After several months of feeling mentally & creatively tapped by the competing demands of my work life and home life I nearly gave up on Raw Drip.  As much as I love my little creative writing venture it was looking as though time for writing would end up the loser in my ongoing struggle to maintain balance in this crazy juggling act of a life.

Just as I was preparing to inform tech support (aka Dick) of my decision to shut down the Raw Drip website, a remarkable thing happened; your voices emerged with words of encouragement.  You said things like, “Hey, what the hell happened to your blog?”, “I miss Raw Drip” and “Weren’t you the one who used to write about raw dick or something?”

“Yes; I did.  Er, I mean, I am.  Yes, I’m the one who wrote about Dick,” I would mumble feebly in reply.

With those mumbled words I realized that I was lost, disillusioned with life and my future, and way too busy to give a crap about anything other than surviving from weekend to weekend.  Raw Drip was dead at just shy of 18 months old and I was killing it with neglect.

But when my husband joined your ranks this week by reminding me that my writing plays a critical role in nurturing my soul I gave Raw Drip’s neglect and soon-to-be demise second thoughts.  I knew I had to pick up my laptop, rinse out my coffee mug and ignore my chattering children for an afternoon.  It was time to rekindle my passion for writing and explore the new phases of my life…before I was overtaken by them.

What new phases of life, you ask?  Well, let’s see…I’m teetering on the edge of my late 30’s (yikes!) and with the baby & toddler phases behind me I’ve found myself with all new challenges.  From the cheeky 3rd old toddler he used to be, I now have a smart, expressive 5-yr old son who’s enduring the perils of Kindergarten.  Then there’s my 4-yr old daughter whom Dick and I consider to be the “challenging kid” these days – newly prone to irrational outbursts and high-pitched screaming fits that can shatter glass and summon dogs from miles around.  Finally there’s my husband, Dick, still the supportive father, husband, geek and Raw Drip tech support – only now with more gray hair and less patience.  The players are basically the same, but the game keeps changing.

In my ongoing adventures of self-discovery I’d like to say I’ve used the past 8 weeks to evolve into a savvier, smarter, sexier version of myself  - but I haven’t.  I’m still a work-in-progress only now I’m re-committed to making progress.  Hopefully this public examination of my struggle will keep you reading and relating. Sure I’m still aiming to entertain, inform, intrigue and occasionally inspire you but I’m also trying to do that for myself.  And rather than do what I’ve always done – give up on my passions and pursuits for practical reasons – (no “martyr/mom” here, thank you) I’m going to tap that inner spring of tenacity that I usually reserve for my family & friends and try applying a little more of it to myself.

Anyway, my deepest thanks to you loyal Drips.  Although small in numbers, you’ve expressed more passion for Raw Drip than I’ve had in recent memory and it’s your tenacious belief in my writing that inspires me to keep trying.

Best,

Sam

As Dick tried to breathe through the pain and answer questions from me like, “When was the last time you peed?  What color was it?” and from Adam like, “How do you get stoned, daddy?”, I would try to intervene on Dick’s behalf to spare him the agony of sounding calm while formulating a rational explanation for a 5 year old.

“Daddy isn’t stoned. He has a little ouchie inside his back.  Mommy’s going to take him to the hospital so the doctors can help him.”

Apparently still concerned Adam peppered me with more questions, “But will the doctor take away Daddy’s stone?  Can I see it?  Will daddy’s head fall off?”

“No, sweetheart.  The doctor will help daddy with his ouchie which is called a kidney stone and it’s in his back; it has nothing to do with daddy’s head.”

Looking at his face, I could tell he was processing the information I’d just given him.  Finally satisfied, he confirmed his assessment of the  situation by saying, “Getting stoned is bad and it could make your head fall off, but doctors can help with that.”

“Um…yeah.  We’ll talk more about it later…like, when you’re old enough to understand what a PSA is.”

 *****

They say that kidney stones are like the male version of childbirth and I can see why.  By the time we reached the hospital Dick’s breathing had become quick and shallow and he was holding his lower back and pacing like a woman about to give birth. 

