It's like Tuesdays with Morrie without all the wisdom
Posts tagged life
Don’t be a Jon Gosselin
10September 10, 2009
by Abby
in I have some daughters
Dear Doormats and Doormat Users,
Let Jon Gosselin’s story be a lesson to you: The way your relationship works right now will not last forever. Doormat, someday you will realize that you are a fully-formed person with your very own thoughts, needs, opinions, likes, and dislikes, and if your mate is used to wiping her feet on you, she will have a hard time with this realization and, if you don’t both go to therapy, you (the brand-new fully-formed person) will back down from communicating your brand-new needs and act out in unhealthy ways. Even if your opinions are wrong, it’s ok to have them. For example, say you’re a 32-year-old man and you have the opinion that diamond earrings in both ears looks good. That would be a wrong opinion, but go ahead and rock those earrings, no matter what. They’re not hurting anybody and your wife could just do everyone a favor and not tell you you look stupid constantly because, guess what, they are your stupid earrings and it’s your stupid head. And maybe you would have grown out of it by the time you were, oh, around 22 if you had the wherewithal to have your own opinions about earrings back then instead of just changing yourself all up in order to fit the “love” of your life’s ideas of what’s good and what’s not.
And Doormat Users, when your Doormat comes to you and starts having these opinions and whatever, just shut the ef up ok? If you’re having a super hard time with all of the human-like behavior that your Doormat is suddenly exhibiting, you best get your butt to therapy.
And Doormat, if your User is having a hard time with your human-like behavior and you feel like throwing your hands in the air in disgust and just shutting down again and acting out in childish ways, you best get your butt to therapy. Because, guess what, I know you think you’re in love with your rebound girl and everything, but you’re not. Anyone would seem awesome after what you were dealing with before, but if your marriage is can’t be saved, what you really need is time alone. Figure out who you really are. Maybe you don’t even think diamond earrings in both ears is a great idea, but your brand-new awesome “love” of your life does and it feels good to do what she wants you to do right now because, well, it feels sooooo good and she’s not shrieking at you in the Wal-Mart. But that’s still pretty Doormatty behavior, and we all know where that will lead. It might take 15 years, but it will lead to the same place. Let’s take some time and learn some lessons, shall we? Just because your marriage is over, doesn’t mean you’re done with therapy.
Sincerely,
Abby Aldrich
Daughter of a Doormat and Doormat User
Model of Qualities of Both for More Than 30 Years
Advocate for Change
Advocate for Acceptance of Change
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I’m only slightly embarrassed to admit that Bryan and I watched Jon Gosselin’s interview with Chris Cumo on ABC. We recorded it. And we watched it. On purpose. I’m not interested in the whole he said/she said thing. I’m not interested in his current relationship(s), I’m not interested in how he feels about Kate now or how he felt back then. I wanted to know if he’s been to therapy. I wanted to know if he realizes how he got to the point where he is now. He said he’s been to therapy, but Kate hasn’t, which I totally believe. But I don’t get the feeling that he understands how his personality also contributed to this. Sure, Kate’s a shrew, but there’s a reason she chose somebody like Jon. If Jon had been an actual person, maybe they never would have been together. But he wasn’t. He was clay in Kate’s hands and he “loved” her so he changed for her. And what we’re seeing now? That’s what always happens in these types of situations.
And, of course, I must bring it all back around to parenting. Lena and Liberty are naturally nice and lovely and they’ll do whatever you say and it’s very easy to take advantage of them. We have had to fight really hard to teach them to stand up for themselves even against us. They’re 10 now, and they’re getting better at it. But, in our society, we seem to value niceness above all else and that’s not right. Look where niceness got Jon Gosselin. When my kids and I are standing in line at the grocery store and they’re reading the headlines, I use Jon as an example to Lena and Liberty. I tell them that this is all happening because he didn’t know himself and he didn’t love himself enough to actually be himself in the beginning of his relationship with Kate. No relationship is worth just being a shell of a person.
