Dear Gentle Readers,
If you don't learn anything else from my many years of musings, learn this:
Shit gets real at forty.
No. For real.
Here's what I mean: If you are the average American, by the time you hit forty, your children are probably halfway to adulthood or in early adulthood. You may be paying for their college education or trying to help them get established in a job or an apartment or anywhere that isn't your home. And you may or may not be succeeding. Or you may be stressing about how you will pay for their college education because, unlike when I came up, parents are more frequently having to take out private loans to pay for their children's educations.
If you are the average American, at forty your parents are probably alive but getting older. You start to realize that they aren't immortal or invincible. If they haven't planned for their retirement, you're justifiably concerned. If they are infirm, you're more than concerned. You're worried -- worried how long they can continue to live on their own and whether they will have sufficient health insurance to cover them.
If you are the average American, at forty you're staring down retirement within the next two and a half decades regardless of whether you have your own financial shit together, because time just marches on whether you have your shit together or not. Even if you want to work past 67, you have to plan for the fact that you may not be healthy enough to do so. If you are the average American, at forty you probably don't have enough set aside to retire by 67. You may not even like your current job or your career path, but you're feeling vulnerable because you're officially within the group of workers subject to age discrimination.
In other words, at forty, you become the meaty center of a stress sandwich.
When I look at younger people in my family who are approaching or passing forty, I wonder if they really appreciate the position they're in and how they're on the clock to deal with what awaits them.
I got married five days before my fortieth birthday. A month after my wedding, I was officially unemployed. After moving back and forth between practicing and teaching law with not much to show for it financially, I had to make a paradigm shift, as Black Man Not Blogging would call it. The one thing I knew how to do was to get a state government job, like my parents and my material grandmother before me. I consciously chose job security -- because you have to be an absolute idiot to get fired from a rank-and-file job with the State of California -- financial security, and a pension over career passion and excitement, at least for the short term. Somehow, passion wasn't getting me where I wanted to be financially, and when I thought about how much I didn't have for retirement, I wasn't particularly excited. I was willing to make some short-term sacrifices to get on the path to financial security and personal peace. Over time, I was able to find a state government position that I enjoy with all the financial and retirement security I so sorely need. It has come in handy. I've been called to help out others financially, and I have been blessed to have been able to do so.
My advice to anyone who is staring down forty is this: Stop. Take stock of where you are, where you want to be, and who you are going to be responsible for. Don't deny the truth of your situation, no matter how ugly it may be. Be willing to make some sacrifices in the short term for long-term goals. Be flexible. I'm not saying dump your dreams, but be willing to find other ways to achieve them while shoring up your financial position and your retirement. Assume that you won't have anyone to help you financially in old age, because that may in fact end up being the case. If your current path isn't working for you financially or spiritually, find a different way.
Shit gets real at forty, whether you want to acknowledge it or not.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
We Are Who We Came From
Oprah Winfrey didn't find out that she had another sister until she was well into her fifties. Why? Probably because her mother didn't want to tell her because she felt shame, guilt, or both. Think of how much time they missed out on. Oprah's mother and some of my older relatives are of the same generation, and I'd like to share a little something with them:
Get over yourselves, for your children's sake.
I have a relative who is tight-lipped about family history because of some deeply held need to protect and preserve the memory of a relative long departed, a relative that the members of my generation would be presumed to pass judgment on if our true family history were laid bare. That unwillingness to talk about family history makes it difficult, if not almost impossible, to do genealogical research to find out about an entire branch of my family. That entire branch is lost to me because older family members think that by holding back family history, they are preserving family secrets.
Let it go, for goodness' sake.
For starters, much of our current family history can be laid bare by a simple resort to second-grade math. It doesn't take a Stanford engineer to do the math and figure out that most of our parents weren't walking leisurely down the marriage aisle, but running down the aisle racing a fetus' entry into the world. (All those Reno weddings in the '50's kinda gave it away, folks.) But guess what? We don't care.
Because my parents' generation was rather, well, prolific, I have had at any point over 50 first cousins. And guess what, elders? We talk. We talk about all we heard as children from your family discussions in hushed tones when you thought we weren't listening, or the stuff you blurted out when you were drunk. We remember. And we talk. But guess what? We don't care.
Why? One, because we're in no position to judge, and two, because we just want to know who we came from.
I'm on the tail end of the Baby Boom. My generation embraced casual sex, hip-hop, rampant consumerism (designer jeans, anyone?) and drugs. We are the parents of the first generation of crack babies. The only war we fought was the War on Drugs, and we lost that one. Willingly.
Think about it -- are we really in any position to judge our parents and their parents, who came through Jim Crow, two World Wars, and the Civil Rights Movement, albeit somewhat scarred? I don't think so. When we think of what my parents' generation and their forebears survived, we're sitting in awe, not in judgment. That African Americans were able to preserve even some semblance of family after slavery is a testament to our resilience. Unlike my parents' generation, which is the "Don't air your dirty laundry" generation, my generation is the "I don't judge" generation. And we don't.
So when you hold back on family history because you think we'll judge you or our ancestors, you're wrong. We just want to know who we come from. We are who we came from, and if we don't know who we came from, we don't really know ourselves. If you've ever done genealogical research on African American families, you know how hard it is -- names were blithely misspelled in census records, many African Americans didn't know when they were born, families were torn asunder and stitched back together in ways not always recognizable to census takers, many of whom I assume to have been white during the 1800's. In order to know who we came from, we need clues, anything -- locations, dates, military service. Anything.
Furthermore, we have a right to know who we came from. And if you brought us into the world, you have an obligation to tell us. When you withhold family history, you withhold identity, our identity. That is no one's right, not even yours.
So, to Oprah's mom and older members of my family, you do your progeny a disservice when you don't discuss family history, no matter how tawdry or shameful you think it might be. Clearly none of you have spent much time on Facebook lately.
Please. Start talking. Before it's too late.
Get over yourselves, for your children's sake.
I have a relative who is tight-lipped about family history because of some deeply held need to protect and preserve the memory of a relative long departed, a relative that the members of my generation would be presumed to pass judgment on if our true family history were laid bare. That unwillingness to talk about family history makes it difficult, if not almost impossible, to do genealogical research to find out about an entire branch of my family. That entire branch is lost to me because older family members think that by holding back family history, they are preserving family secrets.
Let it go, for goodness' sake.
