Apparently my cousin got her, and I quote, "pussy pierced".
Apparently it initially hurt really badly.
Apparently it will be back and ready for action in 2 weeks.
Apparently it looks great.
Not only do I now know more about my cousin's genitals than I ever hoped to, but so do the rest of her Facebook friends, her aunt, her brother, and her mother.
Oh yes, and her grandmother.
TMI is a vast understatement at this moment in time.
Envy is my deadly sin, if we're to be specific.
Now, before I launch into my tale, I want to make a few things clear. First, I know this entire reaction is silly and irrational. I am aware than I have a damn good life, and to imagine something different would be to picture something entirely disingenuous to who I am. I know that given the choice, I would remain wearing the same shoes I am now, as despite them being less shiny than others, they fit me a hell of a lot better.
That being said, what is the purpose of having an anonymous blog if not to write longwinded posts complaining about petty things?
So... I took an impulsive surprise trip to HomeTown for the Easter long weekend. As part of the process of surprising my mom, upon arriving, I went directly to my little sister's house.
By sister's house, I mean the house recently purchased by her new boyfriend. By new boyfriend, I mean her boss, who is 12 years her senior, and who she moved in with after dating for two months.
By house, I mean something a lot more glamourous than anything we lived in growing up. I mean three bathrooms, jacuzzi tub, amazing view, so many extra bedrooms that they can spare a "studio" for their brand new hobby of painting on top of the usual spare bedrooms and office-- plus shiny new non-Ikea real furniture. On top of this, they have jumped full speed into responsible homeowner's mode, speaking of replacing hardwood floors, knocking down walls, landscaping, putting in a hot tub. My sister speaks in confident tones, making statements such as "Well, I certainly don't want to sell anytime in the near future" and "I'm not sure if I like his idea of building a suite in the garage, although it would help with the mortgage."
In other words, my sister jumped from broke and moving back in with the parents to a half million dollar home (in a town where that actually buys a lot)-- all in one fell swoop.
And me? Well, since graduating high school, I suppose you could describe my trajectory as consistent... upwards and mediocre paced. I've done all the practical things... multiple degrees, paying off my credit card balance, putting off buying a car, working while going to school, keeping separate bank accounts, waiting the appropriate amount of time to take the next relationship step. And, well, to show for it... I'm living in the nicest one-bedroom I've ever lived in. And while it does have a dishwasher, a substantial lack of spiders, and actually room to move, it certainly doesn't have a backyard, and guests get to sleep on the (admittedly comfy) couch.
So, yes, although I will only admit this in whispers through gritted teeth or with several beverages in me-- I'm a little jealous. I'm almost too much of the poster child for making sound decisions, and my sister is anything but-- and she is the one living the high life as we speak.
I know what comes out of everyone else's mouth when I do admit this. "But you'll be better off in the long term".
It never occurred to me until recently that my parents didn't have a lot of money.
It wasn't that we were ever poor, per se. We always had food on the table and clothes on our back. My dad always worked full-time, and my mom almost always was working most days of the week. In fact, my parents, in what I come to realize more and more each year is amazing kindness, often were offering support to those friends of our even worse off than us-- like how they bought my best friend her prom dress after her father handed her a $20 bill.
This holiday, the Duke and his brother drove me back to my home town on their way back to see their family, stopping to spend the night at my family home. It is not that I wasn't aware that we grew up differently on the surface, they in a residential suburb of a big city, in a home with a big garage and soft carpets, me in a small town and smaller home filled with random antiques and curiosities. But, still, we'd grown up with the same morals, and the same sense of needing to work for your accomplishments, so the contrast never really stood out to me.
On their continued drive, the Duke's brother remarked to him that he had a newfound respect for me, seeing that I had accomplished so much coming from such a different environment. At first, this seemed a little absurd to me. My parents were always wonderfully supportive of me, always believed in me. How was I at all disadvantaged? But, with a little thought, I realized that, unlike a good chunk of my peers in graduate school, I came from a family in which no one went to graduate school. In fact, no one in my family went to college.
This same revelation hit me again while flipping through the program of the conference I recently attended. In the first section, there were several pages dedicated to the winners of the prestigious diversity awards, an award I had never considered applying to, since, as a Caucasian heterosexual woman of European background, I had never considered myself as fitting into the category of "population typically underrepresented in graduate school". I then noticed that "first generation college student" was also lumped into this category. I think I actually commented to my friend about how I found this odd and incongruent for me, as despite technically fitting into this category, I didn't feel as though I matcged the label of "underrepresented population". She told me that I should give myself more credit.
