Failures

When I was in graduate school I dated a guy who kept all of his rejection letters because it was "character building." At least, that is what he called it. I called him delusional. While failing is character building, in an extreme psychotic optimistic point of view, hanging onto those unsubtle reminders of your shortcomings, is not.

I have to remind myself that the Universe or God or whatever has a plan. Que Sera Sera, right? This is an easy life motto to have when things are going your way, but it sucks rotten eggs when you don't get what you really want.

When I was rejected from a job I really wanted this past week, I debated about blogging my experience. Why pour lemon juice, salt, and carbonic acid into my already gaping wound in front of the masses? I should instead go quietly into the night and lick my wounds in private only to emerge with a small scar later and pretend like nothing ever happened. That was my first instinct. Let my failures be private; let my successes be public. However, that's not real.

Real is the feeling of being ashamed and embarrassed by not being awarded the position. "The" position, mind you, not just "a" position. That was my first reaction. Its raw and ugly, but its real. I can console myself by stating that there is a reason why I didn't get it; reasons I don't know now, but it is for the best. I can also re-frame things into a place of self-reflection as to what the larger meaning is behind this and what life lesson I need to learn.

Self-reflection can often quickly spiral down to self-massacre. Examining every detail of the exchange, revising answers to questions, analyzing minutia from degree qualifications down to simple interview wardrobe selection. The process is nauseating and disheartening. And then, you get to the real meat of the issue: Is this really what I wanted? Did I really believe that this would not just make me happy, but bring fulfillment in my life?

If I were to have succeeded in securing this role, I would not have questioned anything. I would have opened a bottle of champagne, taken myself out to a nice restaurant, and reconstructed the budget to allow small indulgences. A gift for myself, I would rationalize, because I deserve it. But did I really? If I had succeeded I would not have learned anything. And that, would be the ultimate failure.

Beauty In the Eye of the Beholder...

J: "Ooh, Van Halen." As he flips through the music channels on our cable.
Me: "Its classic rock? When did it become classic rock?" Noticing the channel.
J: "Its been classic rock since like 1987. It was on Z 93. Ooh, you have to admit he's kind of sexy."
Me: "David Lee Roth?!?"
J: "Yeah!"
Me: "You have no taste in men."
J: "You're right."

The Concept of Family; Redefined

Nothing like a good month of life altering events to raise the emotions in a family. A death and now a wedding. My brother and his fiance are days away from the "I do's."

I remember being this close to my wedding and honestly, I wasn't that panicked. I was more concerned about the details and things going right. A bunch of wasted energy, truly, as things still went wrong no matter how much time I spent worrying about them. But, emotions run high.

After returning from Ginny's farewell, both J and I spent a good portion of our time playing creative finances to see how we could fund the plane fare to get me back to Salt Lake over Pioneer weekend. No matter how we flipped the budget, it just isn't in the cards for us. Perhaps I was dreaming a bit thinking it was even possible. Living on one salary that doesn't kick in until the end of the month, a rent payment that outweighs the SLC mortgage, and all of the moving expenses has its challenges. I find myself counting change for bus fare, coasting down hills without A/C in the car to improve gas mileage, and packing J lunch just to save a few dollars. I couldn't tell you the last time I went to Starbucks.

I dreaded telling my family that I wasn't going to make it...especially my brother. It went as well (0r as poorly) as it could be expected. I haven't spoken to him since my dreaded phone call. Honestly I'm afraid of the intensified guilt I would feel talking to him. I also don't know if he would even take my call.

I feel good about my decision on a rational level, but I also know come Thursday night about the time of the rehearsal dinner I'll feel waves of sadness that will intensify by the time of their nuptials on Friday. That's pretty damn natural. My parents spent a lot of their energy instilling the value that family comes first. For a marriage that has lasted over 35 years, I think they've done a pretty good job. What a shift to realize that instinctively your concept of family shifts to your partnership quite quickly. I would do anything to fiercely protect J and the success of my marriage. I'm honored that he chose to be my family.