As the hours wore on, my poor Dick become more and more like an Hollywood version of a woman in labor alternating between exhausted declarations of love and swearing at me like a sailor.  I couldn’t tell which Dick I was trying to comfort - the one who loved me desperately or the one who wanted Jesus Fucking Christ to stop the pain.

Being the partner of someone in immense pain gave me a new appreciation for what it must be like for all those hapless husbands who sit around fussing with the camera equipment or spitting out trite motivational statements like, “Way to go, babe – you’re doing great” as their partner is literally ripped in two from the inside out.   As I stood there next to Dick, wailing in pain, I found myself wondering, “What should I say?”  I mean – it’s a little awkward to say the least.  Communication with someone in agony is a tricky business.  Chatty & overly supportive and you become annoying but quiet and distant only gets you labeled as useless.  Basically it’s a no-win situation for everyone. 

Unsure of what to do, I opted for making light-hearted wisecracks.  I soon learned that it’s hard for your comic stylings to be heard or appreciated over the howls of a loved one screaming in agony.  Then I tried being the sympathetic, comforting type – mopping Dick’s sweaty brow, covering his exposed feet with blankets, and harassing passing nurses for his next dose of narcotics.  That was met with annoyance, as I obsessively mopped, covered and harassed with the zeal of a fat kid at a candy-eating contest. 

In the end I’m sure I did no better and no worse than most hapless male spouses caught in a birthing situation.  At least I gained some insights about myself as a result of this experience, mainly that A) This excruciating pain represented an unwelcome shift in attention away from me and onto Dick and  B) I don’t like to be upstaged.  I also learned that it’s simply no fun to watch someone you love suffer – even if they really did have it coming over their repeated failure to get the recyclables outside in time for Friday’s pick-up. 

 *****

After some serious narcotics the doctor proclaimed Dick to be the proud father of twins – one 3 millimeter stone with a second 2 milimeter stone waiting in the wings – yet to pass.  To add insult to injury, he was told that his stones were too small for them to do much more than prescribe pain relief while nature takes it’s course through Dick’s dick.  For all the excruciating pain, he didn’t even end up with a follow-up appointment with a urologist.  As births go, Dick’s kidney stones were more annoying than worrisome and more painful than joyful.  

At least I can take comfort in knowing that Dick has scored some pretty hefty pain meds which he will, in all liklihood, refuse to take.  That means mommy has something to kill those quarterly migraines when the Excedrin doesn’t cut it.  To me, getting stoned on Vicodin is way better than screaming in pain as Dick tries to be helpful, and reclaiming my rightful place as the center of Dick’s universe is way better than playing nurse. 

Immediately I declared that Dick was the coolest person I’d ever know.  I meant it, too – -from the bottom of my heart.  He is, without a doubt, the coolest person in the world to me.  My charming, smart, funny, kind and beloved Dick.

I smiled and gazed over at my handsome husband, stroking his cheek with my fingertips.  Dick smiled back at me and said, “Kids, your grandfather is by far the coolest person I’ve ever known.”

“OUCH!”, I exclaimed in faux agony.  “Your father is the coolest person you’ve ever known?  How can that be?  Where am I on the cool-o-meter?”

Dick squirmed slightly in his chair.

“For a chick, you’re definitely cool.”

“Okaaay…still in pain over here…”

Dick rolled his eyes.  “You’re completely misunderstanding what I’m saying.  I think we have two very different interpretations of ‘cool’.  You are wonderful, clever, thoughtful and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“And that doesn’t make me cool?”

“That makes you the most wonderful person I’ve ever known,” Dick said, caressing my hand.

“Well, for the record, you are both the coolest AND the most wonderful person I’ve ever know,” I replied.

Dick sighed and looked at me with that annoyed expression that told me I was fast falling off his “most wonderful person” list, as well. 

“What?  It’s not like I have anything to lose now that I know I’m not cool.”

“Fine, then.  You’re cool.  Can we change the subject now?”

“I don’t want your token cool, I want to be ‘the coolest ever’!  Because you insisted on relegating me to merely wonderful, I’m going to rescind my description of you as the coolest person ever and choose someone who worships me with more enthusiasm than you’re  interested in showing.”

“Who would that be?” Dick asked in a voice full of condescension.

“I haven’t decided yet.  I’m trying to give you time to reconsider your previous statement about my coolness.”