For starters, much of our current family history can be laid bare by a simple resort to second-grade math. It doesn't take a Stanford engineer to do the math and figure out that most of our parents weren't walking leisurely down the marriage aisle, but running down the aisle racing a fetus' entry into the world. (All those Reno weddings in the '50's kinda gave it away, folks.) But guess what? We don't care.
Because my parents' generation was rather, well, prolific, I have had at any point over 50 first cousins. And guess what, elders? We talk. We talk about all we heard as children from your family discussions in hushed tones when you thought we weren't listening, or the stuff you blurted out when you were drunk. We remember. And we talk. But guess what? We don't care.
Why? One, because we're in no position to judge, and two, because we just want to know who we came from.
I'm on the tail end of the Baby Boom. My generation embraced casual sex, hip-hop, rampant consumerism (designer jeans, anyone?) and drugs. We are the parents of the first generation of crack babies. The only war we fought was the War on Drugs, and we lost that one. Willingly.
Think about it -- are we really in any position to judge our parents and their parents, who came through Jim Crow, two World Wars, and the Civil Rights Movement, albeit somewhat scarred? I don't think so. When we think of what my parents' generation and their forebears survived, we're sitting in awe, not in judgment. That African Americans were able to preserve even some semblance of family after slavery is a testament to our resilience. Unlike my parents' generation, which is the "Don't air your dirty laundry" generation, my generation is the "I don't judge" generation. And we don't.
So when you hold back on family history because you think we'll judge you or our ancestors, you're wrong. We just want to know who we come from. We are who we came from, and if we don't know who we came from, we don't really know ourselves. If you've ever done genealogical research on African American families, you know how hard it is -- names were blithely misspelled in census records, many African Americans didn't know when they were born, families were torn asunder and stitched back together in ways not always recognizable to census takers, many of whom I assume to have been white during the 1800's. In order to know who we came from, we need clues, anything -- locations, dates, military service. Anything.
Furthermore, we have a right to know who we came from. And if you brought us into the world, you have an obligation to tell us. When you withhold family history, you withhold identity, our identity. That is no one's right, not even yours.
So, to Oprah's mom and older members of my family, you do your progeny a disservice when you don't discuss family history, no matter how tawdry or shameful you think it might be. Clearly none of you have spent much time on Facebook lately.
Please. Start talking. Before it's too late.
If You Fail To Plan . . .
My best friend always says, "If you fail to plan, you plan to fail." She follows that one up with, "Plan your work and work your plan." She's right.
I'm abysmal at following through on my plans. I think the problem is that I don't have kids. Bear with me.
When you have children around you, you have a visual prompt as to the passage of time. You see them grow and gain skills over time, and it's a reminder of time passing and how much time you don't have with them.
Without kids, the only prompts you have as to the passage of time are gray hair, wrinkles and infirmity. Well, I'm genetically blessed in that department. I don't have a lot of a gray hair, the only wrinkles I have are laugh lines, and despite high cholesterol, my biggest infirmity is self-imposed -- obesity. Long story short, I don't feel as old as I am. I don't realize how much time has passed until I find myself in the presence of children.
I had the pleasure of attending a family barbecue yesterday, and I held my 7 month-old great nephew, my late mother's great-grandchild. He looks just like one of my late uncles, and he's already trying to crawl. He eats nonstop and eats just about everything in sight! (He comes by that one honestly -- my late mother referred to my dad as a "gut bucket" because of his voracious appetite.)
It was then that it really hit me -- time is flying by. And I want more for myself and my family.
I've made the huge mistake of chasing fulfillment most of my adult life from my employment when I should have been seeking it in relationships -- marriage, kids, family. I look at my nephew and his desire to get his family settled in a home of their own and I realize that my focus needs to change. Now that I have more years behind me than in front of me, I need to really start thinking about leaving the next generation of my family better off than my generation. The financial goals that seem to have come more easily for my parents' generation, such as buying a house, seem almost out of reach for the generation behind me. And we all know that a house is the bedrock of wealth for most middle class families. I want to leave this earth knowing that the generation behind me is at least solidly middle class, not teetering on the edge.
But more than that, I need to lay a foundation for them to dream. I achieved my dream of being a lawyer. For the generation behind me, having a dream seems almost like a wasteful indulgence. It's almost as if they're afraid to dream, much less reveal any such dream to anyone.
I learned that my nephew dreams of becoming a writer. I had no idea. To say the least, I'm over the moon with the possibility of seeing his work shared with the world. He's afraid that he doesn't write well enough, and I've encouraged him to start blogging and, when in doubt, send his drafts to his auntie, The Writing Diva, and she'll edit them for him like she edits my work on occasion. More than anything, I hope he comes up with a plan for achieving this dream and his dream of home ownership.
In the meantime, I need to really sit my butt in a chair and plan for the future -- not just my future, but my family's. Most of us work for the state of California and have weathered furloughs and, for one of us, layoffs. We've been rocked hard, like most families, during this "Great Recession" even though we didn't engage in the financial foolishness that brought our economy to its knees. We all agree that our family needs a business, another stream of income, so that we will never be subject to the financial wrath of another stupid and despotic governor as we have with Arnold Schwarzenegger. I just need to figure out what that business will be. My hope is that this will be what we leave to the next generation so they will indeed be better off and, above all, able to dream.
And it all begins with a plan. Like my best friend says, "If you fail to plan . . . . "
I'm abysmal at following through on my plans. I think the problem is that I don't have kids. Bear with me.
When you have children around you, you have a visual prompt as to the passage of time. You see them grow and gain skills over time, and it's a reminder of time passing and how much time you don't have with them.
Without kids, the only prompts you have as to the passage of time are gray hair, wrinkles and infirmity. Well, I'm genetically blessed in that department. I don't have a lot of a gray hair, the only wrinkles I have are laugh lines, and despite high cholesterol, my biggest infirmity is self-imposed -- obesity. Long story short, I don't feel as old as I am. I don't realize how much time has passed until I find myself in the presence of children.
I had the pleasure of attending a family barbecue yesterday, and I held my 7 month-old great nephew, my late mother's great-grandchild. He looks just like one of my late uncles, and he's already trying to crawl. He eats nonstop and eats just about everything in sight! (He comes by that one honestly -- my late mother referred to my dad as a "gut bucket" because of his voracious appetite.)
It was then that it really hit me -- time is flying by. And I want more for myself and my family.