The thing is, I never thought of myself as having to bear a burden to go to university (well, except for financially, as I have paid for all nine years of university without help from anyone except scholarships, grants, and some student loans). It was just something I always wanted to do, and I did it. Nothing about my parents' lack of university diplomas felt like it slowed me down at all.
The other day, I was reminiscing with the Duke about how, at around the age of 9, I had desperately wanted to go to an autograph session with one of my favourite hockey players in a city an hour away on the weekend. I had been heartbroken when my parents had flat-out refused. The Duke asked me why they had declined, and I told them that this question had perplexed me greatly for years to come, as it seemed so out of character, and I was never really given a point blank answer.
Suddenly, I had a bit of an epiphany-- they didn't have the money to take me there. Then, all the pieces started to fall into place. The truck that was always breaking down when I was little. My mom's telling me that if I wanted Calvin Klein jeans, she couldn't buy me any back to school apparel. The girl who asked if I was poor because of my clothing. My sadness at not being able to participate in the summer theatre programs due to the triple-figured fees required, and the fact that, at the age of 12, I knew better than to ask. My paying rent for living at home in my first two years of college. Having to leave our rental house behind, in part because it was being torn down for subdivisions. My mom coming home, distraught, saying she'd been laid off.
I usually have a post more or less lined up in my head before I start writing, a few choice lines on repeat in my head. This is especially true after I return home for the holidays, as I write less when I'm home, partially for practical reasons, but it feels as though I think more.
My mother called me at nine this morning to ask what kind of engagement ring my sister would like.
That being said, my mom is not looking to propose to my sister. Instead, she received a call from T, my sister's on-again boyfriend, asking for help in his selection of a ring. I suppose the 9am call was a way of sharing the happy news in an indirect manner. While I had a sense this was coming (and there is no doubt in my mind that she will say yes), the elation I always expected I would feel at such news, is being overshadowed by a brick of apprehension sitting in my stomach.
And I feel horrible about this.
More background is probably needed...
Lil Sis and T were together for around two or so years. They, by all appearances, were leading a pretty ideal life, complete with a house to themselves and her dog. I thought very highly of T. He was funny, down-to-earth, and grounded enough to balance the two of them out quite well.
But things began to go downhill. I first noticed it when I was at their place for the Christmas holidays, and the usually social T barely said two words to my then new boyfriend, after I had assured the Duke that they would get along great. T and Lil Sis were in the midst of some crazy stressors, including looking after T's father, who was ill with cancer. My sister got thrown into the rather thankless job of taking basic care of him, with relatively little gratitude flowing back her way.
As well, my sister was beginning to grow sick of the city, and spoke of wanting to return to HomeTown sooner, rather than later. T humoured her in this regards, but never fully engaged in the idea with anything other than words. The final straw came when he told my sister he wasn't sure he believed in marriage, a fact that probably should have floated to the surface before they moved in together, and that he didn't intend to leave the city.
She left him soon after this revelation. He was crushed, and begged for her to return, planning an elaborate wedding proposal. She began dating, perhaps seeking that freedom that one's early 20s are supposed to bring. Their occasional interactions seemed to generally be somewhat conflictual or awkward, including the incident in which she called, over six months after their break-up, to talk to him about her sick dog, and he began yelling about a date she had with another man.
A year after their break-up, she formally decided to leave the city behind, and moved back to our HomeTown. This decision was pushed along by her burgeoning re-friendship (and apparently more) with an ex-boyfriend.
So you can imagine that I was shocked when, a week after she'd moved 8 hours away from T, she announced to me that she was back in love with him.
Apparently, during their final goodbye before her move, they had both broken down and confessed their love for one another.
If that wasn't more surprising, he has now completely canceled plans to move to an entirely different city with a friend, and is shopping around for a house in HomeTown (which he is not from). They also have planned a trip to Hawaii. And now, after less than two months of long-distance rekindlement, in which they have seen each other a maximum of three times, he is buying an engagement ring.
I want to be happy. I want to pretend that nothing ever changed between the two of them, that they are still the same couple they were in the past.
But I can't.