“Sam, you REALLY need to let it go…Really.”

(Personally, I wouldn’t be my first choice for the wedding photos, but I guess Ed likes to walk on the wild side.)

Of course, I’m thrilled for my friend and honored to be a part of her wedding,  And still thrilled & honored despite Ed’s recent request order for me to write & deliver a speech during her wedding reception.

While I’m incredibly flattered by her faith in my writing & speaking abilities – I’m all too aware that it’s her wedding day.  This is a big deal.  This is not the time for one of my quirky quips.  As a writing challenge, I’m more than a bit humbled and awed by the great responsibility…

*****

After Ed nixed my initial suggestion of an x-rated limerick on the grounds that her mother would disapprove, I was forced to re-examine my approach.  I began pretending that I’m a really skilled wordsmith and brilliant creative writer.  WWJAD (what would Jane Austen do)?

When channeling Jane Austen didn’t stir up any big ideas, I went back to the basics.  As with all design, you need to start with a good concept and let it grow.  I began by running through a list of possibilities:

• A heart-warming poem?  Nope, not Ed’s style.
• A collection of famous quotes about love?  Nice, but shouldn’t this be more about Ed’s love?
• A stirring tribute to the power of love?  That just demands mockery from my wickedly witty friend.
• A PowerPoint presentation with marriage tips?  Definitely more her style and it’s cute.  Unfortunately, maybe too cute…

Frustrated and devoid of inspiration, I decided to comb through boxes of old high school mementos in search of ideas.  Amongst the folded notes and yellowing photos, I discovered my small collection of year books dating back to junior high.  As I opened the cover from my 1989 high school yearbook, I found it – inspiration from a very unlikely source – Dick.

There, on the inside cover of my annual, written in the 3rd grader scrawl I’m just now learning to decipher, is this most ardent expression of love:

Samantha,

The evolution of spam is usually a topic best left to the extremely educated members of the scientific community, but today I’ll relate this story in layman’s terms for you, my sweetheart…

SPAM IS THE AMBROSIA OF THE GODS!!!

(Just kidding – I think!)

Anyway, I can’t wait to have another great year with you in my arms and in my life. I love you.

P.S. I want my (BEEP) to (BEEP) your (BEEP).

P.P.S. I can’t think of much to say – obviously – so I’ll just say infinite hugs and kisses coming your way.

Never before or since have feelings of love been so eloquently expressed on the page.  Feeling weak in the knees, aren’t you?

Okay, so it’s mostly the ramblings of a Monty Python-obsessed, love-struck teen boy.  But there – amongst the spam – is also Dick’s trademark playfulness, his intelligence, and his immensely loyal spirit.  Everything I ever needed to know about my future husband was in that note in my high school yearbook and only now do I appreciate it in all it’s goofy, spam-handed glory.  As well, everything Ed ever needed to know about her soon-to-be husband is already out there – in an email, an expression, or maybe in a moment that passed between them somewhere along their journey together.

Pushing aside all my cute concepts and pithy prose, the only meaningful thing I can say to my friend on her wedding day is that this constant rediscovery of her lover is the gift of marriage.  It’s a gift that unfolds day in and day out over time, revealing itself in ways old and new, subtle and delightful and it’s theirs to have and hold, from this day forward.

]]> http://rawdrip.com/archives/2014/feed 1 http://rawdrip.com/archives/1862 http://rawdrip.com/archives/1862#comments Tue, 02 Jun 2009 19:01:39 +0000 Samantha http://rawdrip.com/?p=1862

wishy-washer (adjective)
wi-shee-wah-shur
Definition: Slang term used to describe an individual who does not wash their hands after using the toilet or who posses poor bathroom cleansing habits

Example: Mary’s friends didn’t like to touch her after they learned that she was a wishy-washer.

*****

If I could figure out how to use the WordPress polling plug in for Raw Drip, I would do so – particularly for this post.  Unfortunately, I’m not that smart and my parageek (aka Dick) is busy doing stuff that earns us actual money to support my shoe-buying habit.  So, until we get the polling plug-in sorted out I’m just going to throw this situation out to you in the hopes that you’ll actually use comments to interact with me (yes, I mean you!).