I've made the huge mistake of chasing fulfillment most of my adult life from my employment when I should have been seeking it in relationships -- marriage, kids, family. I look at my nephew and his desire to get his family settled in a home of their own and I realize that my focus needs to change. Now that I have more years behind me than in front of me, I need to really start thinking about leaving the next generation of my family better off than my generation. The financial goals that seem to have come more easily for my parents' generation, such as buying a house, seem almost out of reach for the generation behind me. And we all know that a house is the bedrock of wealth for most middle class families. I want to leave this earth knowing that the generation behind me is at least solidly middle class, not teetering on the edge.
But more than that, I need to lay a foundation for them to dream. I achieved my dream of being a lawyer. For the generation behind me, having a dream seems almost like a wasteful indulgence. It's almost as if they're afraid to dream, much less reveal any such dream to anyone.
I learned that my nephew dreams of becoming a writer. I had no idea. To say the least, I'm over the moon with the possibility of seeing his work shared with the world. He's afraid that he doesn't write well enough, and I've encouraged him to start blogging and, when in doubt, send his drafts to his auntie, The Writing Diva, and she'll edit them for him like she edits my work on occasion. More than anything, I hope he comes up with a plan for achieving this dream and his dream of home ownership.
In the meantime, I need to really sit my butt in a chair and plan for the future -- not just my future, but my family's. Most of us work for the state of California and have weathered furloughs and, for one of us, layoffs. We've been rocked hard, like most families, during this "Great Recession" even though we didn't engage in the financial foolishness that brought our economy to its knees. We all agree that our family needs a business, another stream of income, so that we will never be subject to the financial wrath of another stupid and despotic governor as we have with Arnold Schwarzenegger. I just need to figure out what that business will be. My hope is that this will be what we leave to the next generation so they will indeed be better off and, above all, able to dream.
And it all begins with a plan. Like my best friend says, "If you fail to plan . . . . "
A Pretty Damn Good Life
Last weekend, I started my Saturday in my garden with my great-nephew M. He stayed over the night before – I was at a campaign meeting and didn’t get home until 11:00 pm, so we didn’t see much of each other – but we started the morning together in my garden, with him clipping the flowers off of my collards and mustard greens (they’re bolting, but hey, they’re still good, fresh food) and me watering the seeds I’ve started for my summer vegetable garden. I pulled a carrot out of the ground, washed it, and we both ate it, remarking at how sweet it was and so unlike the slightly bitter carrots we get in the store.
After going out to breakfast with M and BMNB, we all went to “Clayfest” in Lincoln, which included “Camp Clay,” a free event where kids could get as much wet clay as they wanted to do with it as they pleased. As I was sitting at a table that sunny Saturday listening to M and BMNB playfully argue over what M should do with the clay, (I finally told BMNB, “Get your own clay!”), I thought to myself:
You’ve got a pretty damn good life.
Mind you, I didn’t say perfect life. What makes my life a pretty damn good one at this point is that I’ve let go of a lot of things and no longer allow the perfect to get in the way of the good.
Yes, my house is a mess and I have grain beetles in my pantry (Who knew?). I still haven’t unpacked and organized things to my liking. But my roses are in bloom and fragrant as ever (Heirloom and Fragrant Cloud, to be exact). I can pay my bills, even with this freakin’ furlough. I’m not hungry – in fact, I’m overweight. My husband adores me and I adore him. I live in a nice neighborhood where my neighbors share in lawn care duties and weeding of each other’s properties.
But I’ve let go of a lot.
I’ve let go of the aspiration that I will find my work thrilling and motivating. My job doesn’t excite me. The practice of law doesn’t excite me. I like the people I work with, I like most of the work I do, but I can’t say I went to law school to do what I’m doing or that it propels me out of bed in the morning. I’ve long stopped trying to live up to others’ career aspirations for me, too. I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard, “I thought you’d be on the bench by now,” without anyone ever asking me, “Do you want to be a judge?” The answer is “no.” Quite frankly, I don’t know what I want to do, and I know that my civil rights forebears, like my late soror Dorothy Height, would probably be disappointed in my current lack of direction given all of the educational capital that’s been invested in me. But I’m happier than I’ve been in a long, long time. Although I’m sure this is my last attorney job, I might stay in it for as long as it supports the kind of life I want – the ability to put my family first without a lot of pushback, as in private sector legal practice. My job does allow me a great deal of flexibility, and I work in a very parent-friendly workplace, which gets me to my second point:
I’ve let go of the idea that there’s a perfect time to start a family. There isn’t. You just do it. BMNB and I have probably waited far too long, longer than most, but that’s been the tenor of our lives – we’re late bloomers and over-achievers, always trying to get our ducks in a row before we embark on something huge. But not this time. So we’ve started to plough ahead on the adoption front, and I’m excited and scared all at the same time. And I wonder whether I’ll even care as much about my career when we have kids in the house. My advice to anyone, whether you’re single, married, or just breathing, is that if you want kids, go make some or go get some. There is no perfect moment to start a family.
I’ve let go of the idea that I would be wealthy. Mind you, I wasn’t chasing wealth for the purpose of buying oodles of crap. I wanted to be financially secure in order to be free to do whatever the hell I wanted. And deep down inside, I think I expected that that was what others expected of me. But as I look down the dual paths of retirement planning and child raising/college saving, unless I become the Donald Trump of Placer County in selling real estate, the likelihood that I’m going to be wealthy isn’t very high if I stay in my current position. Mind you, BMNB and I make a comfortable living for two folks with no kids. But the idea that one day I won’t have to watch my pennies, invest and save aggressively, clip coupons, or shop meat sales at Safeway is gone. I’d rather be less well off and surrounded by happy kids. My definition of happiness has definitely changed.
I’ve let go of the idea that I’m going to be a size eight. Now, I just want to be healthy and feel good. I’ve got this one body (I’m starting to sound like a “Boniva” commercial here), and I’ve got to stop waging war against it. It serves me, and I need to serve it, no matter what size it is.
I’ve let go of the idea that I have a lot of time left to do the things I want to do. I don’t. Nobody really does. I was listening to Joan Rivers on “Forum” on my way to work, and she said that she lives well because she believes you only live once. As a Jew, she remarked that they believe in “heaven and hell, all right here on earth.” I’m one of those people who puts fun things off until I can pay cash and I constantly say, “We can’t afford that right now.” Well, to borrow from an old civil rights refrain, “If not now, when?” I’m not saying I’m going to run out and charge a bunch of trips and rack up oodles of debt. I am saying that I’m going to find a middle ground and plan for more fun. As nerdy as it sounds, I’m looking forward to studying places with my kids and then traveling to those places, like Civil War battlegrounds, Washington D.C., California missions, the Underground Railroad, and the like. BMNB and I love to travel, and I want to build more of that into our lives.
