As a homemaker, I have loads of free time, and loads of free ears. Darren and I dumped TV entirely, watching only very special things on our computers. In my time alone, I go a bit crazy if the apartment is too quiet. To fill the gap, I listen to quite a few podcasts. They all skew towards comedy, but there are some moments of seriousness.
COMEDY:
To my novice ears, TSMITHW (Has anyone told Mr. Proops that his Vodkast spells T. Smith W? They should) sounds like a fresh hour of standup every week. Dr. FunkenProops lays it down, as it is, with no filter, each Friday. He is a revolutionary thinker with a hell of a mind for baseball. Listen to this man, cherish him. When he’s on the road, see his standup. When he’s in LA, head to Bar Lubitsch for a free show.
I’m not a huge sports fan, but that doesn’t stop me from visiting the calming shores. Randy and Jason Sklar feel like peers. They’re doing the same thing, in the same place, in the same way, with the same music as myself. Their personalities help to make sports relatable, even to a novice like me. At Sklarbro Country, I always feel like I fit in, which is bloody rare. They recently added a smaller bonus podcast, called Sklarbro County, where they cover quick hits and bits they don’t fit into any one show.
COMEDY NEWS:
Andy Zaltzman and John Oliver (of The Daily show) cover the week’s news with more puns per square inch that most people can handle. It’s a very witty, very well written, exceptionally consistent show. It provides me with a good balance of US and UK news, which fits perfectly in line with my week’s reading.
The Friday Night Comedy Podcast From The BBC
This subscription on iTunes covers a couple different programs provided by the BBC. You’ll either get The Now Show with Steve Punt and Hugh Dennis, or The News Quiz hosted by Sandy Toksvig. Both are news roundup panel shows, although The Now Show does offer a bit of sketch comedy as well. These shows are bog standard, quintessentially British programs. Likely, they will cover new many people and topics of you are not familiar with, but you will pick it up in time. The humor is gentle, but quite effective.
WRESTLING
I believe it’s on record in two podcasts on Dylan Brody’s Neighbor’s Couch that I adore wrestling. Explanation beyond that is not necessary.
The Art Of Wrestling With Colt Cabana
If Marc Maron were a wrestler, this is the podcast he would make. Each week, Colt gets inside the mind of one wrestler from the world of grappling. Some of these guys are company men (WWE or TNA) and don’t break kayfabe, but occasionally you’ll get guys who do incredible shoots. I’ve learned so much about the business of wrestling/sports entertainment from this podcast.
This is a fantastic panel show where the four fellow break down the shows and stories of the week. They talk out the thoughts that I tend to have in my mind when I’m watching Raw or Smackdown. It’s crude, smart and very hilarious. These are the sort of guys you would have the proverbial beer with.
EDUCATIONAL
I’m a complete word nerd. This podcast satisfies my desire to know the why of words. If there is a word or phrase you’ve always wanted to know the meaning or derivation of, this is your show. Every week, they bring a fresh hour of words, phrases, quizzes and grammar fun.
The writers from How Stuff Works provide the grist for this mill. From how zero work, to what happens in the brain during orgasm, these guys have got your covered. Twice a week, they provide loads of stuff you didn’t know about things you didn’t realize you wanted to know about.
Dan Savage covers every crevice of human sexuality, taking calls from folks the world over. He’s what you want Dear Abby to be. I’ve learned more about why people stick what where from his podcast that I’ve learned anywhere else. If you think for a moment that what you do in the bedroom is unusual, listen to Dan’s show. You’ll feel very vanilla, very quick. A great companion piece to his Savage Love column, which you can fine at The Stranger.
SPECIAL MENTION
Waking From The American Dream
I have a tremendous bias here, as Kelly is a good pal. However, please don’t let my friendship stop you from listening to her tremendous show. She’s a little bit of everything, really. Comedy, psychology, philosophy, panel discussion. Kelly has so much to offer that your ears will never be bored. She radiates warmth and kindness, making guests feel welcome and at ease. This is as she is in real life, which is rare. I am fortunate to be able to call her a friend.
Darren and I just finished listening to an unabridged audio book of Flowers For Algernon. I’ve read the book a few times, and thoroughly enjoyed the audio form. Darren doesn’t have a lot of time for reading, so sharing this audio book was a real pleasure. I think every couple should take the time to enjoy a book together, whatever the form. It’s time not at all wasted.
