gay. No, that was too declarative. Too major. I wasn't techincally bi. Too trendy. I was "not straight."
When I came out to my dad it was on the eve of our annual Christmas party. I'd always wanted to be the child that comes home from college and uses the holiday cheer to cushion the blow of her sexuality. We were standing in the kitchen sipping late-night wine and he was telling me how his friends thought I'd grown-up so nicely. Apparently that was all I needed. Tears streamed down my face. Little, pathetic sobs made my shoulders shake. Dad, understandably, looked alarmed.
"Bird? You okay?" Clearly no.
"It's just... it's just, I have something to tell you."
He offered the classic and very loving, "Whatever it is you can tell me" while I tried to regain composure. He totally knew what was coming.
"I'm [choke] not [bite lip] straight." I'm not straight? What the hell does that even mean? Scoliosis?
Dad handled it well. He put one arm over his daughter's shoulders and used his free hand to grab a bottle of champagne. We sat in the living room and drank while I told him the story of how I came to like girls.
I still only rarely admit my sexuality in the daylight hours, and even rarer do I use the G word. And I don't even pretend to "be above labels," - I love Seven jeans and Whole Foods as much as the next person. It's not that I avoid the terminology, as I frequently lament the lack of lesbians in my life and make fun of bulldykes and call my good gay friend a queen, but I let on my own leanings by dropping a pronoun or referring to a obviously female ex. Never, "Hi, my name is Liz, I'm gay." Always, "Hi, my name is Liz, last night I hooked up with this girl, but she's probably straight. I'm not, though."
Thanks, Liz, for that clarification.
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