21 posts tagged “family”
This is such a beautiful, beautiful post on marriage, friendship and partnership.
The Fourth of July was always one of my favorite holidays in the US. Not that I'm terribly patriotic or anything, just...there are fireworks and BBQs and its an excuse to drink = HELLO PERFECT HOLIDAY.
Now, it of course means something else to me. It makes me miss home.
While I'll be having fun tonight celebrating Iain's birthday (it's tomorrow!) down by the Thames...there's a part of my heart that will be back home in my parents back yard, drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade and with a over excitable chihuahua at my feet. (Praying for crumbs.)
If I could fly back home today, even just for a couple hours and to see my parents and my sister, I would in a heart beat.
On the Fourth we'd always go to the same spot to watch fire works. My mom and my sister and I would lay on our backs and wait expectantly for the Sperm Fire Works.
If you don't know which ones I'm talking about, the you don't know what you're missing out.
They're the bright, white ones that look like tad-poles when they're first launched, but then go off in crazy directions...as if searching for a big, unfertilized egg in the sky.
It dawned on me a couple of years ago that they totally looked like gigantic sperm. I started laughing hysterically - only to notice that my sister was cackling to herself as well. Then my mom started laughing,
"OH MY GOD THEY LOOK LIKE SPERM!!!!"
Hopefully the Fourth of July Sperm Fireworks won't be nearly as fun without me this year...(If I can't have a fully complete Fourth of July THEN NOBODY SHOULD.)
Happy Independence Day, my fellow Americans.
May this recession end soon, may the gas prices go down, and may all of your BBQ's be fully cooked so you don't end up with the shits all weekend.
This song reminds me of home...
However, it's getting rather difficult to concentrate when there are numerous screeching children surrounding me. I'm by no means saying that women with children should stay home. I'm not saying that they should stay out of Starbucks.
What I am saying, is that I'm pretty sure that when I was 3, if I were shrieking at the top of my lungs, my mom wouldn't simply be cooing, "Cate, shhhh. Please don't scream like that, darling," at me each time I opened my mouth to release a sound that can only be compared to the noise mating foxes make.
May I also just point out real quick that I paid attention to how many women with strollers walked by the window where I was sitting for a half hour. Do you want to know how many I saw? 37. Most of these women actually came into Starbucks. But I digress.
Obviously, I'm not a parent.
I don't know what it's like to raise a child, or to discipline a child. The only point of reference I have is how my mom raised me, and I can tell you, if I were screaming or throwing a tantrum anywhere in public, I would have been dragged to the car and taken home immediately.
I can hear all the mothers shouting that "since I'm so fucking smart" maybe I should give them some advice on how I would get a screaming child to stop, and to be honest, I don't have the answer. (Aside from things that will end up with you going to prison, or your children being taken away from you...)
All I do know, is that cooing and and asking a child to please stop screaming in the same tone you'd ask someone to please pass the popcorn in the movie theaters is pointless. Obviously, it's not working, as still this child is screaming.
An hour ago there was another mum just letting her 2-year-old-ish- daughter stand directly in front of the door of Starbucks and hang on the door handle. Fortunately for Mumsy, the only people coming in this shop at the moment are other mothers who just stand outside the shop making "OMG HOW CUTE ARE YOU!?!" faces at the kid blocking the doorway.
Again, I'm pretty sure my mom would have made me sit in my chair quietly. Maybe I would be coloring. Maybe I would be looking at a picture book. Perhaps eating boogers. All I know is that I wouldn't have been dangling from the door handle of a busy coffee house. All it would take would be for one person to not be looking below eye level, push the door open, and the kid would be on it's ass, and potentially smack it's head on the tile floor. SAFE, NON?
"You will fear your parents authority"
or
"You will not scream like a wild banshee in public"
Did Fraggle Rock teach us to shudder in fear at the idea of a time-out?
Maybe I was just a better behaved kid than the ones in this Starbucks. Maybe it was easier for my parents to threaten me with 'GOING BACK TO THE CAR RIGHT THIS INSTANT IF YOU DON'T BEHAVE' because I actually feared them and the authority they had over me.
