The Bad Daughter

I've been thinking about my mom a lot lately. And that's weird.

You see, my mom and I didn't get along all that well. We weren't very close. In fact, we were in open dispute for much of my life. And, during my teenage years, it was open warfare. So the fact that she's been much on my mind gets me thinking that there must be a good reason. I just hope that the reason isn't my way of punishing myself.

I come from a somewhat large family. There were six kids, two boys and four girls. My parents were blissfully, happily married for over 50 years. Their pleasure in each other was palpable. And they made a complimentary pair. My mom was a woman of action, a real go-getter. An only child in a family that, in a town where unemployment was rampant, came through the Depression unscathed. She was a looker, smart and athletic. Sure of herself and, as an only child, constantly reinforced in that belief. My dad was the youngest of four, from a prominent family in their small steel town. Dad, too, was a looker (and remained embarrassingly handsome until the day he died). But he was more of the pampered pet who wasn't expected to blaze a path through life. He was somewhat shy, but also had a bit of a wild streak. He ran with an older, slightly wilder crowd known for their drinking and rakish ways. In his heart, he always had aspired to be a historian or archaeologist, but World War II sent him into the Air Corps and the aftermath straight into the ubiquitous steel mill here. He and my mom married in 1948 and by 1953, they had four kids.

I was a product of the spectacular failure of the rhythm method. Mom wasn't supposed to have any more kids but, as a Catholic, she couldn't and wouldn't do anything to prevent them other than take her temperature and cross off days on the calendar. It was a dangerous and difficult pregnancy that led to a difficult infant, allergic to any and all milk products or formulas with the sole exception of goat's milk. I was told I cried continuously for the first year of my life and my mother spent every night rocking me constantly. Dad was not much help as he was, by then, working two jobs to support his growing family. Baby sister came along in 1964, after several miscarriages and many warnings from our family doctor for my mom to stop getting pregnant. Fortunately, that last golden child had the sunniest and winningest disposition of us all. Mom went back to college when golden child was three and eventually went on to become a prize winning journalist. Which allowed dad to finally cut back to one job and to get to know what was left of his family, as the oldest children had all gone off to college/marriage/military/career.

Mom and dad both had their favorites among us. Mom was obviously partial to the boys. She favored them, excused them, and rationalized their failures in life until the day she died. Dad was obviously partial to the girls, loving all that female adoration. Both parents, understandably, had a special relationship with my oldest sister. She was diagnosed with Crohn's disease at age 18, almost died numerous times, was hospitalized dozens of times at Cleveland Clinic, and basically went through a physical nightmare for most of her life. They both, also, had a special attachment to youngest sister because...well, she was the youngest. That left my next older sister and myself. Poor Patty! She kinda got lost in the crowd, I fear. She was the last of the four oldest and the homely runt of the litter as a child. I fear that her marital difficulties and attention seeking behaviors are the inevitable result of that experience.

As for me? Well, there is no doubt that I was the daddy's girl among the daddy's girls. By the time I had become a semi-sentient being (around 5 or 6), it was clear that daddy and I had a lot in common. I liked history. I liked politics. I liked war. I liked the machinery of war. I was interested in how to change a tire or the oil. I adored football. I aspired to go to Pitt. I questioned religion with him, a convert to Catholicism. And at this point in his life, daddy finally had the leisure time to explore these things with me. My mom and I, on the other hand, had nothing in common. I didn't sew. I didn't play with dolls. I didn't like or express a desire for babies. I was militant about never getting married. I liked being a little reckless and cultivated a reputation for it. And, because academics and excellent grades came easily to me, I wasn't about to take school very seriously. All mortal sins in mom's book. And though I refused to go to Confession beyond the age of 14, she made sure I did penance for all of them. I was truly the "bad" daughter.

We didn't like each other. My teen years were a blur of screaming matches with her, escalating a few times into actual physical confrontations. I'd do whatever I could to irritate her: date older guys, smoke dope, skip school, smoke cigarettes, drink, stay out late or all night. Mom would retaliate by grounding me, hitting me, calling the cops on me. Dad was always my champion. Not to say that I didn't drive him crazy, too, but he always made sure I knew he loved me and wouldn't let anything really bad happen to me. He let me know he understood me and I adored him for it.