I'm thrilled that my brother found someone who loves and values him. You can see how much he adores her too. When you are with them, its tangible. Perhaps my absence during their wedding is a larger message about family, the success of values, and faith in marriage. I may be physically absent during their wedding, but it certainly isn't a statement about my belief and support for their marriage.

Domestic Diva Preparing to Depart

While I was gone, J sustained himself with frozen burritos and yogurt. He would tell me of his plans for dinner when I would call him.

Me: "So, have you had dinner?" Noting that it was now 11 o'clock his time.
J: "No. I might have a spoonful of peanut butter before I go to bed."
Me: "Are you kidding me? You did live by yourself and cook for yourself before we married."
J: audible sigh "Yeah, well I did have two yogurts at 4:00 for linner."
Me: "You didn't have lunch either?"
J: "I thought of making a burrito that we bought at Trader Joe's, but they go in the microwave. Our house doesn't have a microwave."
Me: "So put it in the oven."
J: "On a plate?"
Me: "No. On a cookie sheet."

I don't know what happened when the I-do's went into effect, but somehow my husband forgot how to turn on a stove. Ok, that truly isn't fair. It didn't happen immediately after the wedding. It happened after I left my job from hell and became a semi-permanent homemaker.

As the unspoken deal (or briefly mentioned arrangement) went after I left said hell, he was ok with my new part time jobs and more time at home in exchange for him not having to worry about pesty little things like dinner or laundry. I have to admit, once I settled my internal feminist battle, I really embraced my new full time role of nurturing. I began to actually enjoy making grocery lists, sorting laundry, using fabric softener, etc.. We took a huge hit financially, but our quality of life improved dramatically.

Every once in awhile my inner Gloria Steinem freaks out and I start to worry about equality being reflected monetarily in the long run, but then I figure out I just need a little bit more acknowledgment of appreciation. A recent study showed that a full time homemaker would be earning a salary of over $120 K for duties performed. Yeah, I'd say that earns a bit of appreciation...with interest. Once I get that appreciation I feel fine about the arrangement. Don't get me wrong, J would HAPPILY be the house husband.

Ever since I've been home, in Boston, I've been a cooking mad-woman. Every day I typically ask J if he has a craving for dinner. His usual answer is, "not really." I was shocked when he asked for salad the first day I was home. I set about researching the Brown Derby's Cobb Salad. The thing calls for 4 types of lettuce, herbs, a special dressing, two meats, an egg, tomato, avocado, and expensive cheese. My "no cook" salad put me in the kitchen over hot burners for 3 hours. However, it was so greatly appreciated.

The following day I made the awesome chicken enchilada recipe in this month's Real Simple. I also thought to make a fresh berry cobbler. I used Ginny's recipe on that one. Things were going great until I realized that I couldn't tell if the berries went in first or the batter. My first thought: call Ginny. I almost had fit of panic when I realized I couldn't call her. This simply wasn't right. My next thought was: call someone else in the family who makes cobbler. After eliminating all of my aunts, my mother-in-law, my sister-in-law, etc, I could only rely on my Mom. I began to call all of her numbers unsuccessfully. Now I was alarmed. Who else could advise me on cobbler? I finally called my Dad, who thankfully, was with my Mom. She cleared things up, johnny-on-the-spot. Jon appreciated the cobbler as well.

This next week I'm moving forward with my job quest. Part of me is sad, I hate to admit it. I LOVE my professional identity, but I also relish my time dedicated to domestic life. Who would have thought I would say that? Not me. Once I get this particular job of my dreams, J and I will be back to staring at one another at the end of a long day amid piles of laundry and wondering who remembers how to turn on a stove.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

I can honestly say it wasn't the trip I intended to take, but it ended up being the trip that was supposed to happen.

I thought my time would be dominated by the matriarchal hierarchy, but really I only saw them once at Ginny's celebration. Even then, I felt a bit of the cold shoulder. I suppose it wasn't intended; I get a little oversensitive when hormonal and grieving. However, it did shake me a bit when my Mom and I would try to check in daily and see what the plans were with my aunts and cousins only to find that it wasn't to get together. Odd, odd, odd.

