Baby Maker
Happy Birthday to me! Brandon’s mom, who was trashed after 2 glasses of wine, told me I had to have a baby.
“Because every woman has to experience child birth.”
I asked if it mattered if I kept the baby or just if I delivered it, but I’m not sure she heard me because she didn’t respond.
“Julie (Brandon’s younger sister) will have one first and then you.”
“What happens if I have one first,” I asked.
“You won’t,” she replied.
“Well I could. I could be pregnant right now.”
“No, you couldn’t. I know you wouldn’t let that happen.”
Note: I’m not sure if that was a compliment or an insult, but I’m still taking it as a compliment, despite her tone of voice.
A few moments later the fact that my dad has hemophilia somehow came up. The next spoken thought came a mere 1.5 seconds later from Brandon’s mom.
“That means she can pass that on to my grandbabies!”
While some sensitivity regarding my reproductive capabilities might have been nice, I’m thinking I should have mentioned this four years ago. Since my status as a breed mare has been compromised, the subject has been laid to rest for longer than ever before.
And that is the best birthday present I could have asked for.
Men, money, and me…according to her
I started my job, my as close to dream job as I expect to get, in October. I work for a non-profit connected to the medical field. Brandon’s mom, older sister, and younger sister all work at an urgent care clinic. You may have previously read that Brandon’s mom, older sister, and younger sister worked at a foot doctor’s office. Well then his younger sister, older sister, and his mom were fired. Then his younger sister, his mom, and his older sister moved to the clinic.
I’ve explained a few times to Brandon’s mom what exactly it is that I do. However, she still refers to my provider rounds as “marketing” and to my health fair booths as “PR.” She even offered my “business” a table at her company’s health fair for $150. Frankly, I just don’t have the time to fill out a grant application for that.
One night, after a few glasses of wine, she asked me how my job was going. I said it was going great and I was recently promoted. Her response?
“Well, you can come work for me if you want to go take some classes in medical billing.”
Before I write what my response was, I suppose I should say that I have become a bit more open and honest, or should I say blunt, when it comes to dealing with Brandon’s mom.
I replied, “Why would I do that?”
To which she said that after a while she could pay me X amount of dollars per hour.
I opted not to respond to this, but let it be known that her figure was less than I am currently making. Let it also be known that the position she offered me required no high school diploma and a vocational class, while I attended four years of college.
Most of that I could easily overlook, if it weren’t for the underlying chauvinistic tone. Now, to the innocent reader, it may not seem that way at all. You are forgetting that I have four years of observation under my belt.
Brandon works in construction and did not go to college. He makes just over the figure his mom gave to me. After overtime, he and I make about the same which to be honest, is pretty typical considering the standard pay differences between men and women. However, in his mom’s head my female college graduate brain was worth, at best, less than his.
Perhaps I sound like an education snob (although I like to think my four year investment is worth something) or just an ungrateful brat, but trust me…this may seem like one small incident, but it was covered with layer upon layer of oppression.
The Upside to Brain Tumors
The past 4 months have been the hardest 4 months of my life. I should preface this by stating that no, I did not nor do I now have a brain tumor. I quit my job. I quit my job in the midst of a recession.
After about a month, I realized I had to do something, so I sold the majority of my living room furniture to pay the bills (although to be quite honest, I really haven’t noticed). Then, I put on a big girl face and dealt with rejection after rejection with a brave face. Ok, sometimes it was a sad crying face, but it was still my face.
Now I have a job. I have a good job. And with that, I am somehow able to write again. This past Monday, after my most recent discouraging job interview, I went to my parents’ house and started to cry. My mom shoved a Victor Frankl passage under my running nose about a jobless woman who published an ad poking fun at her employment availability. I pushed the book aside, laid my head down, and sobbed over the fact that not only was I jobless, but I was past finding humor in myself.
Now that I have a job, I can say with much more conviction that everything happens for a reason. It is much easier to say that when things are reasonable. But today I met someone who truly put my optimism to shame.
My mother, who is 5′5″ and 100 pounds, fell about three and a half weeks ago. She broke her wrist and bruised her pelvis. Today she went to the doctor, who was concerned at the pain still present in her hip area. She was sent to get an MRI. I drove her because she (as am I) is claustrophobic and needed to be medicated for the tube. In the waiting room, an old man struck up a conversation with me while his wife was having an MRI.
“She has a brain tumor,” he tells me. How do you respond to that? Well, luckily, I didn’t have to. ”I keep telling her the upside to all of this,” he continued. ”The good things is, five years ago she would have been dead. But now, they have the technology to keep her alive. So really, it’s a good thing!”
I have never met someone who was so good at making lemonade out of lemons. Hell, he made lemonade out of a brain tumor.
After we found out that my mom’s hip was actually broken (yes, the same hip she had been walking around on for three and a half weeks), we went to get her a walker. As my mom nearly broke down into tears at the sight of an enormous walker her doctor had prescribed her (no kidding, this was the biggest walker I’ve ever seen), I decided to follow this older gentlemen’s advice and make some lemonade. So, I sat myself down quite easily on the electric chair for people who can’t sit down or stand up on their own, and laughed at my mom.