So, here’s the situation: 
You’re in the ladies room at work.  You’re chatting with a co-worker at the sink washing your hands when you spot another co-worker – an acquaintance I’ll call “Marge” – coming out of the bathroom stall and then immediately walking out the door without washing her hands.

Which of the following do you do? (Choose one)

A) Immediately warn all co-workers with whom you’re friendly (only those who are discreet about their sources…) to avoid shaking hands with Marge.
B)  Ignore it. Don’t make mention of Marge’s filthy habit, but avoid touching her or her belongings at all costs.
C)  Keep quiet and assume Marge’s lack of hand-washing was an oversight rather than a lifestyle.
D)  Confront Marge with your concerns about her health and provide her with some WebMD statistics about e-coli infections.
E)  Anonymously leave a bottle of anti-bacterial hand lotion on Marge’s desk and hope for the best.
F)  Report Marge’s filthy ways to the Office Manager.
G)  None of the above.

If you’re like me, the correct answer is obvious; it’s A: Immediately warn all trusted co-workers about Marge.  

I think A is correct for several reasons: 

1. I cannot keep my freakin’ mouth shut.  Yes, I know that gossiping is wrong and that it can damage people’s reputations but the way I see it…
2. If you’re going to skip hand-washing – a basic courtesy to your fellow humans - than you’ve got it coming, and
3. There’s ALWAYS time to wash your hands after the bathroom…ALWAYS!

Dick, on the other hand (like the pun?), would say the correct answer is C: Keep quiet and assume it was an oversight rather than a lifestyle.  While that may be one of the least meddlesome and most considerate and mature ways of handling the situation, I think it misses the mark in several areas:

1. If everyone just goes around assuming that Marge is a polite and hygenic person, she may never learn about the importance of hand washing. 
2. People could catch something from from that filthy wishy-washer! 
3. Hello?  What about shamelessly mocking the laziness of others to make yourself look superior?

So, while Dick thinks that my choice of A is worrying because it means that I’ve succumbed to a “Mean Girls” philosophy of human relations, I think Dick’s choice is worrying because it is exceedingly polite but potentially disgusting. Even worse, option C shows a lack of appreciation for the entertainment value of intra-office mockery. 

So here’s the bigger question: What answer would YOU choose and what do you think it says about you?

*****

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So, I insisted on doing things my way which annoyed Dick.  He was so annoyed with me that, in the heat of the moment, he said a very, very stupid thing.

“Sometimes, you are so much like your mother…”

Felt that one didn’ chya? Like a kick in the stomach, right?  Any man who mutters these words out loud is clearly a man who doesn’t value the sanctity of marriage or cherish his life.  As my granny would say in her best hillbilly drawl, “Them’s fightin’ words!”  

Identifying the source of Dick’s stupidity doesn’t require pushing the easy button.  He’s male, and thus clueless. But as I administered a generous dose of the silent treatment to Dick, I couldn’t help but ponder some bigger questions…   

*****

Q1. Why it is that every other woman I know has a complicated relationship with her mother?

Invariably when I run across a female friend with a complicated relationship with her mother there are a few common descriptions of mom:

• Clingy
• Needy
• Meddling

Of course there are others, but I’ll go on record with the fact that these are the most oft used.

Given that our mother’s generation was supposed to be the first “liberated” generation of women, how did so many of us 30-somethings end up with moms who are described with terms usually reserved for the stereotypical 50’s era mother-in-law?  Was it something about their generation, or is it just a fact of life?

I’m starting to think it’s a fact of life. I don’t like to admit it, but from time to time, I remind myself of my mother.  From our shared love of bread & cheese to our chubby knees, the mom in the mom in me keeps creeping out.  Our mothers serve as our primary female role models so their words, opinions, and preferences have a profound effect on us.  Some of their influence was bound to rub off on us.

On the other hand, I have to give consideration to the fact that my mom’s generation was thrown into a man’s world with little preparation.  Many women of my mom’s generation were taught that girls are to be seen & not heard. My mother tells stories about how she was taught that girls are to be obedient servants to their parents – period, or risk ending up an unattractive spinster.  When the product of an upbringing that is filled with the message to comply at all costs, meets a society in the midst of massive social upheaval demanding that she become the liberated creature she was never taught to be, it’s no wonder she, and so many like her, come across as needy & clingy.  Years of mixed messages, chronic confusion, and a never ending fight for acceptance by one’s family will leave anyone feeling and acting like the perpetual victim.