My mom and I eventually came to a fairly friendly accommodation with each other by my mid-20s. But our relationship was never what you could call exceptionally close. And because she was the mistress of snark (where did you think I got it?), she would find ways of letting me know she hadn't forgotten all of that. Her close relationship with X was exhibit number one of that. She always found ways of letting me know that she thought he was waaaaaaay too good for me. She, in fact, said as much, separately, to both of us on her deathbed the night before she died.

When my dad suddenly died on January 2, 1999, I was completely devastated. I still am in some ways. I miss him terribly and I talk to him regularly even though I don't believe in an after life. When my life turned completely upside down, I yearned for him because he was the only person that I knew could really comfort me. Losing X was horrible. Losing X the way I did was obscene. Losing X the way I did without my dad there to catch me was the equivalent of being sucked into a black hole. I was paralyzed in a vacuum. Awful, just awful.

My mom's death, on the other hand, came after a long, difficult struggle with breast and bone cancer. We were prepared for it and it came almost as a relief when we got the call she had passed. We had each had an opportunity to say goodbye and, though our goodbye was not the lovefest that everyone would have liked it to be, I think we both felt a sense of contented closure.

Which brings me back around to why I've been thinking about her lately. What I keep wondering is what she would have made of the things he's done. She made it clear that she thought he was the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm curious as to how she'd judge the whole affair. Would she be as angry and hurt as I was? Or would she blame me?

Sadly, I think it's possible she'd blame me.

Here and There

Okay, I have a few things rattling around this head and I flatter myself that you might be interested. Just kinda where I am and to reassure anyone who cares that I'm okay.

• I'm a little worried about the Steelers this fall. First, Ben. Which we will get to in a minute. And now our #1 draft pick has been arrested...for the second time? We don't have this problem on our team!!! Well, okay, we shouldn't. We like to think of our team, our owners as a special case in this time of well-remunerated boorishness in professional sports. But, apparently, we are not as special as we think. He will not do well here with the public if this is his MO. He has obviously not yet spent enough time in Pittsburgh. It will be very clear to him very quickly that being a #1 pick doesn't give him carte blanche in this city. He should just ask around. Just talk to Plax. And he didn't come in with this many strikes.
• Ben is a big, arrogant, young idiot. I said this a year ago when his motorcycle riding, especially without a helmet, first became an issue. I hope he has been well and truly chastened by his accident and is grateful for his incredible luck in getting through it with the relatively minor result of a broken jaw and orbital bone. I was against this change in PA law when they did it. I don't give a fuck about the idiots who ride motorcycles and scream irrationally about their individual freedoms and how not being forced to wear a helmet is some sort of great symbol of that. Fuck you. If you want to kill or maim yourself or think life as a vegetable is somehow preferable, do it in the privacy of your own home. Don't make me or anyone be witness to your stupidity, don't endanger us by your arrogance, and don't increase the costs borne by those smart enough to ride as safely as possible.
• I don't usually bring politics here because I prefer argument to pontification and I have plenty of creative outlets for that elsewhere. But I just have to say that I thought I had reached an age and maturity level where I had moderated my most fiery beliefs and was cynical enough to not be much outraged by almost anything perpetrated by those who purport to represent us. However, I can now say that I have never before been more politically outraged or energized that I am today. And that's the one thing for which I must, however grudgingly, thank Bush, Cheney, their henchmen large and small, the Republican majority, and the religious righteous. They've found the hidden idealist in this jaded old Dem.
• I got a nice feeling yesterday about my whole somewhat scary weight loss. I've stopped losing and actually regained a few pounds, taking me from that gaunt look to merely skinny and leveling out at about 115 (from 142). I'm looking pretty good in a bathing suit. I had thought so, mainly because I was forced to buy a new one this year and found that bikinis fit and looked the most flattering...at least in my mind. And it was confirmed yesterday. Went on the boat with Paul and Karen, tieing off in the Ohio with whole string of boats filled with all the people from our (well, not mine anymore!) boat club. They hadn't really seen much of me since last September. Every single one of the males mentioned how great I looked and my female friends all asked about how I'd lost the weight (as if I tried!) and said what a great suit it was. I got a small bit of revenge-type satisfaction in the fact that this will be discussed when asshole and his fat ass whore are around. I know exactly how that kind of information just happens to come up "casually" in that group. I hope he eats his heart out and that she looks at her big butt in the mirror and hates herself every day.
• This was just a small skirmish in my battle to take my life back into my own hands and out of his. Now that I am sure I'll never be involved with him again and that I am equally sure that he is still not clear that he doesn't control me any more, I am doing little things to show that I intend to move on regardless of him or what he does. The boating thing will be slow because I have to depend on my boating friends, who are all members of the same club. I'll only go with them when he is sure to not be there. But I am only doing that for their sakes. I couldn't care less about his feelings or hers, for that matter. I joined that club with him in 1989 and I was a part of every boat and boating memory he has. I chose the interior of and decorated the new boat. Most of the people there are still my friends and have told me so. And I realize Tom and Dawn's resentment of me is all about their guilt about their own actions. But what they'll never get is that I don't care any more. Why they do is beyond me. But they won't stop me from boating through manipulation or deception. And, so, the last incident at the Corner Grill will definitely not stop me from going there. The sensibilities of the people there are not as complicated. It's a public establishment. I am better known and more well-liked than Tom there. A lot my friends there are males who have decided he's an idiot and who would defend me to the death. And I have decided that the fact that he thinks he can bully me into staying out of the place by taking his ugly fat whore girlfriends there despite his initial agreement to not do that is not a good enough reason for me to stay out. I'm going to keep that as "my bar" and I can guarantee you that they will feel uncomfortable there long before I ever will again. I stopped there for a quick bite Friday and for a couple of nightcaps Saturday and found that I had been missed. It was quite touching and infinitely affirming. And this just points out the special magic to me of these charming old river towns here with their blue collar ethics, very evident in that local institution, the neighborhood bar.
• I may have been just a bit extra glowing on the boat yesterday. That really young guy that some of you have read about? He hunted me down, even though I've been avoiding dating or anything with a hint of the sexual like the plague. The great thing about a young lover is he can go all night and, after a few hours of sleep, again in the morning. The bad thing about a young lover is he wants to go all night and, after a few hours of sleep, again in the morning. But I'm not complaining.