I’ve taken a break from achievement and gone off on a path of fun. Right now, I’m running a local political campaign and I’m having a blast! I’m using all of my skills – writing, organization, planning, creativity – to put together a winning strategy for a candidate I believe in, and I’m meeting all kinds of intriguing and passionate people along the way. I don’t know where this might lead down the line, but right now, I’m having more fun at this than at trying to figure out my career path.
We finished our Saturday with a trip to the library (M loves to read – gotta love that in an 8 year-old), two trips to Burger King (don’t ask), and an evening watching kid videos we borrowed from the library for free -- Shrek, Madagascar, one of those Narnia movies – while I crocheted an afghan for his cousin. The next day, consonant with Donkey’s prescription for a good sleepover, I made waffles – buttermilk waffles from scratch, mind you. I’ve spoiled M to the point that he expects waffles from scratch when he stays with us. But the smile on his face when he eats them is more than worth it.
After going out to breakfast with M and BMNB, we all went to “Clayfest” in Lincoln, which included “Camp Clay,” a free event where kids could get as much wet clay as they wanted to do with it as they pleased. As I was sitting at a table that sunny Saturday listening to M and BMNB playfully argue over what M should do with the clay, (I finally told BMNB, “Get your own clay!”), I thought to myself:
You’ve got a pretty damn good life.
Mind you, I didn’t say perfect life. What makes my life a pretty damn good one at this point is that I’ve let go of a lot of things and no longer allow the perfect to get in the way of the good.
Yes, my house is a mess and I have grain beetles in my pantry (Who knew?). I still haven’t unpacked and organized things to my liking. But my roses are in bloom and fragrant as ever (Heirloom and Fragrant Cloud, to be exact). I can pay my bills, even with this freakin’ furlough. I’m not hungry – in fact, I’m overweight. My husband adores me and I adore him. I live in a nice neighborhood where my neighbors share in lawn care duties and weeding of each other’s properties.
But I’ve let go of a lot.
I’ve let go of the aspiration that I will find my work thrilling and motivating. My job doesn’t excite me. The practice of law doesn’t excite me. I like the people I work with, I like most of the work I do, but I can’t say I went to law school to do what I’m doing or that it propels me out of bed in the morning. I’ve long stopped trying to live up to others’ career aspirations for me, too. I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard, “I thought you’d be on the bench by now,” without anyone ever asking me, “Do you want to be a judge?” The answer is “no.” Quite frankly, I don’t know what I want to do, and I know that my civil rights forebears, like my late soror Dorothy Height, would probably be disappointed in my current lack of direction given all of the educational capital that’s been invested in me. But I’m happier than I’ve been in a long, long time. Although I’m sure this is my last attorney job, I might stay in it for as long as it supports the kind of life I want – the ability to put my family first without a lot of pushback, as in private sector legal practice. My job does allow me a great deal of flexibility, and I work in a very parent-friendly workplace, which gets me to my second point:
I’ve let go of the idea that there’s a perfect time to start a family. There isn’t. You just do it. BMNB and I have probably waited far too long, longer than most, but that’s been the tenor of our lives – we’re late bloomers and over-achievers, always trying to get our ducks in a row before we embark on something huge. But not this time. So we’ve started to plough ahead on the adoption front, and I’m excited and scared all at the same time. And I wonder whether I’ll even care as much about my career when we have kids in the house. My advice to anyone, whether you’re single, married, or just breathing, is that if you want kids, go make some or go get some. There is no perfect moment to start a family.
I’ve let go of the idea that I would be wealthy. Mind you, I wasn’t chasing wealth for the purpose of buying oodles of crap. I wanted to be financially secure in order to be free to do whatever the hell I wanted. And deep down inside, I think I expected that that was what others expected of me. But as I look down the dual paths of retirement planning and child raising/college saving, unless I become the Donald Trump of Placer County in selling real estate, the likelihood that I’m going to be wealthy isn’t very high if I stay in my current position. Mind you, BMNB and I make a comfortable living for two folks with no kids. But the idea that one day I won’t have to watch my pennies, invest and save aggressively, clip coupons, or shop meat sales at Safeway is gone. I’d rather be less well off and surrounded by happy kids. My definition of happiness has definitely changed.
I’ve let go of the idea that I’m going to be a size eight. Now, I just want to be healthy and feel good. I’ve got this one body (I’m starting to sound like a “Boniva” commercial here), and I’ve got to stop waging war against it. It serves me, and I need to serve it, no matter what size it is.
I’ve let go of the idea that I have a lot of time left to do the things I want to do. I don’t. Nobody really does. I was listening to Joan Rivers on “Forum” on my way to work, and she said that she lives well because she believes you only live once. As a Jew, she remarked that they believe in “heaven and hell, all right here on earth.” I’m one of those people who puts fun things off until I can pay cash and I constantly say, “We can’t afford that right now.” Well, to borrow from an old civil rights refrain, “If not now, when?” I’m not saying I’m going to run out and charge a bunch of trips and rack up oodles of debt. I am saying that I’m going to find a middle ground and plan for more fun. As nerdy as it sounds, I’m looking forward to studying places with my kids and then traveling to those places, like Civil War battlegrounds, Washington D.C., California missions, the Underground Railroad, and the like. BMNB and I love to travel, and I want to build more of that into our lives.
I’ve taken a break from achievement and gone off on a path of fun. Right now, I’m running a local political campaign and I’m having a blast! I’m using all of my skills – writing, organization, planning, creativity – to put together a winning strategy for a candidate I believe in, and I’m meeting all kinds of intriguing and passionate people along the way. I don’t know where this might lead down the line, but right now, I’m having more fun at this than at trying to figure out my career path.
We finished our Saturday with a trip to the library (M loves to read – gotta love that in an 8 year-old), two trips to Burger King (don’t ask), and an evening watching kid videos we borrowed from the library for free -- Shrek, Madagascar, one of those Narnia movies – while I crocheted an afghan for his cousin. The next day, consonant with Donkey’s prescription for a good sleepover, I made waffles – buttermilk waffles from scratch, mind you. I’ve spoiled M to the point that he expects waffles from scratch when he stays with us. But the smile on his face when he eats them is more than worth it.