Now, Maya seems more split down the middle of Jon and Kate, depending on lots of things. If she were a little bit older, I might use Kate as an example and tell her that this is all happening because of the Jon thing, but also because Kate doesn’t understand the value of being in a relationship with somebody who is more than a shell. I don’t know. I think it’s easier to teach a young Kate to lay off than it is to teach a young Jon to stand up for himself. A touch of, “Kid, you better chill because your friend said ‘no’ and no means no,” is easier to teach than, “It’s ok to say no, if you want to say no. If so-and-so is sad because you said no, that’s ok. It’s ok if they’re sad, you are not responsible for their feelings. You’ll be sad if you say yes when you really want to say no. Don’t your feelings count? If your friend is a true friend, they’ll be sad but they’ll see that it’s ok for you to not do it and you can still be friends. If they don’t understand that, then it’s not worth sacrificing your comfort for theirs. And maybe they won’t understand at first, but they’ll eventually understand, blah, blah, blah.” Ugh, that’s a lot of words and, actually, there are more words that go to that speech that we’ve been using for the past 6 or so years over and over and in a million different situations, but if it means they learn to not be a Jon Gosselin, then I’ll keep repeating it.
P.S. Jon, you can use my above speech on Cara from time to time. That kid is heading for Ultimate Doormat status and it really breaks my heart when you talk about how much she loves sports. Maybe she does, but maybe she’s also learned that that’s what you love and you are her very first love and she sees how your eyes light up when you talk about how she loves sports and how good she is at everything. And she sees you roll your eyes when you talk about how Mady is just the opposite. Just think about it. You never know. I’m just sayin’.
P.P.S. Mady sees your eyes light up when you talk about Cara’s interests, and she sees you roll your eyes when you talk about hers. I’m just sayin’.
My Entire Childhood (Except for Dave’s Bar) Has Disappeared
13June 10, 2009
I stole this picture from flickr user oldbrushes. I asked permission, but I haven’t heard back. If she wants me to take it down, I will, so enjoy it while you can.
When I was just a wee little girl, waiting for the school bus in the wee hours of the crispy fall mornings, far off in the distance I could hear the sound of Farmer Peet’s wee little pigs squealing at the slaughterhouse. At least, that’s what my brother and sister told me I was listening to. It was definitely the sound of pigs squealing, but I don’t know if they were actually being slaughtered at that moment in time.
On a related note, pork is my favorite meat.
The pigs were at the Peet Packing Company, which is no longer around thanks, in part, to Denny McLain and his thieving, but I very rarely eat pork without remembering that sound. It’s oddly soothing, like jingle bells at Christmas. If you lived in Chesaning and had a job that wasn’t on the family farm or in one of the family-owned shops and restaurants back then, it’s very likely that you worked for Farmer Peet’s. Or GM. Or maybe you were a teacher, I don’t know. My dad worked at the local phone company and my mom worked at one of the family-owned shops. Bryan’s dad worked at GM and his mom worked at the same shop that my mom did, but lots of my friends’ parents worked at Peet’s. Anyway, it was a huge bummer when they closed.
Chesaning was lovely when I was young, and sometimes I think I would kill a person in order to have a blueberry muffin from the Heritage House. Why were they so yummy, you guys? Because I was white trash, I never ate them at the Heritage House. I ate them at the Heritage House’s basement bar, The Rathskellar, or at the Carriage Shoppe, which was an antique shop behind the Heritage House.
From the time I was 12-15, we didn’t have a phone, which put my popularity at risk, so instead of reading books and embracing my solitude, I walked to the nearest payphone to be in the loop with my friends. That phone was at a “mini mall” called Market Street Square, which was next to the Heritage House/Rathskellar/Carriage Shoppe lot. On the way to the phone, I would stop at the Carriage Shoppe and buy one of those magic muffins for 50 cents! I would have paid a whole dollar. Besides the great payphone, Market Street Square had a bunch of cute shops and a yummy deli, none of which are there anymore. Well, it looks like Market Street Square is still there, but now it’s a church and Christian bookstore, with plans for a deli and resale shop to be added later. But it’s not the mini mall from my childhood. And I think my sister told me that the local phone company took the payphone out of there.