Darren is such a good man. These evening he could be spending in his own leisure, he spends sharing with me instead. I am so fortune that I find myself overcome.
Last night, I read about a new proposal in my home state. It’s yet another one of those bills that propose forcing a woman have an ultrasound before she has an abortion. This has always been something I disagreed with, but only out of general principle. It seems like yet another barrier between a woman and her right to terminate a pregnancy. Another hurdle, another annoyance.
What I didn’t know was what kind of ultrasound was meant. The image I had in my mind was a woman having warm gel squeezed onto her belly, and a scanner passed over same. This isn’t the case at all. The kind of ultrasound that is performed is trans-vaginal. I’ve actually had this procedure done, when my doc was looking for ovarian cysts. In this scan, they insert a largish, phallic probe into your vagina. The wand is twisted, angled and pressed. It’s uncomfortable, invasive and creepy.
The first thing that came to mind was a woman/girl who’s been raped. I tried to imagine what it must be like for a woman to have to go through the pain and terror of rape, only to be literally assaulted again by the government. To be raped again by a right wing plastic wand.
We must stop this from happening. Abortion is never an easy choice. For the state to make it harder and more vicious is a bafflement. Let us all step forward and help. Speak out.
On the suggestion of Darren, I have posted this article on Daily Kos. Check it HERE.
I want to preface this by saying that female teenaged relationships are bloody weird. At least mine were.
In my freshman year of high school, and the summer that followed, all of my closets friends were recovering addicts.
As a teen, I gravitated to the hip, seemingly mature kids. At a school football game, I sneaked off to find a place to smoke a cigarette. At the back of the parking lot, I met a gal called Jane. She had that very cold, apathetic, detached thing happening. She was pale, tall and wore the most amazing thrift store finds. Essentially, she was everything I wanted to be - incredibly cool. I lit a cigarette for her, and we got to chatting. We became fast friends. In some ways, I suppose you could say that there were some rather homosexual overtones to our relationship. Jane and I have a complicated, stormy friendship. She was always a girl I wanted to be with, to be near. It wasn’t exactly sexual, but it was something. There were a couple other girls I had this kind of friendship with, but they’re a story for another time.
Jane had classic Irish beauty. Deep red hair, porcelain skin, and eyes so green that you just had to look into them. She was 5’9”, and maybe 110 pounds. She wore bowling shoes and mini skirts. She was a hipster before there was such a thing. Her look was always effortlessly perfect. Jane woke up looking like intellectual sex. I wanted to inhabit her. As best I tried, I could not duplicate her. Unfortunately, I was stuck being me.
Not long after we started hanging out, she introduced me to her circle of friends. Although she and went to the same high school, none of her friends went to our school. They were all people that she met at AA and NA meetings. This was a year before I started using drugs or having sex, so I was still surprisingly pure. Jane new a few girls who were my age, but who’d already hit bottom with drink and drugs, and we’re having sex with dudes. They came from well to do families as well, so I was able to use a little bit of their lifestyle. Part of my standard of living improved just by knowing them.
So, at the age of 14, I started regularly attending AA/NA meetings. This was spectacularly surreal. It was like being in a room half full of my father, if he’d ever gotten his shit together. The other half were young people, who we awfully badass, or so I thought.
There were a lot of older guys in these meetings. When I say older, I mean between 18-25. These guys were awesome, as they could drive us places and buy us cigarettes. The girls, Jane, Sarah and Lori (the big three), would “hook up” with these guys. Somehow, I managed to escape all of that. I was not unattractive, but definitely gave off what can best be described as a dykish vibe. I’ll put in a picture here for illustrative purposes.
PICTURE
The sober group and I spent our time in fairly typical teenaged ways. There was a lot of going out to nightclubs to dance. It’s rather funny really, as these joints were hotbeds of drink and drugs. In spite of that, there we were. The was Traxx, which had an outdoor volleyball pit, The Vault, an old bank that was mostly House music, but with a freaky big vault in the basement where they’d play jungle music, and The 5th Column, where I saw more cocaine than any other place in my life. We’d dance until 3 in the morning, then drive to the Denny’s at the corned of 123 and 29 in Fairfax. Those were truly great nights.