Next time I’ve assured her I’ll be able to laugh at myself as well.
Sin as…socks?
I was at a wedding this past weekend and all was going as expected…the bride looked stunning, the family members were all misty eyed. But then, the minister really threw us all a zinger.
He asked all of the guests to raise their hands if they had purchased gifts. I was a bit uncomfortable since a) I’m Catholic and we really don’t condone audience participation and b) I don’t like to publicly talk about money or anything related to it (i.e. gifts). Still, I reluctantly raised my hand along with the others and the minister moved on…to a walmart bag.
He walked around the pulpit carrying a plastic bag from walmart from which he pulled a pair of socks. He began preaching about the gift of those socks and walking around life collecting sin. I’m still not quite sure what role the socks played in the sin, short of picking it up off the ground. Personally, I think shoe soles would make more sense, but I presume those are more expensive and he probably hosts a lot of ceremonies.
Anyway, I shifted uncomfortably as he spoke of socks and sin and washing ourselves clean. He spoke of fresh starts (I’m assuming he meant laundry day) and moved on to a bottle of glue. He stated over and over again that he was holding a bottle of all purpose white glue. This one was a little easier to get, what with the marriage (i.e. glue) sticking them together, but I was a little uncomfortable by his particular emphasis on the word ‘white.’ Perhaps clear glue might be a better choice for next time.
This little display came to a roaring end with a large wooden spoon. This, he explained, was for mixing up the ingredients. Apparently, the difference between a greasy spoon and a five star spoon is the ingredients they mix up. Well, and the grease.
All in all, this was one of the more interesting wedding services I have attended, and frankly I’m a little bit grateful seeing as it is also the 4th this year. So cheers to you, and go wash your socks! It’s a new day, with a little help from tide.
I sure do hope they send him a nice thank you card.
Hard drive failure…
It’s been a while, I know. It all started one evening as I was using my Macbook to post on eBay and I walked away for a short while. I came back to a screen saver that just didn’t go away. I finally rebooted, to see a file folder with a question mark in it flashing on the screen and no boot up.
I tried to remain calm. Once in college I stayed behind on a long weekend to catch up on the three papers I had to finish for the next week. I was about 75% of the way through when my hard drive crashed. I lost everything and had no one around to help. I called Dell the next morning and they came out a week later to replace the hard drive under warranty, but it was a blank slate.
After a restless night, I went to the mall (where I’m working right now, trying not to kill myself), which luckily has a Mac Store. I had rushed out in my pajamas that morning to use the library’s computer to reserve myself a spot at the Genius Bar, and spent my lunch break waiting for the diagnosis. Thirty minutes after my reservation time, a Mac Genius approached me and asked what the problem was. I opened my mouth to tell him, but after 30 agonizing minutes of holding onto hope while imagining the past 3 years of writing with no back up (yes, I’m an idiot) gone I could no longer speak. I began to cry as I pushed my lap top towards him and mumbled, “It’s hurt.”
It took him about 30 seconds to determine that the hard drive had crashed. He gave me an estimate on a new hard drive and told me they would try, but there was little chance they would recover anything. I had the option of sending it to a specialist for $900 to try and recover any data, but that wasn’t guaranteed. Yeah, like a girl working at the mall can afford that. As he gently mentioned the options of backing up my data, my mind flashed to a Sex and the City episode where Carrie’s Lap Top crashed and everyone was shocked she never backed up. I feel her pain.
So now I obviously have my computer back. I lost a lot that I will never get back the least of which was the $200 to replace the hard drive, but that’s ok. I’m going to remain positive and think of it as a clean slate. I will work harder, write harder, take less for granted, and of course, I will back up. I suggest you go do the same now.
A Bad Hair Day
I was watching Legally Blond: The Search For the Next Elle Woods (did I really just admit that?) and on one of the challenges, the girls had their hair transformed at the world famous salon at Bergdorf Goodman’s. Harsh challenge, right? Anyways, one of the girls has her hair trimmed and lightly highlighted and starts sobbing hysterically. At first, I thought she was just upset because they didn’t do all that much. Then, she says that she can’t handle her hair being that short. It was literally about 1/2″ shorter.
I don’t understand why women get so attached to their hair. I mean, not to sound cliche, but it does grow back. Why get so upset at a few inches lost? Although, I can understand to some extent when I reach back in my memory to one particular occasion.
I used to drive a blind woman around on weekend errands. I took her grocery shopping, to the doctor, and occasionally to the beauty salon. Well, on one trip to get her hair permed, she insisted on me getting my hair permed with her. I was about 16 and had just grown out a truly awful middle school frizz perm, and wasn’t about to dive back into that again. However, as I think all straight-haired girls feel, I really wanted curls. So, I decided to compromise. After all, I had a little old blind woman I couldn’t bear to let down.