*****

Q 2. How can I prevent this from happening with me and my daughter?

Much to my annoyance, Dick enjoys reminding me that Tabitha and I are already well down the path to a complicated relationship.  Despite wanting to be the strong female role model of generosity and tolerance, my true self shows through from time to time.  

For instance, Tabitha picked out a dress to wear to school a few weeks ago.  Frilly pink with a mod Marimeko flower print, I couldn’t have approved more of her fashion sense.  Thrilled for my approval, Tabitha trundled off to pick out shoes.  I suggested her purple mary-janes to compliment the purple accents in her dress. Tabitha returned with a pair of ragged, faded white sneakers.

“Help me put on, Mommy,” Tabitha begged, thrusting the pair of filthy shoes into my face.

“No, no, no, no…you can’t wear those with that gorgeous dress.  Go get the purple ones.”

“I don’t like the purple ones!”, she screamed stomping her little feet.

“Those shoes do not coordinate with that lovely dress you’re wearing.  Either the dress needs to go or you need to wear proper shoes,” I insisted.

“Fine! I’m going to change into something else, then!”

Tabitha stormed out of the room. A few minutes later, she came back in wearing a pair of stained shorts, a faded t-shirt, and the old sneakers.  I said nothing to her, knowing that it was better to hide my disapproval.  From the gleam in her eye I could tell she felt she’d won a tiny victory over her meddlesome mother. 

A bemused Dick turned to me and said, “You know you could’ve just let her wear what she wants.  She’s 3 1/2.  There’s plenty of time to help her obsess about her wardrobe.”

I had to admit that he was right.  I got so caught up in my vision of her as gorgeous little “me spawn” that when she wanted to assert her own personality, I couldn’t let go of the dream.  To pick a battle with a 3 year old over wardrobe when there was nothing inherently inappropriate or dangerous about her choice of shoes was foolish of me.  Besides, Tabitha is strong-willed and it’s a characteristic I don’t want to discourage. With her smarts and her exceptional determination, she’ll go far in life, even if she is wearing the wrong shoes with her outfit. 

So, Lesson #1: Pick Your Battles.  That leads me to Lesson #2: Live your own Life.

Anyone who fancies themselves to be a sentimental romantic and/or a child of the 80’s probably recalls watching “The Thorn Birds”.  One of the many relationships featured in the mini-series is between the heroine, Meggie (played by Rachel Ward), and her mother, Fee, a bitter & distant woman (played by Jean Simmons).  At one point in the storyline, Fee is confronted with her lack of interest in her daughter.  She explains that daughters are of little use, since they simply remind a mother of her own painful struggles; her own failings.

That explanation has always stuck with me because I think there’s some truth to it.  That’s not to say that mothers only see themselves in their daughters. But I think the temptation to project oneself onto one’s daughter is always there.  And, if I’m to avoid the clingy, needy, and meddlesome labels I’m going to need to keep in mind that my life is mine and my daughter’s is hers. It’s my job to raise a loving, tolerant, person who contributes to the betterment of the world.  Tabitha is not my do-over.

*****

Not every woman I know struggles with a complicated relationship with her mother.  Many of us have great relationships.  Often, we’re even best friends.  I think those relationships are rare, wonderful and should be cherished.  

I’m not sure yet if I want Tabitha to grow up thinking of me as her best friend.  Right now, it’s hard enough to have her think of me as her mother.   The constant burden of my children’s futures still weighs on me, transforming our relationship in ways that are yet to be seen.  

For now, I embrace my newfound perspective on mother/daughter relationships and I look forward to one day reclaiming my “me” after she and her brother are grown – hopefully into the healthy, happy people I always knew were trapped inside the kidiots I adore today.  No doubt the decades will go by faster than I can comprehend, but at least there’s still time to stop myself from walking in all of my mother’s shoes.  