I spent a lot of time with Mom. That was the healing part. We visited our old haunts for lunch, shopped a bit, and of course reminisced about Ginny. I also got to spend quite a bit of time with my brother and his fiance. They really made it a point to hang out as there won't be any time to do this when the nuptials take place later this month. There were some wonderful bright spots of my time there: 4th of July, lunch and a movie with Dad and Mom, playing hearts one evening, and grilling steak for Sunday dinner.

Most of the time I felt stunned by the lack of interaction from such a tight knit group. Perhaps its because we're all getting older and have families of our own? Perhaps it was just too painful to get together without Ginny?

The celebration went extremely well...extremely drunk, but extremely well. Early on (thank God) by in-laws came by, which touched my heart that they would take the time. The event was catered and several family friends showed. Somewhere mid-party, my cousins had organized a gin martini toast. It ended up just being shots of Bombay gin with 4th of July tinsel toothpicks spearing Spanish olives in cordial glasses. The waiters passed them out and my cousin gave a quick speech. It was exactly what she would have wanted.

My Dad's side of the family is infamous for their abrupt departures at family parties, although most are getting better at this now that its just the siblings. My father is the main exception to this. He dined and dashed somewhere around 7:00. He offered to take us, but we all declined and he cited needing to take care of the dogs. While I kept switching from wine to beer to gin to wine again (just like everyone) I was extremely grateful when my soon to be sister in law drove us home. She and I went on a taco run for the family although I ate more than my share. I also drank a ton of water. I remember my brother sharing a story about organic vodka to which my mom sarcastically replied, "Gee, that's important when you are poisoning yourself."

The party was wonderful as I got to reconnect with my cousins. All of them showed up with the exception of one who couldn't find a flight with a reasonable lay over from Hawaii. She has a two year old. My aunts were all business and there wasn't much connecting at all.

I find it odd that I came home one week after Ginny died. It feels like its been a month. I missed J a ton and am happy to be back where its humid, green, and the air is clean. The California forest fires have done a number on SLC valley thus far. I can't believe I'll be making that 5+ hour flight again out West in just a few short weeks...need to buy that plane ticket...

Awaiting Adventures of Healing

I have the most wonderful friends imaginable. I have received more support, phone calls, emails, and I even had my closest friend give me frequent flier miles so I could make the trip. Even just writing this makes me overwhelmed. All of my Ya Ya's know how important Ginny was to me. All of them met her at my wedding or earlier.

At one particular dinner party with Ginny and my friends I remember she had no qualms playing the fortune cookie game "in bed" while at the dinner table. I thought my guest was going to fall over in shock, but he loved it and the two of them had a mutual adoration of one another ever since. Another time, one of my ya ya's heard exactly what Ginny thought of my ex-boyfriend in no uncertain terms. All of my friends come from strongly dominated matriarchies. Each of us are destined to turn into our mothers and carry the torch when that time comes.

My matriarchy was thrilled to hear I was coming. Cousins and aunts are busy planning the Celebration of Life to be held on Saturday. Her obituary will be published tomorrow and Friday. I miss my aunts and cousins. Tonight they are all gathering for dinner as my aunt from Hawaii arrived this morning. As usual, the Temples are using their humor to cope. My mom relayed this story to me:

The women were sorting through some of Ginny's belongings when they came across her mink coat. Ginny was very clear that she thought it should go to either myself or my glamorous cousin. My mom spoke up and said that she knew I wouldn't want it. Besides, I wouldn't have anywhere to wear it. I'm mean really: can you imagine me on public transit in the land of intellectuals out here in Boston in a mink??? All of this is true. When I was younger Mom would voice her desire to have a fur coat and I would exclaim in horror, "Oh Mom! How could you! Its just like wearing Henry!" Henry was our first dog. Needless-to-say, Mom never got a fur. My glamorous cousin was happy to take the mink off of every one's hands and at that point noticed that Ginny's name was embroidered into the lining. Apparently, this is standard for all furs. Hell, you spend that kind of cash, you should have your name in gold thread as far as I'm concerned! As my Aunt was explaining this to the rest of the family she said, "Of course that's true! I have my name embroidered on my beaver." You can imagine the amounts of giggling going on there.