I told the hairdresser to use big rollers for a large, barrel curl that I figured would do nothing more than wave my hair and fall out after a few weeks. I had been up since 5am for swim practice and was tired out, so I rested my eyes and let her get to work. I woke up two hours later to see dozens of teeny tiny little rollers covering my head and setting in the permanent curl. I bit my tongue to keep from crying and remained calm, holding on tight to my pride. The blind woman thought I was lovely. Everyone else, well, not so much. It was terrible. I rushed home, washed my hair seven times, and swam all evening long. I salvaged it somewhat, but the remains of a bad perm stayed with me for a few weeks. My pride, well that’s here for a lifetime.
Wedding Blues
I think it can all be traced back to one event in kindergarden. The school was for some reason that seems sort of creepy now, staging a faux wedding. One boy and one girl from the kindergarden class were to be chosen for the coveted roles of groom and bride. I wanted to be that girl. Instead, I was chosen to be a bridesmaid.
Since then, I have been a bridesmaid five times, soon to be six. However, unlike most public opinions, I like it. I enjoy buying the dress, holding the flowers, and having a VIP pass to the party. Lately though, people have started comparing me to the main character of 27 Dresses.
Out of curiosity, I watched the movie. I am nothing like her. Sure, I’m a good and frequent bridesmaid, but in a completely different manner. For one, I am quick to turnover a bridesmaid gown at a substantial loss on eBay (I mean really, what use does one have for one bridesmaid gown?) rather than hoard them in an overstuffed closet. And more importantly, I do not dream of getting married.
Since that fateful day in kindergarden, I never once dreamt of my wedding day. Sure, I’ve dreamt of my dream house and names for my kids, but never for a day dressed in white with some huge hideous demeaning veil. Still, the world seems pitted against me. And no, for once, I am not talking about Brandon’s mother.
At a recent planning dinner for my friend’s wedding (in which I am the maid of honor), a bridesmaid warned my friend that most people would start giving them a hard time about being married and their impending divorce date. I asked what sort of friends would say that. She said everyone. I thought to myself that friends like that aren’t worth having. She said that everyone was jealous, because really…deep down, everyone wanted to be married.
I take offense to this statement. I mean, really, do people actually think that? I swear, if people keep up this attitude in front of me I may never get married simply out of protest. I’m sure Brandon wouldn’t mind terribly and I am perfectly content wearing the matching dress.
I’m a bitch!
Tonight I was called a bitch by Brandon’s mother. Now, while I can only recall being called a bitch once before in my life (by an angry teenage student, no less), I normally wouldn’t be altogether shocked as I’m sure she’s caught on by this point in our relationship that I have little to no respect for her. However, this name did not come after I ignored a question or rolled my eyes at a future daughter-in-law demand (such as last night when I was told I must learn to play Bridge if I wanted to be “a daughter-in-law”…but really, let’s not get me started on that especially considering she has only one son, so I would be “the daughter in law,” not “a”).
No, no. This name came after I walked into the kitchen and told Brandon he needed to watch Schindler’s List (he hasn’t, I know…can you believe that?). She walked in, drunk, and asked what Schindler’s List was. I said, “You don’t know what Schindler’s List is?” She said, “What, is it a movie?” I said yes. Frankly, I thought I was being quite cordial under the circumstances.
Perhaps it was due to the many drinks she had consumed. Perhaps it was due to her estranged husband home visiting and sleeping on the couch. Perhaps it was due to her job letting her go (after she told them three times she was looking elsewhere for employment). Whatever it was, I am, alas, a bitch. Sigh.
Karma, can you hear me?
Brandon’s older sister was fired for stealing prescription pads from her boss and filling fraudulent prescriptions for herself. Let me be clear: she was fired. Not arrested, not fined, just fired.
I have always been a firm believer in karmic justice, but lately, my beliefs have been tried. Mainly, by Brandon’s sisters. Days after Shelby was fired for stealing she found a new job at the same pay rate. I searched for a job for weeks, finally having to accept a retail position for which I am slightly over-qualified at a drastic pay cut. I left my old job on good terms, never slacking and certainly never stealing.
Brandon’s younger sister Julie left college her second semester without ever withdrawing from her classes or notifying the school. Three years later, she managed to remove the $3500 outstanding tuition and 5 F’s from her record with a good sob story. I graduated .02 points short of honors.
I’m going to hold onto my belief that what goes around, does indeed come around. Perhaps I’m just being bitter, but I don’t understand why these lucky breaks keep coming to people who are, well, less than grateful. Or less than deserving. Karma, I’ll be waiting.
Men and Gas
I suppose my title is a bit misleading, but I am left to wonder what it is about gas stations that makes men so…unleashed.
It’s a common issue. Women, typically alone, go to a gas station and get cat-called by some random car full of testosterone frenzied men. Tonight I stopped to fill up and some fine male specimens had the audacity to circle my car while yelling some things I am too much of a lady to repeat. Well, this is their own prerogative I suppose and they are entitled to it, but really what are they expecting to happen? Am I supposed to be frightened by this display and run inside for safe keeping? Or, am I supposed to be somehow flattered, or possibly even aroused? I don’t get it.
I’m left wondering: why gas stations? This doesn’t happen at the grocery store or the bank. It happens at a little semi-covered flammable area filled with long hoses pumping out the fuel of which we all depend so desperately upon despite our extreme dissatisfaction with its costs. Hmm…
I believe I’ve just answered my own question.