When we weren’t at the clubs, we would prowl the neighborhoods in one car or another, listening to what I still think is some of the best music. There was Dr. Dre’s The Chronic. We wore the tape out on that fucker. There was a lot of The Pixies, Fugazi, Henry Rollins (Sarah was smitten), The Ramones, The Smiths (Lori was obsessed), The Bauhaus, REM (my fave at the time), and a million other things I can’t remember. I still listen to them all. All except the Dr. Dre album. I don’t own that one. Go figure.
By time we’d gotten to my 15th birthday, which I spent with a guy called Andy (our regular driver), things were starting to fray. We seemed to be moving in different directions. I hadn’t really done any experimentation, and was dead sick of hearing their stories of woe. The time was right for me to try some things out, and make new friends. It wasn’t so much that we’d broken up, we just sorta fractured. We’d still talk from time to time, but things were changing.
I still saw Jane, as we were going to the same school. It wasn’t long after our sophomore year started, that we had an epic falling out.
One day, when Jane was home sick, I decided to skip school and visit her at home. She was only a mile or so from campus, so it was a quick walk. When I got to her house, I went to her bedroom window and peeked in. She was lying in bed reading. I could see her, but she couldn’t see me. I went to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. Then I went to her window and tapped. She didn’t even turn her head. I went into her back yard, and sat down for a smoke. I figured that maybe he was sleeping, and only appeared to be reading.
Midway through my cigarette, a police car turned up. They came right for me, knocked the cigarette from my hand, grabbed my school bag, rifled through it, and broke my remaining smokes. They told me that they’d be called out because I was harassing Miss [last name redacted]. I was stunned. I was put into cuffs, tossed into the back of the police car, and driven back to school.
The principal came out and the police released me. I hadn’t been under arrest, but they sure did scare the hell out of me. I imagine that was the point. The rest of the day was spent in the principal’s office. I was crying and incredibly confused.
When I got home, I rang Jane. Her mom answered and said that Jane didn’t wish to speak to me ever again. A week later, she was back at school. I confronted her in her Biology class. I asked her “what the fuck is going on?”. Jane said that I was trying to break into her house, that she was afraid, and that she had no choice. I told her that there was no sense or truth in what she was saying. I would never try to do something like that. She was my friend, why would I try to harm her?
I never got a clear answer. What I’ve decided, all these years later, is that she was simply sick of being my friend, and was looking for a creative out. She sure as hell found one.
Fortune smiled on us, as we never had a single class together. But I wasn’t done with her, not entirely. I built up a new group of friends, and we set about making Jane’s life hell at school. She was bullied very badly. Folks, including myself, would spit on her in the hallway. Every horrid word was said in anger at her. After what she had done to me, I was bound and determined to not let her have a moment of peace at George C. Marshall High School.
Our lives did later intertwine, when I was dating Stan (an ex-boyfriend of hers, by the by), and she was dating Stan’s cousin. Sometimes we were even in the same house at the same time. We managed to avoid seeing or speaking to one another. The whole thing was so strange.
Sometime during the summer of 1995, after all the boys were gone, and school was over for both of us (I quit, she graduated early), we had a brief reunion. I’d met up again with Sarah and Lori. They were adamant about getting Jane and I back together. It was arranged. We drove to Jane’s house, and saw each other, properly face to face for the first time in nearly 2 years. She and I hugged. Her hair smelled like gardenias. She and I apologized to each other. Everything was ok.
I only saw her one more time after that. On an afternoon about 2 weeks later, I drove over to see her. She was sitting on the curb, smoking a cigarette. I sat down with her and we chatted. An ice cream truck came by, and I bought us each a sunday. We sat, at our ice cream, and just enjoyed the moment. I think we both knew that this was as good as it would ever be. I never saw her again.
I miss my husband.
Darren is down in San Diego on a business trip. I’m super excited for him, as this is part of a big step forward for him at his company. He’s entering that mature stage of his career. The point in one’s career where you have a solid sense of who you are, what your value is, and why companies need you. It’s a very powerful place.
Anyway, that’s besides my point. The point is, Darren and I are like a very secret special club that offers no admittance to any but we two. In the nearly 13 years we’ve been married, we’ve been apart very little. I can actually name and date each time. 2 days in September of 2001 was a business trip to NYC, 4 days June of 2003 was surgery and a hospital stay for me, two weeks September of 2007 for during a move from one country to another, 3 days in July of 2010 for a hospital stay for me, 6 days in September of 2010 for a visit to my mom for me, and this stay now. All told, it’s 31 days. 31 in nearly 4600 days. It’s far, far too many.