But what does it say if every child of the 2-5 age range that comes in this shop clearly has no regard for it's parent's discipline?
(Currently, the screaming child is screeching "BOW BOW BOW bow bow BOW BOW BAH BAB BAH BAH BAH EYA YAYAAAAAAAAA" in a voice so shrill I'm pretty sure it would turn all the teenagers within a 5 miles of this cafe to mist. The mother's reaction? "Matt. Please. Shhhhh. Shhh...Please don't scream." Did I mention she was using a voice more suitable for the Hail Mary?)
Sure, there's a chance that you can check back in on me in 10 years or so if I decide have kids, and maybe I'll be the asshole mom who lets my kid tear around a coffee shop and scream bloody murder because:
a) I have a latte and The Guardian and get to play adult for a half hour, to hell with the studying University students' peace and quiet, THEY DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE.
b) I have a latte and The Guardian and am so happy to be out of the house and around adults that I don't even hear my kid screaming.
...but I doubt it.
Hi all!
Sorry it's been so long since I've updated! I've been busy partying with a certain someone, hanging out with my dogs, and we drove up to Lake Tahoe on Thursday.
Currently I'm hanging out in my mom's hotel room at Heavenly Village while Iain and my Uncles/Cousins ski and my brain is MELTING watching white trash less fortunate people get makeovers or try to buy/sell/decorate houses on TLC. Seriously WHO THE HELL ARE THESE PEOPLE!!?!?
Honestly, a couple just held up a blue, paisley throw pillow and said into the camera, "See this pillow? This represents our style." WHAT?
Anyway, I went skiing yesterday and...well....it was an event, to say the least. I did pretty well until I psyched myself out going down a blue run with Iain. The poor guy had to coax me down a mountain as I slid, cried, whined, bitched, cursed and fell for a straight HOUR. He has the patience of a God and I have no idea why he didn't call up United and book a flight home for himself right there on the slope.
Dude. Seriously. Thank you for not killing me.
BUT! The cool news is that we start our WORLD TOUR ON MONDAY!!!!
Thank you all for your suggestions of what to do in Paris and Tokyo! Keep 'em coming!
Politics has always be en one of those things that I've shied away from.
I was still in high school when this war started. I was only 16 when the Twin Towers fell.
I knew I was angry. I knew I felt sick to my stomach what was happening. All of the sudden that crap that went on in the mystical, frightening "middle east" was on our soil. I didn't understand it, and mostly, I think I still don't understand it.
In 2001, I was thankful that George Bush was our President. He was our savior. Our cowboy. He stood in front of us all, and said that he'd get the bastards that did this to us. To our people. To New York. To all of us. I wore MIA dog tags for a missing New York firefighter. His name was Peter Lagone. My mom wore one with his brother's name on it, Thomas Lagone.
In my simple, young mind, I though that we should just trust the President. I was angry, we were all angry. Bomb the bastards. I truly felt that way. Bomb them. They can't touch us. Better them than us.
We went to Afghanistan. The Taliban. Osama Bin Laden.
Then, almost two years later, I remember sitting in my Economics class, and our teacher turned on the TV so we could all watch the Shock & Awe. The song "Bombs Over Baghdad" popped in my head. The bright, lime green flashes of light reminded me of when I was 5, watching what was happening in the Golf War.
I tried not to think of the people that were dying in all the fireworks. Then the bell rang and I was over it. We walked out of the classroom, more concerned with how many credits we needed to make up so we could graduate.
When I was 18 I registered as a Repuiblican at the same time I signed the petition to get Gray Davis out of office...outside of a Target.
After we had been in Iraq for over a year, and it became clear that maybe there weren't those WMDs after all, I became a little suspicious.
We were at war. I wasn't quite sure why anymore. The anger I felt because of 9/11 had faded away. I supported the troops. I knew that much. It wasn't their fault, they were doing their job.
Come 2004, it was time to vote for Bush or Kerry. I felt like we needed to be out of Iraq. However, Kerry was a jackass. Edwards seemed like an overpaid weather man with bad hair. When they spoke, I didn't believe them. Was it the Republican in me that hated them, or did I just not trust them?