The pigs, payphone, and muffins from my childhood might be gone, but the dominant sounds from my teenhood aren’t. By the time I was a teenager, my parents were divorced and my mom and I lived in an apartment up above a row of shops and bars in downtown Chesaning. Sometimes on summer nights, we would wake up to the sound of drunk people leaving Dave’s Bar and Farmer’s Inn after last call. Drunk people are funny. One time we saw one get hit by a car. He wasn’t hurt, so it was extra funny. He just kind of bounced off the car and then yelled at it as it drove away. We saw a couple of fist fights, but mostly we just eavesdropped on drunken, “I love you soooooo much!” conversations. Farmer’s Inn isn’t there anymore, but Dave’s still is. Dave’s will never die. Never!
During the daytime, there were (usually) no drunks for entertainment, so I had to pass the time by watching the security camera feed from one of the shops underneath our apartment. Do I have to tell you that this shop is no longer there? I didn’t think so. The shop had a camera in the make-up aisle and our tv would pick up the feed. I didn’t have cable so my friends and I would naturally watch the security camera channel sometimes. Or a lot. One lucky, lucky day I saw a girl who was a year ahead of me in school browsing the Bonne Bell display. I was just about to turn it off when I saw her turn her head to the left and right to make sure no one was watching her. That piqued my interest. I thought I was totally going to see her steal a Dr. Pepper-flavored Lip Smacker or something, but she surprised me by picking her nose and then her butt in quick succession. It. Was. Awesome. Way better than cable. 
Unfortunately, I still didn’t have a phone by then so I had to run to the nearest payphone to call all of my friends and tell them. If that happened today, I totally would have tweeted it. Well, I probably would have missed it because I would have been watching actual tv shows instead of security cameras. Even white trash kids get to have cable and high-speed internet these days. Not like when I was young and only the rich kids had it.
Maybe all of the landmarks from my childhood are gone, but I still have my memories. And Dave’s bar. When one or both of those go under, then it will be like I was never even born.
I Only Sell-Out for Cash Money
12June 8, 2009
I’m not copying Dawn, I swear, but I took my Blogher ads down.
I’m ambivalent about advertising, so if I’m going to put ads on my site, it has to be worth it to me. Not spiritually worth it, monetarily worth it. That’s why it’s called sell-out, not giveaway-out. I can be bought. So, while the “wrinkle cream reviews” link makes me cringe a little, I’ll keep it because it can go “below the fold” and, most importantly, they paid me cash money up front instead of using whatever fancy logorithm blogher uses (I think they divide by 0).
I’m a bit sensitive to advertising, (I <3 Sociological Images) and most ads make me cringe in one way or another, so I have to be compensated for my pain and suffering. But I don’t get enough hits to make it worth my while to have blogher ads. Yes, yes, I see the hypocrisy. And I raise you some duplicity. Heh. I don’t really care. I just wanna get paid, bitches! Although, I draw the line at nudity. I wouldn’t put a picture of my boobs on the site, no matter how much you paid me. (Yes, I would, but I would tell you they were somebody else’s.) Nevermind, all of my booby pictures are nursing-related.
Anyway, how have you been? I have been fine. It is hot out now. I am a sweaty, sweaty pig. How are you? Your friend, Abby
Did you ever have a pen pal and did you write like that to her? I did. And that’s how I found out there was no Santa! I’ll share that memory with you now, as I have nothing else to say and Bryan is studying, and I can’t read my book until bedtime because I’ll fall asleep, and the tv remote is far away from me, and I already read the whole internet all up.
My pen pal’s name was Jenny and she lived way up north in Au Gres (that’s pronounced like, “aw, gray!” like if you were opening a pair of wool socks for your birthday and they were gray and you said, “Aw, gray!” or “Aw, gray,” whichever inflection suits you) and our dads worked for the same company and we met at a company picnic and became penpals! It was the best thing ever. After a couple of years, we hatched a delicious plan to find out, once and for all, if there really was a Santa Claus. We both left a note with our cookies that said, “Dear Santa, How are you? I am fine. How many elves do you have?” Well, her Santa said “Too many to count!” and my Santa said, “212.” Dumb Santas. And that’s why I always think my kids are trying to trap me every time they ask me a question.