I understand that many couples actually enjoy time apart. In our experience, even a couple days makes us both realize how much we need one another. We have a very perfect interdependence. Sometimes we describe ourselves as the other halves of each other’s brains. We are one of those couples that completes each other sentences, helps each other find the right words, remember certain important things to tell a doctor. Honestly, I don’t know how we’d get through a doctor’s appointment without each other. We know each other’s ailments and pain rather intimately.
In our little apartment, we live like a couple of bachelors. Close enough and clean enough are mantras in our place. The place is always a bit of an organized mess. We eat taco bell and watch wrestling. There are our dueling Xbox’s, where we can game together. Sometimes, we crank up old school rap and drive to In-N-Out, where we eat our double double’s in the car. A few days ago, we bopped up and down the aisles of a Pavilions to Fascination by The Human League. We grok each other deeply.
There are many reason people are married. Children, companionship, financial security, love, boredom, etc. Darren and I are married because that’s just how it is. The earth is an oblate spheroid, Newt Gingrich is a douchebag, dogs bark, and Darren and I are together.
When we are apart, it’s like part of us is missing. Like leaving town without your eyes. You’re still alive, but without sense.
He’ll be home tomorrow.
UPDATE: I realize this shit is sappy. Forgive me.
I’ve been thinking about death and dying. In this past week, I’ve found my maternal grandmother’s obituary, tracked down the headstones of my paternal grandfather, great-grandfather and great-grandmother, spoken with my truly wise friend Michael about the issue, and my pet gerbil, Fran, died today. Death is big news in my head right now. The main spearhead for this essay is definitely Michael, a man who shares my feelings about this subject.
It’s important for you to know that this isn’t depression or sadness. What it is, I think is practical and empowering thought. For many years, I’ve planned to end my own life, at a point in the future when my life isn’t fun anymore. Life is only the absence of death, and death the absence of life. If my life is no longer a life, but slow crawl to death, why not hasten the process?
There seem to be many reasons why folks find the idea of suicide or assisted suicide repellent. I, however, can think of no greater act of human dignity than choosing your time to die. Also, I can’t imagine a greater kindness than ending another human being’s pain. We do this for animals all the time. If you would do something so loving for your dog, couldn’t you do the same for you husband, wife, mother or father? It is a very selfish thing to force a person to stay alive to serve your political, moral or religious beliefs.
Beliefs are odd. Beliefs based on moldy books are odder still. While I tolerate the beliefs of others, I refuse to be forced to live by them. The superstitions that people have about death and dying are incredibly difficult for me to understand. I truly believe that when we die, we’re gone. No afterlife, no soul. Just worm food. Or ashes. Or maybe a body to donate to science.
Folks that believe in the Judeo/Islamic/Christian god believe that suicide is a sin. They would rather you lay in a hospital bed, eating through a tube, defecating and urinating into a bag, as your life drains away from you over months or years, than allow you the dignity of a quick and painless death. What’s moral about that? What’s moral and good about letting a person wither?
I also believe that people want to keep other people alive for mere selfish reasons. They’re scared of death themselves, they don’t want to say goodbye, they don’t want this conversation to be the last. It’s all about the healthy people, not the dying. The same goes for the funeral. So many people in this world fight over what will happen or who will attend so and so’s funeral. All the while, the dead person is gone. They’re literally past caring. Yet the living continue to fight over a morbid death ritual.
Some of this comes not from religion, but from the very sanitized world in which we live, in the western world, at the very least. For most of us, death is something that happens in a sterile room, with doctors and nurses. There isn’t anything particularly real about death. There was a time, not to terrible long ago, when deaths happened mostly at home. Not only that, but the body would have been cleaned and prepared for burial by the family. In this very same time, it was not uncommon for there to be a visit by a doctor. This doctor would visit with the patient, and give them a fairly large dose of a sedating medicine, to ease the person into death. It’s a taboo subject, but it’s a matter of history. Doctors used to, in essence, assist the suicide of dying people. Why? Because it was seen as the kind, humane thing to do. When we see suffering, we want to make it stop.
I’d imagine that these doses from doctors stopped around the time that people started dying in hospitals regularly. More oversight, more paperwork, more bureaucracy. Death stopped being a natural process, and became a medical procedure.
When the time comes, and I hope it’s a very long time from now, I would like my friend to have the kindness to respect my choice. If life becomes more sickness than health, more pain than pleasure, more misery than joy, is it life at all?