With relationships as complicated as these to keep me on my toes, at least I can take solace in my best friend, Dick.  Occasional stupidity aside, he already knows the clingy, needy, meddlesome person I really am and he loves me, anyway.  With his gentle reminders (not like the one that started this whole thing) maybe I’ll be able to keep those parts of myself better hidden from the children than other moms.  Or maybe we’ll raise the kinds of people that are more like Dick – analytical, loving, curious and ever accepting of people – despite all their flaws.  Especially those flaws that belong to their significantly flawed mother.

Um, yeah…

The problem with that statement is that it assumes I blame civilization for all my stress when, in fact, I blame my exhaustion on the constant tug of war between the demands of parenting & staying employed. I don’t feel the need to drop out of the rat race by changing venues. I’m fond of civilization. Really, really fond of good coffee.

Country living seems, on it’s face, to be a simpler way of life; one providing ample opportunities to enjoy some rest & relaxation and focus on being wirh your family. But when your closest gas station is a 30 minute drive and there’s no such thing as a “quick trip” to anywhere, I think the novelty of the country wears thin pretty quickly. When remoteness becomes a distraction from spending time with your family, all you’ve accomplished with a move to the country is to make your rat race a little more scenic.

I think the lack of appreciation for country living also assumes I don’t like being with other people. I think people watching is one if the greatest past-times ever. My Southern California roots feed off the energy of people, traffic, shopping, dining, and easy access to diversions. That’s one reason why NYC was such an amazing experience for me. It appealed to the urban adventurer within. As far as i can see the country brings solitude in large doses and most everyone finds it boring, but only a few will admit to it. Here’s my take on it: if your idea of relaxation is swatting at bugs the size of your fist, the country may be good for you. I know, for me, I’d rather swat at perfume-pushers in the mall. However, if your idea of “roughing it” is a town with only one Starbucks, I suggest you rethink your affinity for the allure of country living and stay put with your fancy, big city ways.

My vacation to the country is nearly over. Tomorrow we fly back home. Home to my modest house full of noisy kids and crazy demands. Home to my costly, demanding suburban life . It may be a rat race, but I’m a well-conditioned rat, perpetually jacked up on good coffee, and as far as I can tell, it’s my race to lose.

In fact, I think this sign sums up this particular area of hell quite nicely.

Hearing Adam apply guilt in a shameless attempt to score pre-breakfast candy, I struggled to get out of bed. “I should go help her out. Little demons are tag-teaming her for candy…”

Dick held my wrist firm.

“No way. You’re staying here with me. How else is she going to bond with her grandkids if we keep interfering?”

“Hm. Maybe you’re on to something there…”, I said sliding back into bed, snuggling in my husband’s arms.

Dick kissed my neck and whispered, “You know what would make this perfect?”

“A bed that doesn’t sound like we’re sleeping in hazmat suits everytime we roll over? Decent coffee? WiFi?”

As his hand carressed my cheek he smiled. “I guess this is just one of those no sex, bad coffee, loud plastic-covered bed, no privacy kind of vacations.”

“Yep. So let’s stop fooling ourselves into thinking we can have sex in this ridiculously tiny, very noisy bed and go enjoy the other benefit of grandmothers…the food!”

Pancakes, fruit salad, & homemade bread. Oh my!

Well, instead of a break I’ve decided to spend time with my family in Ohio. Here are some observations about my ‘vacation’, thus far…

- I have superhuman packing abilities (adding that to my list if superpowers later). Seriously, I rock.
- Is there a handbook for grandmothers that dictates one needs to acquire way too many kitschy framed needlepoints, and a yippy liitle dog before they can pass the granny entrance exam?
- Speaking of the yippy dog, I don’t care how gentle she usually is, she’s trying to bite my f***in’ hand off every chance she gets, so she needs to go into her little cage, or back to her lair or whereever the hell it is that little fur-covered demons live.
- Why is there highly breakable crap absolutely everywhere? It’s not like our visit was a big surprise. We’ve been planning it for 8 weeks.
- Why is it that surfaces not covered in kitschy crap are covered in plastic?
- Trust me. Coffee should be a deep brown color.

More live updates from Ohio later. Gotta run and save Tabitha from the 12-pound terror that is Frida the Mini-Schnauzer.