Yep, I’ve got a pretty damn good life, and it took an 8 year-old to remind me of that
Tidings of Comfort Food and Joy
I hope you had as wonderful a Christmas as I did. My Christmas wasn't about expensive gifts or overworked hostesses bearing overladen platters of food, but about gathering with family and exchanging small but meaningful gifts -- a photo of a departed, beloved pet; recipes from my late mom, SWIE; books to inspire travel; even a book of Sudoku puzzles. It wasn't the price but the thought put into the gifts that counted. And it was nice to have just about everyone gathered around without there being a funeral as the reason.
Indeed, one gift I treasured greatly was a book of my mom's recipes given to me by my sister. You see, I had been hankerin' for some good ol' chili beans like my mom used to make, but I had long forgotten how she made them. Luckily, my sister had it all written down. The gift of that recipe means that my mom's comfort food -- my comfort food -- will still live on.
If you're nice, perhaps I'll share the recipe with you, along with some of my mom's other comfort food recipes, like chili chicken. Good eatin', y'all.
Tidings of comfort food and joy . . . .
Happy Holidays . . .
Indeed, one gift I treasured greatly was a book of my mom's recipes given to me by my sister. You see, I had been hankerin' for some good ol' chili beans like my mom used to make, but I had long forgotten how she made them. Luckily, my sister had it all written down. The gift of that recipe means that my mom's comfort food -- my comfort food -- will still live on.
If you're nice, perhaps I'll share the recipe with you, along with some of my mom's other comfort food recipes, like chili chicken. Good eatin', y'all.
Tidings of comfort food and joy . . . .
Happy Holidays . . .
Your Holiday Survival Manifesto and Mantras
The holidays are coming, and they usually entail spending a great deal of time with family members you may not see on a regular basis, perhaps because you choose not to. For some, holiday time with the fam is a blessing; for others, a curse. For those of you feeling cursed right about now, BWB's got your Holiday Survival Manifesto and accompanying mantras to get you through the holidays without your having to ask someone to post bail on your behalf.
First, the Manifesto. There are some simple realities of family life that we all need to remember around this time of year. In the words of my sister, The Writing Diva, I'd like to think of each of them as a holiday "slap upside da hed." Here goes:
1. To borrow from Donald Rumsfeld, you don't go into the holidays with the family you want; you go into the holidays with the family you have. Spending countless hours huddled around a large table over a perfectly (or imperfectly) roasted dead bird and cholesterol-enhancing side dishes isn't going to change your family into the Cosbys, which leads me to my next slap:
2) Past is prologue. If Aunt Sadie Mae acted a fool last Thanksgiving, well, guess what? She's probably going to act a fool this Thanksgiving. For you, it's drama; for her, it's an encore performance. Either way, it's coming. This leads me to my next slap:
3) Expectation is the mother of disappointment. If you expect people to act differently than they always have, you're doomed to be disappointed. No expectations, no disappointment. See how that works? I have a relative who once complained to me about another relative he didn't want to have over for holiday dinners because she always got drunk and it annoyed him. My response: Stop expecting her to do anything other than what she's always done. If you stop expecting her to be sober, you won't be disappointed when she isn't. Not serving any alcohol might help, too.
4) Unless you raised them or or abused them, your relatives' dysfunction is neither your fault nor your problem. During the holidays, in the spirit of charity and good cheer, we often take on the problems and dysfunction of folks not of our own creation, often to our own detriment. Stop with that. Right now, I said. Besides, even assuming these dysfunctional folks could be fixed, you sure ain't gonna fix them over the holidays because there's simply not enough time.
5) You are not "Save The Children," and you don't have to feed the world. Money is tight and time is even tighter. Everybody needs to pitch in and help to make Thanksgiving dinner "accessible" to everyone who's coming. Instead of footing the bill by yourself for some mondo Thanksgiving dinner, hold a potluck and make everybody bring something, even if it's just two liters of Coke. It's a recession, you ain't Donald Trump, and neither am I, so let's stop fronting, shall we?
Now the mantras. Invariably, there are situations that will occur during the holidays that will make you want to take your guns out of the gun safe (You do have a gun safe, don't you?). Don't do that. Instead, recite and live these mantras or the duration of the holidays:
1) I will prepare myself as much as possible. That means having a game plan going into Thanksgiving, in particular. If you're hosting, plan your menu, stick to your plans, be the biyatch, and tell everybody else what they're going to do or bring in language that makes it sound like you 're asking them to do it. Starting off with the Southern sweeteners such as "sugar" and "honey" might help, as in, "Sugar, you make the best damned sweet potato pie. Think you might be able to bring one to Thanksgiving dinner? I'd surely 'preciate it if you could. You know Mama just loves your pie." Or, "Honey, could you help me clear the table so we can play Pokeno?" You know how to do this, especially if you're a married woman. Do your thing.
2) I will not let the perfect get in the way of the good. Mess up the turkey? So what. When's the last time you cooked a turkey, anyway? Don't let the perfect get in the way of the good. Do what you can to fix it (one year, I had to roll through Boston Market at the last minute because I totally blew the turkey, but they hooked me up), but get on with the holiday and enjoy yourself. There are no medals for a perfect dinner, anyway.
3) I will not take personally anything anyone says about me. Inevitably, Cousin Shanice, whom you suspect has an eating disorder and/or a weave but you can't prove either, is going to make some comment about your weight, your hair, etc., that will usually start off with the falsely familiar endearment "girl," as in "Girl, you sho have put on some weight. Hmm, hmm, hmm!" You will show Cousin Shanice grace and not take personally anything she says about you. Remember that most snarky criticism comes from people who have far more severe personal issues than you can even imagine, e.g., inability to keep down food or grow their own crop of hair. Your happiness just kills them, so smile in their faces and party like it's 1999.
4) I will not respond negatively to stupid stuff. Then again, there's always that one person who decides that Thanksgiving is the time to share news of stuff they should not be proud of but don't have the good sense to be ashamed of. For example, people who should not be repopulating the earth tend to break news of an impending birth around this time. You know these people -- men with more baby mamas than they can count on one hand, women whose children have been taken away from them by the state. Your natural instinct is to slap them upside the head and say, "Fool, you need another child like you need a hole in the head." The problem is that, deep down inside, they know this. You telling them this and responding negatively is only going to raise your blood pressure, not theirs, because they're too stupid to know they shouldn't be proud. In fact, I'm counseling you to do the opposite: Indulge them. Yep, I said it. Indulge them. Ask about the baby's due date, whether they've chosen a name, if they're having a baby shower. Join in their misguided excitement. But don't you volunteer to host that baby shower or I will personally come and slap you upside da hed.