Tomorrow I'm going on an "adventure." I call it this because I don't know how many times I'll get lost in the process. I get to find my way up to Manchester, New Hampshire to catch the flight. Seeing that we only have one car and I haven't really spent any time with J, my husband offered to wake up before dawn with me to drive me the hour north and then come home in time for work. I think he is also highly concerned with non-existent sense of direction and venturing into a new State. Oh, and did I mention that the price is horrendous for a rental car to go one way? With this plan, he will get the car for the 5 days that I'm gone. I'll hang out at the airport until my flight leaves at 11:30ish to Las Vegas. Who knows...I may even put a quarter or two into a slot machine as I catch my connecting flight into Salt Lake. It will be a day of travel.

I worry about leaving J and Edgar. I know they are big boys and can handle themselves just fine, thank you. However, it is J's first week of fellowship and he actually has the 3 day weekend off. He works the following weekend. I also worry as I'll be flying back to SLC for my brother's wedding later this month. That's a lot of time away from one another. (I can hear my readers collectively groan for the sappy couple.) But, its true. And its a holiday. Again, I know they will be fine. I don't know if he actually thought I would take my girlfriend up on her offer of the free ticket when he said, "Do what you've got to do." Perhaps I'm just worrying about it because it seems to be the one area of my life where I feel a small inkling of control.

I know the trip will be healing for me and that, ultimately, is exactly what I need to do.

Sans Matriarch

Ginny was always a bit intuitive. She had a dream that my cousin was pregnant the night before she announced it. She also saw the ghost up at the ranch a few times. Not once did she doubt or try to rationalize away any premonition I've had. Recently, she's been perseverating on July 3rd for about a week now. It is the anniversary of her brother's death. Dale died pretty young from a brain tumor. She apparently has been telling stories of how they cared for him in his last stages and kept the 4th of July as normal as possible.

Ginny died this morning.

(I've been working on another post complete with photos of our new house, but this rather derailed my attention. I'm a bit jumbled, so bear with the disorganized writing.)

At Christmas, Ginny signed herself up for hospice. She slowly let a few of us know and we all affirmed her decision. Her COPD has been extremely uncomfortable and I think her last hospitalization in October was proof in the pudding for her. Never very spiritual, she actually loved her chaplain and told us all that she now had a new Indian doctor. Ginny accepted the fact that she was never moving out of my cousin's house to live independently. She apparently fell (stroked? passed out? seizure?) Friday and re injured her back. She refused to go to the hospital when the paramedics came and her pain control has been terrible. She slept all day Sunday, which was a bit alarming for me and by yesterday my Mom told me that she was in the process of shutting down.

I didn't react well to this news and instead resorted to two coping mechanisms: cleaning the hell out of the house and drinking. I was missing my matriarchy and knew that they were probably gathering at my cousin's house, opening wine or mixing gin martinis (Ginny's signature drink), talking, and of course laughing. Remember on that side of the family grief always calls for a cocktail party. Its a rather ya ya Temple tradition thing to do. Even though I couldn't be there with them, it didn't mean I couldn't join them. Cleaning is my own coping mechanism. I knew I wasn't functioning well when I wasn't registering the effects of the alcohol. I felt fine. I was just the weeping woman armed with disinfectant and dusting cloths. I slept fitfully to say the least. My Dad tried to dismiss my Mom from the 4th of July party duties this year to which she replied, "The last thing Ginny would want is to disrupt a holiday tradition." She's right.

This morning I got another call from Mom and was greeted with more disturbing news: my tenants have given their notice and I have to find new ones. (Oh sure, like I can handle any more right now.) Later she called to tell me that Ginny was in the last stages and would call when it was over. She apparently, like Pop, waited until all family was out of the room before she went. Instead, the bath lady from hospice was there.