I voted for Bush. I voted for him on the notion that this was his mess, his war, and he was going to have to fucking clean it up. I didn't want Jackass and Weatherman coming into office with their fake hair and lies, and try to clean up something that was far greater, and had far more secrets than they knew about.
Slowly I really began to wonder about Bush. The troops. Rumsfeld. I got tired of being a Republican.
I think was really did it for me was the gay marriage issue. How in the fucking world did they not see that denying gay people the right to marriage was unconstitutional? It still blows my mind. How, HOW do you DENY someone ANYTHING because of WHO THEY LOVE? Do you really care THAT MUCH where someone's dick goes? How they get off? Who they cuddle up to at night?
And why do you care about that?? OH. That's right. Some mythical guy who can turn water into wine and wore Birkenstocks. Sure, he was a lovely guy, but I thought he taught people about love, and peace. And I'm also pretty sure that old ass book that tells you one man is not suppose to lay next to (or in) another man is just that: OLD AS FUCK.
Don't talk to me about being Green and Global Warming and tell me that the "state of the union is strong" and expect me to take you seriously when you still tell people who they can and can't fuck. Or try to tell me what I can or can't do with my uterus.
I eventually registered as "Decline To State".
After moving to London, and after really getting involved and realizing how much I cared about feminism, and just equality for everyone (except stupid people) I realized what a fucked up mess all this Republican, Democrat, Bill O'Reilly, Ann Coulter bulllllshit is.
On my way home from the fucked up Feminism conference I went to in Newcastle, I started really thinking about politics. I was on fire. I didn't agree with everything those hardcore, ridiculously hardcore feminist said...but I knew one thing. We need a change.
Desperately, desperately need a change.
I walked into a bookstore at the Newcastle train station. I looked for any magazine or book that wasn't about Britney Spears or the confessions of a hooker...and then I saw Hillary Clinton's smug little smile staring at me from across the aisle.
Growing up, I was taught to hate Bill Clinton, and to hate Hillary even more. I remember thinking that he was slime after the whole Lewinsky, cigar incident, and thinking that Hillary was a moron for staying with him. Now, I realize that I don't give a shit. I don't care about who people fuck or what their relationship is like. I think in politics people tend to care too much about that stuff. ("I FUCK MY WIFE!"...5:45 in the video. The rest of is is Bill Maher being a misogynist asshole.)
I started to read Hillary's book, and realized that she was much more human than everyone thinks. I read about her family, how she grew up, her time in law school. I read about her views on Medicare, and how involved she was in Bill's presidency. I'll be honest and say I haven't finished it, I'm about half way through Bill's first term, but I had read enough to know I believed in Hillary.
I decided to vote for her back in July.
I had to ask myself if I wanted to vote for her because she was a woman, or because I thought she would be the right person for the job. The answer is both. As I said before, we need a change. A big one. It's absolutely RIDICULOUS that we haven't had a female leader yet. Hillary is the closest we're going to get for a very long time, and I know that she's the right person for the job. I feel it in my bones.
On the contrary, if Condi Rice was running, I would NOT vote for her. Yes, she's a woman. No, I don't think she's right for the job. But, you probably just think I'm racist, and that's why I'd chose not to vote for her, right?
My politics have changed dramatically., but I changed them on my own. There are things that I care very much about. I care very much about womens rights, and you know there's no way in HELL Hillary is going to reverse Roe vs Wade.
I know she made some lame voting decisions in the Senate. I've been told everything about Hillary from the fact that she's a criminal and a fake, to a communist. For the record, I'm not a moron. I know politicians are dirty, and I don't expect any less than that from the Clintons. They've probably killed people and hid their bodies somewhere at Camp David. To be honest, I don't care. I suppose this even gives them street cred. Maybe they even have their own gang signs.
I've been told Bill Clinton was a horrible president, granted I was very young while he was in power, but I don't recall any wars, any drastic financial crisis...only a stain on a blue dress.
At the end of the day, I trust that Hillary is going to go in there and kick ass. It's the best of both worlds for me, she's going to tackle the issues I care about (universal health care, civil unions -not the same as gay marriage I KNOW-, getting our troops out of Iraq, stem cell research) and she'll be breaking the highest glass ceiling there is by doing it.