5) I will not let anyone mistreat my children, especially in their own home. This comes with some caveats, however. During the holidays, people who have not seen your children for a while might feel free to make undue comments about their appearance, etc. Now, if these comments are directed to a girl entering puberty, you definitely need to play defense and play it fast, especially if they're coming from an older adult male. Give the offending party notice that your child is sensitive about whatever -- her budding breasts, his growth spurt, etc. -- and that you'd appreciate it if they'd leave the topic alone. If the offending party keeps coming with the remarks, you need to pull them to the side and tell them to shut the eff up and, if you're in your home, tell them they need to go home. No child should be verbally assaulted in his or her own home.
Now, there are some caveats. If you're a guest and a parent, you don't get to take a parenting vacation and let your children run wild in someone else's house, and I don't care whose house it is. You need to keep your children well-behaved and under control because they aren't anyone else's responsibility but your own. Bring books, games, whatever, but it's your job to keep them occupied. As my mom used to say, "You laid up and made them kids. Kids don't ask to be born." So, if someone disciplines your bad-ass child because you didn't take care of it first, well, shame on you.
6) I did not create the dysfunction, and I cannot fix it; therefore, I will sit back and watch it like really bad dinner theater. Chances are, the eff'd up things about your family are not of your own creation. Chances are, you can't fix the dysfunction. Since you didn't cause it and you can't fix it, you might as well pretend that you're at some really bad dinner theater, fill your plate, and sit back and watch as if you don't know these people. Pretend you're invisible and detach yourself from the situation. Trust me, you'll have some good stories to share with your co-workers the following week.
With that, you're prepared for the holidays.
P.S. Happy Birthday, BMNB!
First, the Manifesto. There are some simple realities of family life that we all need to remember around this time of year. In the words of my sister, The Writing Diva, I'd like to think of each of them as a holiday "slap upside da hed." Here goes:
1. To borrow from Donald Rumsfeld, you don't go into the holidays with the family you want; you go into the holidays with the family you have. Spending countless hours huddled around a large table over a perfectly (or imperfectly) roasted dead bird and cholesterol-enhancing side dishes isn't going to change your family into the Cosbys, which leads me to my next slap:
2) Past is prologue. If Aunt Sadie Mae acted a fool last Thanksgiving, well, guess what? She's probably going to act a fool this Thanksgiving. For you, it's drama; for her, it's an encore performance. Either way, it's coming. This leads me to my next slap:
3) Expectation is the mother of disappointment. If you expect people to act differently than they always have, you're doomed to be disappointed. No expectations, no disappointment. See how that works? I have a relative who once complained to me about another relative he didn't want to have over for holiday dinners because she always got drunk and it annoyed him. My response: Stop expecting her to do anything other than what she's always done. If you stop expecting her to be sober, you won't be disappointed when she isn't. Not serving any alcohol might help, too.
4) Unless you raised them or or abused them, your relatives' dysfunction is neither your fault nor your problem. During the holidays, in the spirit of charity and good cheer, we often take on the problems and dysfunction of folks not of our own creation, often to our own detriment. Stop with that. Right now, I said. Besides, even assuming these dysfunctional folks could be fixed, you sure ain't gonna fix them over the holidays because there's simply not enough time.
5) You are not "Save The Children," and you don't have to feed the world. Money is tight and time is even tighter. Everybody needs to pitch in and help to make Thanksgiving dinner "accessible" to everyone who's coming. Instead of footing the bill by yourself for some mondo Thanksgiving dinner, hold a potluck and make everybody bring something, even if it's just two liters of Coke. It's a recession, you ain't Donald Trump, and neither am I, so let's stop fronting, shall we?
Now the mantras. Invariably, there are situations that will occur during the holidays that will make you want to take your guns out of the gun safe (You do have a gun safe, don't you?). Don't do that. Instead, recite and live these mantras or the duration of the holidays:
1) I will prepare myself as much as possible. That means having a game plan going into Thanksgiving, in particular. If you're hosting, plan your menu, stick to your plans, be the biyatch, and tell everybody else what they're going to do or bring in language that makes it sound like you 're asking them to do it. Starting off with the Southern sweeteners such as "sugar" and "honey" might help, as in, "Sugar, you make the best damned sweet potato pie. Think you might be able to bring one to Thanksgiving dinner? I'd surely 'preciate it if you could. You know Mama just loves your pie." Or, "Honey, could you help me clear the table so we can play Pokeno?" You know how to do this, especially if you're a married woman. Do your thing.
2) I will not let the perfect get in the way of the good. Mess up the turkey? So what. When's the last time you cooked a turkey, anyway? Don't let the perfect get in the way of the good. Do what you can to fix it (one year, I had to roll through Boston Market at the last minute because I totally blew the turkey, but they hooked me up), but get on with the holiday and enjoy yourself. There are no medals for a perfect dinner, anyway.
3) I will not take personally anything anyone says about me. Inevitably, Cousin Shanice, whom you suspect has an eating disorder and/or a weave but you can't prove either, is going to make some comment about your weight, your hair, etc., that will usually start off with the falsely familiar endearment "girl," as in "Girl, you sho have put on some weight. Hmm, hmm, hmm!" You will show Cousin Shanice grace and not take personally anything she says about you. Remember that most snarky criticism comes from people who have far more severe personal issues than you can even imagine, e.g., inability to keep down food or grow their own crop of hair. Your happiness just kills them, so smile in their faces and party like it's 1999.
4) I will not respond negatively to stupid stuff. Then again, there's always that one person who decides that Thanksgiving is the time to share news of stuff they should not be proud of but don't have the good sense to be ashamed of. For example, people who should not be repopulating the earth tend to break news of an impending birth around this time. You know these people -- men with more baby mamas than they can count on one hand, women whose children have been taken away from them by the state. Your natural instinct is to slap them upside the head and say, "Fool, you need another child like you need a hole in the head." The problem is that, deep down inside, they know this. You telling them this and responding negatively is only going to raise your blood pressure, not theirs, because they're too stupid to know they shouldn't be proud. In fact, I'm counseling you to do the opposite: Indulge them. Yep, I said it. Indulge them. Ask about the baby's due date, whether they've chosen a name, if they're having a baby shower. Join in their misguided excitement. But don't you volunteer to host that baby shower or I will personally come and slap you upside da hed.