Some may say that there should be exceptions, mostly based on mental health issues. I would say that mental and physical suffering are not that far removed from one another. Having met some horribly ill schizophrenics, I can understand why they might want to end their mental pain. We cannot presume to say what is tolerable for one person might be tolerable for another. I make no judgment in this regard. Whatever a person choses for themselves, I support.
As my friend Michael said “I just don’t want to lose my mind before I go. I want to be me when I die”
Let me give some background to that. I’m not a typical female. I have, at last count, 5 pairs of shoes. I own 3 dresses, all casual. There is only one piece of jewelry in my wardrobe. It’s a stainless steel wedding ring. I like it. It’s durable, and cheap to replace should it get lost. I own 0 pairs of high heels. Accessories are a more or less foreign concept to me. My one indulgence has been a high quality handbag, purchased because it will last. On the whole, everything I own is sturdy, utilitarian and comfortable.
Never have I watched a Real Housewives reality program. Chick flicks make me shudder. Sex In The City seems like a study of women from another planet.
I don’t drink and gossip with other women. Should you see a table full of gals giggling about how sexy Johnny Depp is, I will not be found.
I’m not like other girls.
Another things that seems to separate me from many of my peers (I’m 33), is my utter and undying belief in love and marriage. Lately, I’ve spoken to many women who not only think they will never meet a man (or woman), but have no interest in a long term relationship or marriage. In moments, they seem quite proud of their status as single chicks, but in others seem horribly lonely. What I wonder is why?
Is there something in the culture telling these women that love is unattainable? Not having been exposed to most of the traditional female diversions, I can honestly say that I do not know.
Is this a classic case of these gal wanting “it all”, and realizing that’s not as easy as it seems? My understanding of “it all”, is a high level career, happy, well adjusted children, and a passionate sexy love affair with their dream man. When you look at it like that, it’s not entirely surprising that these broads can’t have it all. Children, careers, and a good marriage all take tremendous personal sacrifice of one nature of another. If you want a high powered career, at the very least, you will sacrifice time with others, sleep, and possibly money. To have fantastic kids, you’ll have to sacrifice time away from your job, sleep and definitely money. For a marriage, you will have to give time, personal space and any number of sometimes difficult compromises. So, in order to have all of those items, something is going to suffer. More often that not, I think ladies will sacrifice their own happiness in order to maintain all three. I can’t help but think that a lot of these gals would be better off if they took a slower paced job, or no job at all (if that’s financially possible), in order to maintain the peace of their homes.
If you can make compromises, you’ve got to pass on one of the big three. Children would probably be the only item you could cut in order to keep a quality job and solid marriage. Biological imperative seems to prevent most women from make that choice.
I realize that none of what I’ve said so far sounds particularly feminist, but I’m not a feminist. For all my liberal political and social views, I have a very traditional views on home life. I believe that marriage is forever, saving of course abuse. No woman or man should have to stay in a relationship when they’re being abused. But otherwise, I believe that couples should stay together. This would be helped greatly by making absolutely sure that you’re marring the right person, of course. If the average person could be themselves in their engagement, rather that the person they think they should be, marriages would be awfully different. The number of people I’ve seen trying to be an idealized version of themselves during the dating period, then letting it all, emotionally speaking, hang out after the wedding, if very large.
Another rather non-feminist belief I have is that, for the most part, one spouse’s job should take a back seat to the other. Of course, it can be the either partner. But someone is going to have to make a sacrifice. This sacrifice is made for the happiness of the home. There are a number of ways this can be done. One can work from home, or work part time, or possibly not work at all. Assuming that no one reading this essay is independently wealthy, you’re going to need someone to look after the home, and to prepare meals. I don’t think that most people are happy coming home to a messy home and a frozen microwave meal. You can pretend you’re happy with that for a time, but after a while, you’re going to lose your patience.
Most often, with straight couples, it’s the wife who makes the career sacrifice. Often she’s isn’t the breadwinner, and would like want to have children. What troubles me is that many of today’s women see this as a negative. I would think that, if it’s financially feasible, time to take care of one’s home a partner would be considered a great pleasure. If you have children, the benefits of staying home are beyond measure. Whenever I hear of a woman who goes back to work just a few weeks after a birth (except in cases of financial necessity), I really feel terribly for the child. Ah well.