Sure, he is doing all the right things, all the things she wanted to change. But to me, it isn't really about just proposing and moving. It is about the problems in communication that led to these issues not being addressed in the first place. And I am not convinced they have had the opportunity to resolve these issues.
Yeah, time can do wonders. But it isn't guaranteed to do so. I would feel a lot better if they would at least move back to the same city before falling into house buying and wedding planning, to make sure things are back to good. Everything about someone else seems rosy when you only see them every month or so, and you can only whisper sweet nothings over the phone, rather than the real life discussions of topics like money and work.
It is not that I don't want them to succeed. I think that he is a wonderful man, underneath all the difficulties they have had, and I know my sister deserves to be happy. I just don't want them to be in such a hurry that they stack the odds against themselves.
I think this lump of apprehension comes as much from my worries about their hurried romance as it does from the fact that I can't discuss it with my family.
My sister is stubborn, and takes any questioning of her choices as a personal affront.
My mom is supportive to a fault, such that she will stand wholeheartedly behind any decision my sister makes, no matter how ridiculous. This results in some incredible contradictions at times, like her praise for a guy that turns into criticism when my sister has decided to end things with him. As such, her trepidation about Lil Sis and T's relationship resurgence has quickly morphed into a full scale celebration of him and their romance.
I sense that my dad, the eternal observer, may feel more than he says, but generally keeps silent.
I also know that my criticisms can be easily written off as jealousy. I would be lying if there wasn't a tinge of that floating around. I do get envious of my sister's seeming ability to do everything so effortlessly, to be able to move or buy a car or go on a vacation with little foresight, while my bloody PhD seems to block any semblance of impulsivity. She, at three years younger than me, does get to plan a wedding and owning a home while I plan a dissertation. However, jealousy is not the underlying factor to my concerns.
It's hard enough being the responsible person in the family, the one who asks the hard questions. But it's harder even to be pondering the questions no one really wants to hear.
My family, on the surface, is a pretty normal bunch. No divorces in three generations, no epic rivalries, pretty close-knit. As such, my childhood was fairly unmarred by prototypical family drama.
It is funny when you get past a certain age, and begin to realize that members of your family have lives that extend beyond your knowledge of them in their family role. It is an interesting revelation that your parents are indeed real people.
It was never concealed growing up that my mother’s upbringing had been tumultuous. It was common knowledge that my maternal grandfather was a recovered alcoholic, overt in his avoidance of alcohol. However, it was only upon a cross-country trip with my mother when I was 22 that the full story began to unfold, and scattered pieces begin to interlock to form a picture. How my grandfather had another family before he met my grandmother, who later disavowed all knowledge of him, and my mother has two half-brothers she’s never met. How he cheated on my grandmother with her close friends, and, like clockwork, she would take my mother and my aunt, move into a cramped apartment for 6 months, only to return right on time. How my grandparents still rented their home, for despite both having outwardly successful careers, my grandfather’s drinking and my grandmother’s affinity for shopping led to the draining of any form of savings. And how it was my birth, and my mother’s assertion that my grandfather would be denied any contact with me unless he stopped drinking, that led him to near instantaneously stopping, cold turkey, a state he has maintained with inspiring strength and no slip-ups for over 26 years.
All these things I was blind to while in the middle of a lake, fishing pole in hand, with my grandfather, or on a balcony overlooking the mountains playing cards with my grandmother.
Since then, I have been suddenly exposed to the reality of a whole slew of mixed-up family dynamics—like the glaringly apparent underlying currents of resentment between my grandparents, who remains living in adjacent suites in an assistant living facility. Or how my aunt has become the defender of my grandmother, who has suffered injustices throughout her marriage, while my mother has become the guardian of my grandfather, who is still seeking forgiveness after nearly three decades sober.
And, as they do in old ages, things have been further complicated by health problems. My grandfather’s degenerative blindness has left a formerly active man, despite an active mind, reliant on others for so much. Perhaps worse, though, is my grandmother’s progressing Alzheimer’s Disease.
I fall into an interesting role in family. Anyone who is a psychologist, particularly in a family where an undergrad degree is the exception, rather than the norm, knows how you become the default mediator, how your knowledge on every family conflict is sought out. It’s frustrating, because sometimes I just want to be a daughter, a cousin, a granddaughter, rather than our resident psychologist. I want to have the luxury that everyone else in the family has in debates of being emotionally guided, rather than logical. I don’t want to have the pressure of always being neutral and level-headed. But my knowledge pulls me in, and I can’t help myself but intervene, but ask about my grandmother’s treatment and test results, and surmise about how to best cope with her deficits. It doesn’t help that I did a practicum in geriatric psychiatry, and thus have dealt with these issues head-on—granted, while in my “professional headspace”.