UPDATE: I'm a loser

I've let you all down. I've let myself down. I'm such a bonehead. No, what I really am is a fucking asshole dipshit bonehead.

No, I haven't been offline wildly having crazy sexual adventures with handsome and adoring men. I wish. I've been doing some very stupid, stupid things that I wish I hadn't. But now, hopefully, I've come to my senses.

When many of you last saw me, I was living what most women would call a fantasy. Dates all over the place with nice men who seemed to really like me. As opposed to the creep who had just dumped me, that is. All was good, they were nice, and I thought I was moving on nicely.

Wrong, wrong, wrong. Apparently, I'm a slow learner. Because shortly before my last post (it was actually right on Valentine's Day), the creep starting creeping his way back into my life. It started with him just dropping by on Valentine's Day with gifts. And not, he said, because he wanted anything from me but because he still cared about me as a friend and wanted to show that we could be just that. Fine...okay...I might be able to do that. Not sure, but I definitely wanted to act with class, so I accepted said gifts, offered him a drink, and then sent him on his way with a quick hug. No big deal, right?

Wrong! He began dropping by on a regular basis "to see how you are doing." And, again, because I wanted to act with some dignity and because I've never not been friends with an ex, I let him in and we'd talk and/or have a drink. And I'd send him on his way. But the hug soon evolved into a kiss good-bye. And pretty soon, he started kissing me a bit longer and a bit harder and then trying to steer me into my bedroom. And I resisted. Oh, how I resisted! For weeks and weeks, I resisted. And I managed that until the first weekend of May.

And as this drawn out and sneaky seduction of his went on, I found all kinds of reasons to stop seeing the other guys. I'd cancel dates or get my nose out of joint over some imagined slight. And when they'd call me out on it, I'd get angry and have my excuse to banish them. Until only the creep was left. Oh, and did I mention he was still dating one of his sluts regularly and seeing the other whenever she was in town or he could get to Louisville? But I'm sure you already guessed that. Because you're smart. Unlike me.