5) I will not let anyone mistreat my children, especially in their own home. This comes with some caveats, however. During the holidays, people who have not seen your children for a while might feel free to make undue comments about their appearance, etc. Now, if these comments are directed to a girl entering puberty, you definitely need to play defense and play it fast, especially if they're coming from an older adult male. Give the offending party notice that your child is sensitive about whatever -- her budding breasts, his growth spurt, etc. -- and that you'd appreciate it if they'd leave the topic alone. If the offending party keeps coming with the remarks, you need to pull them to the side and tell them to shut the eff up and, if you're in your home, tell them they need to go home. No child should be verbally assaulted in his or her own home.
Now, there are some caveats. If you're a guest and a parent, you don't get to take a parenting vacation and let your children run wild in someone else's house, and I don't care whose house it is. You need to keep your children well-behaved and under control because they aren't anyone else's responsibility but your own. Bring books, games, whatever, but it's your job to keep them occupied. As my mom used to say, "You laid up and made them kids. Kids don't ask to be born." So, if someone disciplines your bad-ass child because you didn't take care of it first, well, shame on you.
6) I did not create the dysfunction, and I cannot fix it; therefore, I will sit back and watch it like really bad dinner theater. Chances are, the eff'd up things about your family are not of your own creation. Chances are, you can't fix the dysfunction. Since you didn't cause it and you can't fix it, you might as well pretend that you're at some really bad dinner theater, fill your plate, and sit back and watch as if you don't know these people. Pretend you're invisible and detach yourself from the situation. Trust me, you'll have some good stories to share with your co-workers the following week.
With that, you're prepared for the holidays.
P.S. Happy Birthday, BMNB!
Taking Up
I against my brother
My brother and I against our father
My brother, my father and I against our uncle
And all of us against the infidel . . .
Old Arab Proverb (I'm told)
When I was a child, as part of a large black family, I was trained, as were my siblings, to "take up" for any of my siblings if any one of us got into a fight. Mind you, since I was the youngest, I didn't have to make good on this familial pact. It was understood that if any one of us got into a fight or was threatened with one, and there was another one of us around, they had better "take up" for the one who was in a fight or threatened. If we got home and our parents found out that we didn't take up for one another, we were going to get it. We would be judged, and there would be hell to pay. Didn't matter if your sister or brother started the fight -- that would be dealt with later -- all that mattered was that if there was going to be trouble, you'd best be fighting alongside your sibling instead of sitting on the sidelines or fighting against them.
Because "taking up" was a common phenomenon among black families in the ghetto during the '60's and '70's, if you lived in the ghetto, you pretty much knew what your odds were going into a fight. There were people who wouldn't mess with me because they knew my older brother would take up for me. "Don't mess with her. Her brother's crazy." Just the knowledge that you weren't going to be the only one they'd have to do battle with was enough to keep the peace. Don't start none, won't be none. Talk about a deterrent. I guess it was the ghetto equivalent of NATO.
You don't expect when you're in your forties that your siblings would still have to take up for you, but it's nice to know that they would. I won't dignify the person or the act that caused me to seek advice, solace and support from my siblings, but my siblings made it very clear that they would take up for me. Between sips of iced tea and bites of an off-the-chain pound cake (my sisters may not be Southerners, but like Southern women, there's always dessert in their house) I was given an infusion of SWIE-wit and the confirmation that the pact still stood. A subsequent family meeting in my absence involving my oldest brother made clear that the pact still stood.
I am blessed beyond measure to have the family I was born into. I don't know what I did to deserve it, but I know I am blessed.
The pact still stands. We may be sliding into middle age, but the pact still stands.
Thanks to our parents.
My brother and I against our father
My brother, my father and I against our uncle
And all of us against the infidel . . .
Old Arab Proverb (I'm told)
When I was a child, as part of a large black family, I was trained, as were my siblings, to "take up" for any of my siblings if any one of us got into a fight. Mind you, since I was the youngest, I didn't have to make good on this familial pact. It was understood that if any one of us got into a fight or was threatened with one, and there was another one of us around, they had better "take up" for the one who was in a fight or threatened. If we got home and our parents found out that we didn't take up for one another, we were going to get it. We would be judged, and there would be hell to pay. Didn't matter if your sister or brother started the fight -- that would be dealt with later -- all that mattered was that if there was going to be trouble, you'd best be fighting alongside your sibling instead of sitting on the sidelines or fighting against them.
Because "taking up" was a common phenomenon among black families in the ghetto during the '60's and '70's, if you lived in the ghetto, you pretty much knew what your odds were going into a fight. There were people who wouldn't mess with me because they knew my older brother would take up for me. "Don't mess with her. Her brother's crazy." Just the knowledge that you weren't going to be the only one they'd have to do battle with was enough to keep the peace. Don't start none, won't be none. Talk about a deterrent. I guess it was the ghetto equivalent of NATO.
You don't expect when you're in your forties that your siblings would still have to take up for you, but it's nice to know that they would. I won't dignify the person or the act that caused me to seek advice, solace and support from my siblings, but my siblings made it very clear that they would take up for me. Between sips of iced tea and bites of an off-the-chain pound cake (my sisters may not be Southerners, but like Southern women, there's always dessert in their house) I was given an infusion of SWIE-wit and the confirmation that the pact still stood. A subsequent family meeting in my absence involving my oldest brother made clear that the pact still stood.
I am blessed beyond measure to have the family I was born into. I don't know what I did to deserve it, but I know I am blessed.
The pact still stands. We may be sliding into middle age, but the pact still stands.
Thanks to our parents.
The Power of a Lie: Rest in Peace, Cousin
Today I attended the funeral of one of my older cousins. He was very sweet and kind, the kind of person who was always happy to see you and always had a smile for you. Loving and non-judgmental, he was an easy-going guy who had had some hard times -- drugs, prison, you name it. And on this, the day of his funeral, we celebrated his release not just from these earthly bounds, but from a lie, a lie about him that burdened not only him but our entire family.
You see, I'm on the tail end in terms of birth order among us first cousins on my mom's side of the family. There is so much history between my older siblings and older cousins that I only know through stories passed down. And one of these stories was that, as a teenager, my cousin had burned down a school. This is no small matter. If you burn down a school in the suburbs, people rush to rebuild it; in the ghetto, not so much. And he had reputedly burned down a school in the ghetto. There was no rush to rebuild. Children and families were affected.