I've been having dreams about Pop constantly for the past week. He usually shows up in my dreams when I'm having business issues or need advice. He wasn't doing any of his usual things. Now I know why he's been hanging around, so to speak.

What I need the most right now is to be with my Mom, my aunts, and my cousins. The problem is we can't afford it. I'm still trying to figure out how to swing getting out later this month for my brother's wedding. I'm so close to my Mom that its ripping me apart not being near her as we just lost our matriarch.

I suppose in the meantime all I can do is remember what I love about her:

Small things like the smell of double mint gum, chlorine from the backyard pool, fresh coffee, and rich musty leather. Phrases like “hey you two, knock it off,” or your sing song way of “well…” The way she would brush her hands against her pant leg repetitively, mindlessly brush the counter tops for non-existent crumbs or swirling her martini glass letting the ice and olives meld against the gin. (I catch my Mom doing the exact same motions at times.) She always had tissues stuffed up her sleeve and the silver toe nail polish. She had an endless supply of cookbooks even though always sticking to a familiar repertoire of recipes: hamburgers on Saturday nights, scrambled eggs with chives, sharp cheddar, and mushrooms, oven roasted bacon and homemade raspberry jam for brunch. She once almost threw me into a dumpster when we came across a moose while camping in the Unitas. She was worried it was going to charge if we had separated it from its young.

She taught me to love stray animals, herb gardens, Tahiti, small pleasures like looking for deer and Sunday car rides by the toilet lady’s house in Oakley (maybe stopping for ice cream because we all “deserved a treat.”) She taught me how to identify Queen Anne's Lace, Indian Paintbrush, and Bleeding Hearts (aka "Lady in the Bathtubs"). She kept all of us packed up with Snickers and Coke during the summer days and ice cream for breakfast on the 4^th of July. She would tell us stories of searching for Watercress as a girl and what new great deal found on QVC. (I swear, UPS should be sending her flowers.) She was the one I called when I didn’t know how to care for peonies in a frost warning. I spent hours in the garden weeding or shelling peas with her. "Hot damn!" was an expression of glee. She taught me how to be a hospitable hostess and the joy of a sleigh ride. She kept a lucky chestnut from our relative who marched in Sherman’s March to the Sea in her purse. She was proud of being from “The Greatest Generation.” Once J asked what her proudest life achievement was. She answered, “The war.”

I remember stories of her waiting out a tornado in the middle of a golf game in St. Louis, holding a Roman Candle between her teeth at the 4^th of July, and visiting her Wisconsin grandfather with a peg-leg (and a raging alcoholic who passed out while ice fishing, hence the wooden leg). I remember hearing she used to play the trumpet in the marching band in high school and later watching her play my brother's trombone one Christmas. Ginny was lucky; she would rub her lucky jade and then win at slot poker. She helped mom make gingerbread houses and counseled my father over rough life decisions. She was an incredible non-judgemental listener. She never missed a beat, betrayed her thoughts/emotions, or give unsolicited advice. She was able to just be present.

When I was getting impatient about getting engaged she told me, “I don’t know what it is with you kids looking to find your soul mate. You know, Bob and I didn’t have one thing in common. Not a single common interest. He loved horses and the ranch and I loved golf. But you know, we made it work and we were married for over 60 years.” When I asked how she selected Pop she told me she just knew he was going to be a good provider.

Ginny trusted people to a fault and they took advantage of her emotionally and monetarily. Despite that, she hung onto the times that she felt she made a difference. She once gave a young soldier money to get home after talking with him on a train. Turns out that young soldier was Johnny Carson and he later thanked the anonymous young lady on the air while retelling the story. When asked why she did it, she said, "Well honey, that's just what you did in my day and age: you helped each other out." Her door was always open to the neighborhood kids and even my father came over on Saturday nights to play cards with Ginny when Mom was going on dates with other guys during one of their "breaks". She laughed until she peed coming home from the grocery to find herself locked out of the house with Mom and my aunt loudly singing dirty songs out of the windows to the Mormon neighbors.

The stories and memories just go on and on.
My grief right now is raw and more than my heart can hold. Tears seem to just fall without blinking.