On of my other thoughts about singles (straight) women, is about expectation. So many gals will tell you that they’d like to be dating, but all the men they know are emotional cold or mean. These gals are sad that they’re single, but have a laundry list of men who aren’t good enough to date. You know the guys. They’re good guys. Sweet guys with normal jobs. They might be shy or not super assertive, but they’re nice men who would worship these gals if given the chance. I don’t understand where this whole thing comes from. Why do so many young women want some sort of perfect guy. If I understand things correctly, they want guys who are rockstar sexy, adventurous, nurturing, loving, amazing in bed with huge cocks, gentle, good (potential) fathers, have bodybuilder physiques, six figure salary jobs, and to be completely/utterly/hopeless devoted to them. And they wonder why they’re single! I don’t think these guys exist anywhere in nature. I think if some of these gals took a second look at the shy guy in the office, or the nice guy who always greets them when they pass in neighborhood. Perhaps if they gave that guy a shot, they could have a chance at real happiness.
This is all just one big ramble. I’m sure a lot of you will be angry with me. That’s fine. I don’t judge a single one of you. This is just me riffing on things that have been on my mind. All I want is for everyone to be as happy as they can be.
While I haven’t seen my father since I was twelve, I spoke to him several times between 1998 and 2009.
When I first got in touch with him, I was in New Hampshire, and he was living in Portland, Oregon. This was a fairly lonely time for me, before I met Darren. Feeling a need for family, I decided to track dad down .The internet has made doing this sort of thing super easy. I got the number and gave him a call.
Dad was working for a call center. This particular place was trying to sell light bulbs in order to raise money for veterans. I’m fairly sure that it was a scam, but didn’t feel the need to comment. It really didn’t surprise me that dad was into something not altogether kosher. The man has a track record.
He was sober. This made our conversations pleasant. I sent him a few photos of me, and occasional gifts.
We never really talked about feelings. I didn’t really care what he thought about his past behaviors. In a lot of ways, my contacting him was morbid curiosity. I lost interest in chatting with him. I didn’t speak to him again for several years.
The next time I got in touch with him, he was living in Arizona, with his new wife. Her name was Rosa, and she didn’t speak a word of English. My dad was speaking a weird not quite Spanglish. I can only assume this woman was taking advantage of my father for a green card. Fine by me.
Dad’s brother Lee was staying with him on and off. Lee was the brother who’d done jail time for raping two little girls.
Rosa and my father were living in a small trailer home in a bad neighborhood. He told me that she called him “gordo”, as he was well over 300 pounds. He was drinking a lot, and had been having heart problems. Dad is incredibly fortunate to have served in the Marines, because the VA was able to give him the treatment he needed for his heart.
I think this was around 2005. Darren and I were living in Jacksonville, Florida. This was when I decided to go for broke and tell my dad how I felt about what had happened when I was growing up. What I had to tell him was easily laid out. I said that I’d felt abused, hurt and really let down, but that I understood that he didn’t have the tools to be a better parent. Dad actually apologized, and cried. No worries here, as I didn’t allow his emotional response to get to me.
With that out of the way, we started having a semi-regular phone relationship. One of the more horrifying things that I learned is that my dad is a very conservative Republican and religious. He was going to a Catholic church, as his wife was a regular mass attendee. Dad was just a republican, he was an O’Reilly and Glenn Beck fan. I did my best to ignore these leanings.
A little side note: Whenever someone tells me they’re a Republican, I picture my father. Not the finest association. But, I think my father is a very fine example of a completely uniformed Fox New viewer.
Often, dad would call me when he was drunk. He would tell me how much he’d loved my mom, and how beautiful she was. Sometimes he would say that I was always so smart when I was little, and that I could do amazing things. Drunk people are sad.
I mean, what was his intention in mentioning mom? Did he have some crazy delusion about getting back together with her? Was he simply living a life of total and complete regret. I figure this last idea was close to the truth. He had everything and chose to throw is all away.
At other moments, he was confrontational about my beliefs. Dad was not pleased about having an Atheist, Democratic Socialist and incredibly liberal daughter. He would try to bait me with abortion issue red meat. When he would get a rise out of me, he’d laugh, saying “I just love pushing your buttons”. I stopped speaking to him for about a year. When we finally started speaking again, I told him that when you love someone, you don’t speak to them like that. He apologized and said things would be different.
I think we’re at about 2008 now. Darren and I were in Dallas by then. Dad and Rosa were split up. I never got the full story, but they’d both been arrested during some sort of confrontation. She was moving out of the trailer.