Oh, here comes a kid now. I’m going to tell her to bring me the remote. You’re so lucky.
Journey=Chuck Berry
11April 22, 2009
I hate to break this to everybody, but Journey is now an oldies band. It’s true. Maybe this isn’t a surprise to you, but it certainly is to me.
I had one of those holy-shit-I’m-as-old-as-my-parents-were-when I-thought-they-were-so-old and-now-I-realize-that-they-weren’t-so-old moments yesterday. Has that ever happened to you? Jarring.
*sigh* The girls and I were in the car yesterday and Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” came on the radio. Of course I turned it up and started singing because that’s my favorite thing to do. Then I heard Lena singing with me and it made me think of driving around with my parents on Saturday nights listening to “Solid Gold Saturday Night” on the Pacer radio (If you’ve heard that radio show, I bet you can’t just read the words “Solid Gold Saturday Night.” You have to sing them, don’t you? It’s ok, I do too.) I used to sing along with my parents all the frickin’ time! Even when I didn’t know the words. But those songs were well and truly old, right? Songs from my youth can’t possibly be considered well and truly old by my children. I thought about that and then I googled it. And now I frickin’ hate the google. Always telling me stuff I don’t wanna know. Know-it-all douche.
I was 6 when “Don’t Stop Believin’” came out. My mom was 6 when one of my all-time favorite oldies came out:
=
So, by my math, Journey=Chuck Berry. Think about that! I’m just going to assume that my math is wrong and keep going ahead with the idea that my parents are old now and they’ve always been old, while I, on the other hand, have always been young and will continue to be young. Seriously, tell me there’s something special about songs from the 50s and their “oldies” quality. It’s not the same as when a child of today hears Journey. I mean, it’s not the same, is it? Is it?
In Which I Fondly Remember my First Pork Roast
3April 8, 2009
It’s spring break around here for my nieces. Truthfully, my kids have been on spring break since the end of February. That’s how it always goes with us. We take a huge break from doing math from the end of winter until about May and then we get back into the swing of things. Sometimes I have them go to Quizlet.com and play games there, but not while their cousins are here. For sure.
I posted some pictures of my messy, messy, nothing is where it actually goes house. It’s extra messy because of the sleepover/spring break/let’s not make the children do chores attitude that’s going on this week. It felt false to kick the blankets/stuffed animals/toys out of the way before snapping pics like this:
That’s what the basement looks like every morning this week. Oh well. At least there are some sweet pictures like this to maybe redeem me:
How could I make these sweet girls clean up their bedding? What kind of a monster would I be? They’re obviously chillin’.
So I made a couple of pork roasts in the crockpot the other day and turned them into shredded pork bbq. It was yummy, but that’s not the point. Certain foods in my life are tied to memories of certain people. I don’t want to say that the food is the most important part of the memory and the person is just secondary, but it seems like my most vivid memories of people have to do with food.
Every single time I make a pork roast, I think of my ex-stepdad, Marc. When I was a junior in high school, he and my mom got married. Not only were we able to move out of our apartment up above Dave’s bar, but this marriage came with a Sam’s Club card and a dude that was a great cook. (Yes, those facts were more important to me than the fact that my mom was also able to get rid of that perpetually muffler-less Chevette in favof the Beretta of Hotness.) After 7 years eating frozen chicken patties, chili, spaghetti, canned ravioli, steak ums, and the like, I couldn’t believe it when I came home from a greuling softball practice with my friend Katie, “starving for death” as Maya would say and Marc had a pork roast in the crockpot. A pork roast with onions, potatoes, carrots and special seasonings. I instantly started drooling, asked him what it was, and then proceeded to eat half the thing over the kitchen sink. With my hands. Like an orphan. I’m pretty sure I grunted and hunched to warn the other animals not to touch my food. I can’t speak for Katie, but “scarfing it down” doesn’t even begin to describe what I was doing. I know for sure that I didn’t even take the time to put my softball glove down. It was still clutched in my armpit. I was starving for death and there was real food. And my stepdad is the type of person who doesn’t know you love him unless you’re eating his food. Especially if you’re eating it over the sink, straight out of the pot, which, as anybody knows, is the best way to eat food.