I don't even know if I was born when this school burned down, but whenever I mentioned to old-timers in the black community where I grew up who my "people" were -- and where I'm from, it's all about who your "people" are -- they would sometimes make the connection between me and this cousin and would get a look on their faces as if they'd just swallowed sour milk. Even an older friend of mine recently told me when she "made the connection", so to speak, "I'm not too fond of your cousin. You know he burned down that school." There wasn't much I could say - all I ever knew was what was quietly whispered about this cousin -- that he had supposedly burned down this school. I didn't know what the truth was, and I couldn't defend him.
It's sad that it took a funeral to set him free, spiritually and otherwise.
My cousin's youngest brother, God bless him, preached the eulogy today and, once and for all, put to death the the lie that my cousin had burned down the school. Yes, he was trying to rob the school, but he didn't light the match that lit the paper in the garbage can that caught fire to the drapes that burned down the school. He didn't burn down the school; he just happened to be there when other partners in crime did.
It all goes to show the power of a lie. That unless someone steps forward to clear your name, or you clear it yourself, a lie can follow you to your grave. Even worse -- it can jump right in the grave with you. But my cousin wasn't concerned with the lie. He was too busy just being kind and always having a smile and a kind word to offer to little cousins like me.
Rest in peace, Cousin. And if someone ever again blames your for that school fire in my presence, I WILL tell the truth and shame the Devil.
You see, I'm on the tail end in terms of birth order among us first cousins on my mom's side of the family. There is so much history between my older siblings and older cousins that I only know through stories passed down. And one of these stories was that, as a teenager, my cousin had burned down a school. This is no small matter. If you burn down a school in the suburbs, people rush to rebuild it; in the ghetto, not so much. And he had reputedly burned down a school in the ghetto. There was no rush to rebuild. Children and families were affected.
I don't even know if I was born when this school burned down, but whenever I mentioned to old-timers in the black community where I grew up who my "people" were -- and where I'm from, it's all about who your "people" are -- they would sometimes make the connection between me and this cousin and would get a look on their faces as if they'd just swallowed sour milk. Even an older friend of mine recently told me when she "made the connection", so to speak, "I'm not too fond of your cousin. You know he burned down that school." There wasn't much I could say - all I ever knew was what was quietly whispered about this cousin -- that he had supposedly burned down this school. I didn't know what the truth was, and I couldn't defend him.
It's sad that it took a funeral to set him free, spiritually and otherwise.
My cousin's youngest brother, God bless him, preached the eulogy today and, once and for all, put to death the the lie that my cousin had burned down the school. Yes, he was trying to rob the school, but he didn't light the match that lit the paper in the garbage can that caught fire to the drapes that burned down the school. He didn't burn down the school; he just happened to be there when other partners in crime did.
It all goes to show the power of a lie. That unless someone steps forward to clear your name, or you clear it yourself, a lie can follow you to your grave. Even worse -- it can jump right in the grave with you. But my cousin wasn't concerned with the lie. He was too busy just being kind and always having a smile and a kind word to offer to little cousins like me.
Rest in peace, Cousin. And if someone ever again blames your for that school fire in my presence, I WILL tell the truth and shame the Devil.
You Really (Don't) Like Me
"You like me. You really like me."
Sally Field, upon winning her second Academy Award for "Places in the Heart"
When I was young, it used to upset me when people didn't like me for no reason at all. My mother used to tell me that there are people who aren't going to like you just because, and it has nothing to do with you. To me, it just defied logic -- how could you dislike someone who has done nothing to you?
Now that I'm older, I totally understand what my mother was trying to tell me. And my attitude has changed, too. In my twenties and thirties, I would have seen someone's unmerited dislike of me as a challenge, and I would have waged a personal PR campaign to prove myself worthy of being liked by them.
Now that I'm in my forties, eff 'em. Including the ones I'm related to.
That was the hardest part -- accepting that, yes, there are people I'm related to who don't like me. For reasons unrelated to me, for things I've never done (or at least I'm not aware that I've done). I remember at a recent family reunion, a cousin I hadn't seen since I was a teenager remarked to my sister in my presence, "Wow, I thought she was all stuck up." At first, I was pleased to see that I had inadvertently won yet another PR war. It later dawned on me that I shouldn't have cared whether this person liked me or not, even if she was related to me. I could count on my hands the number of times we had interacted, and there's a significant age difference between us such that, even as cousins, we wouldn't have run in the same circles. We hadn't spent enough time together for her to have made any judgment about me, but, lo and behold, she had. Whatever.
I'm done with trying to make people I've done absolutely nothing to like me. We all should be. My mother was right. And my best friend's mother used to put it best: "They talked about Jesus, and he was perfect; what makes you think they're NOT going to talk about you?"
Yesterday, I got on the elevator with two older co-workers I've not really interacted with since I started my job here in December. I've had a frigid reception from them since the day I started. But there's something about being in your forties that frees you from caring about petty things like this. I just smiled to myself and thought, "Eff 'em."
Sally Field, upon winning her second Academy Award for "Places in the Heart"
When I was young, it used to upset me when people didn't like me for no reason at all. My mother used to tell me that there are people who aren't going to like you just because, and it has nothing to do with you. To me, it just defied logic -- how could you dislike someone who has done nothing to you?
Now that I'm older, I totally understand what my mother was trying to tell me. And my attitude has changed, too. In my twenties and thirties, I would have seen someone's unmerited dislike of me as a challenge, and I would have waged a personal PR campaign to prove myself worthy of being liked by them.
Now that I'm in my forties, eff 'em. Including the ones I'm related to.
That was the hardest part -- accepting that, yes, there are people I'm related to who don't like me. For reasons unrelated to me, for things I've never done (or at least I'm not aware that I've done). I remember at a recent family reunion, a cousin I hadn't seen since I was a teenager remarked to my sister in my presence, "Wow, I thought she was all stuck up." At first, I was pleased to see that I had inadvertently won yet another PR war. It later dawned on me that I shouldn't have cared whether this person liked me or not, even if she was related to me. I could count on my hands the number of times we had interacted, and there's a significant age difference between us such that, even as cousins, we wouldn't have run in the same circles. We hadn't spent enough time together for her to have made any judgment about me, but, lo and behold, she had. Whatever.
I'm done with trying to make people I've done absolutely nothing to like me. We all should be. My mother was right. And my best friend's mother used to put it best: "They talked about Jesus, and he was perfect; what makes you think they're NOT going to talk about you?"
Yesterday, I got on the elevator with two older co-workers I've not really interacted with since I started my job here in December. I've had a frigid reception from them since the day I started. But there's something about being in your forties that frees you from caring about petty things like this. I just smiled to myself and thought, "Eff 'em."
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