Before I get to far into something else, I should mention the girl dad referred to as his “granddaughter”. Sadie was Rosa’s granddaughter. She was about 6, I think, when she started spending a lot of time with dad. Lee, dad’s pedo brother, was living in the trailer as well. I told dad that he should kick out Lee. Dad said that I need not worry about it all, as he would personally castrate Lee if he went anywhere Sadie. That didn’t make me feel any better about the situation.
Ok, so it’s 2008, and Rosa is out of the trailer. Dad really went downhill. He had no job, and was living on .. I’m not sure what he was living on. All he did all day was watch TV, drink beer, eat and call me. He was really, truly pathetic. I think dad wanted to tell me how unhappy he was, but lacked the self-awareness and the vocabulary to tell me how he really felt.
In 2009, dad started asking me for money. All our conversations were uncomfortable. He was such a sad, pathetic character. I found myself bereft of compassion. Realizing that the situation would never improve, I decided stop speaking to him.
I think it’s very likely that my dad is dead. Between the drink, weight and heart issues, I can’t imagine him still hanging on. If I somehow found out he was dead, I wouldn’t be surprised. What does kinda surprise me is how much it doesn’t bother me.
Since I no longer have to deal with mom oppression on this site, I can begin to tell you the tale of how Marcia Snyder came to be my mom.
Little Marcia was the first child of Milton Snyder, and the second child of Alice Snyder (adopted name Grummet, nee Rotenberg). Milton and Alice are long gone, and one seems to know when or how it is that they came to be married. What I can guess is that it was quite a big deal, as Alice had an out of wedlock child by an unnamed man. Milton for all his flaws, must have loved her dearly, because I think it was quite social no-no for a anyone, much less Conservative Jews, to marry a woman with a child. It was also a bit of an act of defiance by Milton, getting back at his dad.
Alice was born in 1915, and lost her parents to the Spanish Flu in 1918. They died in Denver. She came from a family of means, and had been left quite an inheritance. Her family wasn’t much interested in raising her, but they did fancy her money. Once they wrangled that away from her, they needed to find someone to adopt her. There was a young couple called Downey who were quite keen, but the family said no, as the Downey’s weren’t Jewish. A couple in their 60’s, called Grummet, were enlisted. They were too damned old to be parents, but they were Jewish, and I suppose that’s all that mattered. She grew up in Scranton. Beyond that, I know very little of Alice’s childhood. When she was 30, in 1946, she had her out of wedlock child, a son called David. As a little aside, she was in some way related to the Grossinger family. Mom has told me of spending many a holiday at the Grossinger’s Resort in the Catskills.
Milton Snyder was born in 1911, in South Carolina to Lithuanian immigrants called Benjamin and Miriam. Ben was tall and strong, and ran a dry goods shop. Miriam was as tall as she was wide (about 4’9”). Ben and Miriam were first cousins. They married because there weren’t any other suitable Jews of marrying age in their village. Religion is weird. Milton was never taller that 5’4”, wore Coke bottle glasses, and wasn’t particularly tough. Ben referred to Milton as a “blind dog”. Milton spent most of his adult life trying to either impress or defy his father. There was a sister, Lillian, who was born completely blind.
Some time around 1949-50, Milton and Alice met. Ten months after they were married, when Alice was 35 and Milton was 38, my mom was born. Doctor’s Hospital in Washington, DC was the location. She and I share the distinction of being born in hospitals that no longer exist. This only adds credence to my pod person theory.
Alice and Milton had a lovely 4 bedroom home in the DC suburb of Chevy Chase, Maryland. Alice was a homemaker and Hadassah volunteer, Milton worked for the NSA, translating Russian radio broadcasts.
Mom was a good student, but had trouble with kids at school. She was quiet, and a complete wallflower. Kids were mean to her, called her ugly and “Jew nose”. These words still wound her. The only thing that stopped the bullying was when the kids heard about her mom. Some even apologized for how they’d treated her.
In 1955, Alice started feeling a bit unwell. She had breast cancer, although the doctor didn’t tell her that right way. She was told it was pneumonia, and that she’d be fine. With that understanding, she got pregnant with her final child, Stephen. This was 1956, and Alice was 40. While not the most advanced age to have a child now, in the 50’s it was a bit different. The pregnancy was hell for her, and not long after Stephen was born, Alice was checked into the hospital. She spent most of the next 10 years in the hospital, on and off. She had a double mastectomy, and wasted away to just 80 pounds. Milton, mom, David and Stephen watched her die slowly and painfully. Mom says that she sat at Alice’s bedside and begged her not to die. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. in 1966, Alice died.