And it certainly doesn’t help that I know intimately the painful decline my grandmother is in the process of undergoing. How she is retreating to the past as her only solace, for the present is becoming such a jumble. How her seemingly nonsensical explanations for commonplace events, such as losing her keys, are only going to increase. How her calling me her cousin or niece is only the first step in an eventual forgetting of me and the memories tying us together. How the mood swings my mother speaks of now are only going to escalate.
At times like this, I hate that I know any of these things. I wish to rip this knowledge straight from my brain, because it is too overwhelming to focus on. I want to just know her in the moment, to turn off my head, to stop analyzing how things have changed from my last visit and the implications of that.
I don’t want her symptoms to be seen in the framework of her and my grandfather’s relationship anymore. It is beyond all that now. Her mood swings and forgetfulness are no longer tied into him—they just are what they are. I don’t want everyone to point out to her every time she makes a mistake—we all know what is going on, her included, why do we need to twist the knife in anymore because she told the same story early that day or she forgot where she put her jacket? I don’t want everything to be judged by the negative framework of the past. I want to celebrate the good memories instead, both her accomplishments and the happiness that her and my grandfather did share, because there are so many of these memories to get lost in instead.
I just want to scream at my family that now is the time to put these skeletons to rest.
I was a precocious child.
Once, during Brownie camp, we were all given nicknames by the leaders.
While there was some question over other monikers, mine was unanimous: I was to be dubbed "What If".
For my curiosity moved beyond simple bombardment of adults with whys. I wasn't content to merely know why, but I wanted to know how it applied to the real world, how it interacted with other factors. Hence my fascination with hypothetical situations leading me to be deemed "What If".
However, my musings were not solely in the hypothetical realm.
Prime example:
When I was around 6 or 7, I remember approaching my father.
"Daddy, if Santa and his elves make all the toys we get themselves, why does this toy I got in my stocking have a trademark from another company on it?"
My dad managed to keep his cool under pressure, and pretended to speak to be on an honest level.
"Princess, the truth is that Santa and his elves actually can't make all the gifts for every kid in the world themselves. The secret is that Santa actually is friends with some of the other toymakers around the world, who help him out when things get busy."
I have to look back on that one with kudos to my dad. He prolonged my belief a little longer, with a little help from some conveniently placed snowy footprints by the fireplace.
However, my observational skills got the better of me soon afterwards, as I woke up one Easter morning and read the Easter Bunny's annual message, instructing us about the secret gifts scattered throughout the house, scrawled on a piece of paper on the kitchen table.
Reading it, I suddenly became painfully aware of a fact that had remained at the back of my mind, yet never quite rose to the surface until that very moment-- the Easter Bunny's writing was the exact same as my mother's.
It all came flooding into my head at once.
Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, even the Tooth Fairy-- they were all a myth.
I burst into tears at the kitchen table in my pajamas in front of my confused little sister.
My father quickly rushed me upstairs to the bedroom, where I sobbed that I had figured it all out. He comforted me, then explained it all, answering all my questions on the topic without boundaries.
After my gasps for air had stopped, and I started to giggle about the absurdity of this complex story I was now a part of, we colluded to keep my sister's belief intact. We came up with everything from an excuse for my tears to answers to some of her likely questions.
And I defended her belief with every iota of creativity I could muster. Even when my friends were bent on exposing the truth, I would staunchly explain to them how Santa Claus was the only plausible explanation of their filled stockings in front of her, and then chide them behind their back for their malice.
Thankfully, despite that tear-filled Easter morning, my sister didn't notice the similarity between St Nick's milk stained notes and my mother's shopping list for at least a few more years.
***
Extra big thank you to everyone in bloggie land, for all your kind words and concern. I'm sorry I have been more M.I.A. on your comment sections than I would like-- I am stealthily writing this under the eyes of a nosy co-worker as we speak, so I will have to wait for a little more spare time and privacy to visit.
I did want to mention that my sis is no longer going on her ill-advised trip, as is now mentioned at the bottom of the last post. It is apparently a financial decision, but few details are known right now. Good news, although not the perfect way of coming about it :).