And so we get to that fateful first weekend in May. He called and wanted to come over Friday night and have a drink. Oh, and maybe we could have a bit of a talk. Fine with me! And so we did. Or, at least, he did. It was everything I wanted to hear. "It's not working out with Dawn." "She doesn't get me like you do." "Well, break it off with her then!" said I. "Well, I plan to do that once the school year is over. It's pretty hard to break up with her on a Friday and have to face her at work on Monday, after all. It will be easier for her to see me at work if summer break gives her time to get over it." Alrighty then, I thought. I knew this couldn't last. And I was right! "But why are you telling me this?" I said. And he said that part of the problem between us had been that we didn't communicate. Hmmm, I thought. Maybe he's finally gotten it. "You never really told me you loved me, you know," he said. And I immediately answered back that I don't know if I did, but all of my actions certainly telegraphed that loud and clear over the course of 18 years together. And besides, I always hesitated to discuss feelings with him because he was so adamant that we not do that and I was afraid to be too clingy for fear I'd drive him away. Mainly because he told me dozens of times that it would. After a bit more back and forth about feelings and such and several more drinks, he said that maybe we should work on being more honest with each other and see what happened. And then, of course, he kissed me. And this time, I kissed him back. And...well...he ended up staying the weekend. And, damn, the fucking was grand. The coffee in the morning together was grand. The dinner I cooked him the next night was grand. It was so fucking grand, grand, grand!!!!

So I should have known it was completely fucked up. But, as I said, I must be a slow learner. Because I walked on air and with a lighter heart for the next week. After everything I'd been through, it was all gonna work out!!!!! Oh, Geggy, you stupid fucking bitch.

The next Friday, for the first time in a long time, I went to my favorite watering hole. The one that, when we had split, we had agreed to split custody of by promising never to bring a date there. Sat down with some of my buddies and had a beer. Some other old friends also came in and, when we got done hugging, they said that I should watch out because Tom was on his way there. I said no big deal. And was actually secretly pleased because that meant he was coming to see me as, I think I've mentioned, he knew he couldn't bring a date there. So I ordered a second beer. And just as I poured it into my glass, I saw him out of the corner of my eye. But it wasn't until I turned and smiled that I saw her. Holding his hand. In my fucking bar. With him. From whom I had insisted on just one promise.

I started to just shake. I have no idea what my face looked like but it must have spoken volumes because he took a stronger grip on her arm and dragged her through the bar to another door. And as they went by me, I said (gritting my teeth, because they hurt later), "Get her the fuck out of here" audibly, but not screaming. But everyone around me knew I meant business. And then I just sat there and continued shaking for I don't know how long. 15 minutes? 30 minutes? I don't know. I know I mechanically drank that second beer. I know someone ordered me a third. I know I couldn't swallow more than half of it. I know the thought went through my head that this was what it felt like to lose your mind. Because, no doubt about it, I had.

When I thought my legs would hold me, I got up, said goodbye to everyone at the bar, and left. I wasn't crying. I was still shaking. I couldn't form a coherent thought and remember thinking how weird that was. But I didn't drive home. I drove to his (what used to be our) house. The bedroom (what used to be my bedroom) light was on. I pounded on the door and rang the door bell. Over and over and over and over and over and over. Through the window in the door, I could see he finally came into the foyer with her and her 80s big hair trailing behind. I yelled at him to open and door. Of course, he didn't have the guts to do that. He just kept telling me to go away. I yelled at him to tell the truth for once in his life and he said I didn't know the truth. So I yelled for him to tell her where he'd been last weekend and many nights before that and had he gotten her a Valentine's Day present because, if not, I could give her the one he gave me. And he just kept telling me to go away. And I just kept naming dates and times. Finally, after much prodding by her, he threatened to call the cops. I finally left and as I walked past his car in the driveway to mine, I kicked it in frustration. Left a nice little dent, I did. Right in the middle of the back quarter panel. Of his 2005 Dodge 300m. It wasn't enough but it would have to do. I went home and cried the rest of the night. I never did sleep that night. But when I finally crawled out of bed the next day, I felt light. Like a huge load was gone.

I then went about my business and did not talk about him or what happened to anyone. Even those who had been in the bar and had an inkling that there would be some sort of blow up. But he seemed to feel the need to discuss it with everyone we knew, including my family. Funnily enough, though, the only part he feels the need to tell people is how I'm completely nuts and came to his house in the middle of the night, started yelling and screaming for no reason, knocked over all the flower pots, and vandalized his home and his car. For anyone who has asked, I have taken full credit for the car. And if they really think I did it for no reason, I feel no need to explain. And those who know me well have ended their question about what did I really do with the phrase, "so what did he do to make you do that?"