Before the funeral, Naomi, the housekeeper, told my mom that “God picks the sweetest apples”. After everything fell apart at home, Naomi went to work for another family. Much later, mom found out that Naomi had been hurt that my mom never went to visit her. Naomi cared a great deal for my mom, and had looked after her. David once told me they’d never have gotten a good meal if it weren’t for Naomi. Knowing what I know, I wish I could have met her myself.
My mother was 15 and completely devastated. Milton had a nervous breakdown. Milton was hospitalized, and given prescriptions for Seconal and Miltown. He became angry and violent, taking most of his aggression out on Stephen. David, away at college, was spared the worst. Without a partner, Milton was foundering. He set about to find a new wife.
I’d like to add my own little commentary here. Milton watched a woman that he deeply loved, die for 10 years. While some might be angry at him for being hard on the children, let us not forget that he was completely bereft. I can’t imagine watching Darren suffer, and hope that I never do. Let all our deaths be painless and quick.
Grace was a secretary in Milton’s office. She was married and divorced, and on the lookout for a man. They we’re married just a year after Alice died. For reasons not well communicated to me, she hated my mom. Mom said she would sometimes overhear Grace and Milton in their bedroom, with Milton saying “Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to get rid of her”.
I think my mom was doing the best she could, given the circumstances. She was a straight A student, and artistically inclined. But, she had a bit of a rebellious streak. This was the late 60’s, after all She would wear her hair down, and had quite a wicked jewfro. Milton was insistent that when she was in his house, she wear her hair tied back. Milton was very into control.
Mom was into some pretty hip music, and saw some amazing concerts. The Wheaton Youth Center was where she saw The Small Faces and Jimi Hendrix. I know she saw James Brown as well, but I’m not sure of the venue. At home, she was listening to The Beatles, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Frank Zappa. I’d say that of all the artists she’s shared with me, Zappa has been the most important and relevant.
When she graduated high school in the summer if 1969, she didn’t even stay long enough to pick up her diploma. Knowing she wasn’t welcome at home anymore, mom gathered her things and hitched rides across the country to San Francisco, as that was the cliche thing to do at the time. Mom has been, at best, fuzzy with the details. She sang in bands, worked in a coffee shop, and painted pictures of album covers for displays at Tower Records. At some point in all of this, she spent 6 months in Mexico playing little bars with her band. The only reason she left was because someone stole all her stuff. There was an offer to recover her things, but she wasn’t keen on following a strange man into an alley. She tried all the drugs available to her, but only really enjoyed pot. However, she has mentioned that mescaline was magical.
Around 1972, mom got pregnant and had a son called Jason. Amazingly, and probably desperately, she traveled home to her dad. Jason was born in DC. Not long after the birth, she’d headed back to California. On welfare and feeling like she had nothing to offer, she gave him up for adoption. Mom’s often said that Jason was so beautiful and mellow. She nicknamed him “Cosmo Spacebaby”. Sometimes I wonder if she kept the right child.
After she gave Jason up, she was depressed and in need of cheer. This was 1975. Mom though it would be a good idea to visit a friend in Yuma. This is where she met my dad. You guys know that STORY
Oh, I’m sure it obvious, but I was named after my grandmother Alice. It’s tradition, and Milton was very insistent. Mom had actually wanted to call me Selena, but Milton wouldn’t stand for that. So, my middle name is Selena. For the longest time, I hated the name Alice. I even went by a different appellation in High School. As an adult, I couldn’t love the name more. I’m proud to be an Alice. We’re quite rare.
I didn’t think I’d have to write something like this, but here we are.
This blog is about me, not you. You want to talk about you? Get your own blog. They’re free and easy to set up. It’s my choice to lay out my feelings, and it’s also my choice not to discuss them after they’re published. I might choose to talk with you, but I might not. Get over yourself. This isn’t your life, it’s mine.
Honestly, I adore all of you, I really do. But if I say no, I mean no. I shouldn’t have to say this, but I’ve been left with no choice. I don’t want to lose another friend.
I don’t want any of this to seem harsh, but I have to protect myself.