Other good news... I hope you don't mind me tooting my own horn, but I am 20-something bloggers blogger of the week! It is actually a tremendous honour considering how many talented writers frequent that site.
It is also a great site for findings other similar minded writers, so I would encourage you all to drop by!
"Your chance at another date would have been greatly increased had I not found woman's lingerie and a condom wrapper down the side of your bed."
~ My delightfully articulate younger sister
This reminds me of one of the many reasons I adore her so-- her amazing skills at "telling-it-like-it-is" when it counts. This is the same girl, who, at 11 years old, called up my 16-year old (*cough* tremendous asshole) boyfriend and told him off for treating me so poorly.
This is not to say I didn't defend her honour on more than a few occasions. I distinctly remember a friend and I cornering some 14-year old boy in the library, and, while forcing him up against the Dewey decimalized stacks, informing him that there were going to be serious consequences if his bitter lies about my sister didn't cease. Keep in mind I weighed about 100 lbs in high school and epitomized pacifist in nearly every sense of the word.
But family is one of those things that trumps moral codes, isn't it?
~~~~
* And for those of you looking for detail, no, the subject of this quote was not her boyfriend, per se, but, seriously, dude, have a little consideration and at least clean up after yourself before trying to woo another woman.
Not a heck of a lot of spare time today. Unfortunately the reality of actually spending a holiday at home is a frantic rush to play catch-up with life when you return.
Nonetheless, I am glad to have finally taken the initiative to get home for Thanksgiving. I'm tired of pretending that there aren't certain days where family matters just that little bit more. It was refreshing to just relax and be with them, without the normal pressures of trips back, in which every one with whom you had a semblance of a relationship with at some point in your adolescence wants to do coffee.
The other pleasant surprise was a sudden envelopment in autumn. A rainy metropolis doesn't capture the spirit of the fall quite the same as does a small mountain town. Not only was this the first Thanksgiving I'd spent at home in six years, but it was the first time I'd returned home during the fall at all during that time. I'd forgotten the multicoloured streaks highlighting the hills, the crispness of the air that seemed to be that much more full of oxygen, the golden tint of the sunlight.
Fortunately, we were able to stay a day after the Thanksgiving hubbub and take a brief trip out of town to appreciate the outdoors. Unfortunately, my camera battery died soon after we left, though I was able to capture a few shots.
After a trip to a nearby small town, where the last two pictures were from, we went for a brief hike amist a giant cedar forest. The trees were so enormous that the four of us, with our arms outstretched, couldn't reach around them. The woods were scattered with dessicated devil's club.
This reminded me of how a childhood friend once told me you could only be pricked by a devil's club a certain number of times in your lifetime. Once you reached that exact number of stings, you would drop dead near instantaneously due to the poison's profound effects.
It then struck me how refreshing it was that the urban myths of my youth were more likely to be about aspects of the natural world than about kidnappers and other such predators.
I feel very protective of my parents when they are in the big city.
You see, my parents have a unique sense of small-town honed idealism that doesn't seem to exist in such a metropolis or hardly anywhere in our society.
For instance, when I told my mom that I was a little disconcerted over the massive spider who has set up a home near my front stoop, she informed me that I would just have to tell him (out loud, of course, because spiders having psychical powers is a ridiculous concept) that I meant him no harm, and he would leave me alone.
My father is my prime example of a self-actualized individual. He is so at peace with everything that my high school best friend nicknamed him Ghandi. Of course, part of being at peace with everything is being very slow. I remember discovering that 12 hour trips with him took 8 hours with everyone else. He's the living example of someone who stops to smell the roses.
Whenever they come to visit me, I watch the city try to change them.
On their way for a Thankgiving visit, a trucker angry at my father's insistence at driving the speed limit, stopped them from making their exit and cornered them just off the highway with his big rig in an attempt at a confrontation.
It pains me a little when people bump into my mother without a word of apology, or are rude to her on the street, especially when she will strike up a conversation with anyone and is almost over-indulgent in her kindness to strangers. It's sad when she says hello or makes eye contact with people who are desperate to avoid such contact.
The idea of them becoming jaded city people like the rest of us is unbearable.
That's why I'm happy I always have to remind them of the city rules, such as getting to the bus doors before the bus stops (in my small town, the bus drivers yell at you if you stand up before the bus stops because they don't want you to get hurt) when they come to visit.
I hope these rules disappear from their minds the second they get back home.
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