I'm sure Obama's a great guy. I'm sure he's a great politician. I'm sure he'd probably do well as the President. But just not now. Not where our country is at the moment.
I've seen him talk, and I just don't believe him. I don't get excited by what he has to say, or how he says it. Call me stupid, but I need to feel something when someone who wants my vote talks to me. Obama talks...I feel nothing.
On the contrary, when Hillary talks I get goose bumps. I get excited. I BECOME SEXUALLY AROUSED at the thought of her giving a State of the Union speech.
I suppose the bottom line for me, is that I've made up my mind who I want to be my President.
I don't feel the need to swap statistics, or voting histories, or secret facts with you. I don't want to hear about some book that was written that proves why Hillary is a commie or why Obama is inexperienced. I don't care. In politics, I really don't believe there is any truth. I don't take anything for fact. I go with my gut, and take in as much information as I can understand, and try to form an opinion about something, which I feel is as close to the truth as I can get.
This is why I am voting for Hillary Clinton in 2008.
This is why I'm Decline To State.
I am not Democrat. I am not Republican.
I am simply an American, who has seen and experienced how the rest of the world sees us. It's not pretty, at the moment. We're in a bit of a mess. We need a clean up crew. We need a change.
We need some ovaries. Women get shit done.
Wow. How about I take forever to write about my trip back home?
Really. Seriously. I know I make false promises to you guys all the time like, "I swear I'll take more videos." and "I swear I'll blog more often." And then I go and shit all over the promise...but for some reason you forgive me. And it warms my little heart.
So, despite the fact that I lie to y'all left and right, I really do mean that I'll blog more this year. It's one of my new years resolutions that I know I won't break. I mean it. MEAN IT.
As far as the video goes...I just couldn't be bothered.I was going to video tape the surprise, but I knew my mom would cry...and then the thought of having a clip of my mom crying on YouTube just didn't sit well with me. So, alas. Hardly any video. But we do have some, mainly of me being lame and describing whatever bar/Starbucks we happen to be in at the time, BUT THAT'S NOT THE POINT.
Anyway. I'll just give you a quick run down of our Christmas.
*The Surprise - to say the least, my mom was shocked. SHOCKED. She cried. My sister cried. (But not before calling me an asshole.) We all cried. It was great.
*My Chihuahua remembered who I was!
*I made mulled wine for my family. Despite my step dad making it clear I didn't use enough CINNAMON STICKS, I think it went down well. And so did our terribly English mince pies from Tesco.
-Mimi's Cafe
-Mel's Diner
-Lori's Diner at SFO
-The Pyramid cafe at SMF
-Round Table Pizza x2
-In 'n Out (GRANDE Margarita!)
-Chiles
-Chevy's
-Coffees from infinite Starbucks
-An EXCELLENT bar in San Francisco
And other various goodies such as Chex Mix, Cheezits and a fuck load of Anchor Steam, Barq's Root Beer & Sierra Nevada.
How we haven't died from massive heart attacks, I'm not sure.
*I had an awesome time cuddling with my dogs, and sitting on my mom's couch watching shitty programs like Twister Sisters and Bridezillas. But that all got a bit boring after a while and we managed to slip away for a day to visit a very special couple of friends, for a very special pajama party. Needless to say, we had a wonderful time hanging out with them, and it kills me that we all don't live closer together.
Other than the good times we had in California, we had some not so good times trying to get back home. After 6 hours of waiting in the ridiculous airport that is Sacramento "International" Airport on New Years Eve, we realized the staff there completely lied to us about our flight that was delayed due to "snow in Chicago", and we missed our connecting flight from Chicago to Heathrow. So. I ended up calling my mom and asking her to come get us, and that we would have to leave for London the NEXT day.
So. We ended up spending New Years Eve on my mom's couch.
At last, we made it back to London, to the frost, the rain and our fucking cold ass apartment. But, to me London has become home. A concept that seems rather strange these days....
...and if you tell anyone I'll cut you.
Iain and I have been shitting ourselves with excitement as we're flying back to California on Christmas Eve to surprise my mom and sister! I KNOW, RIGHT?! They have absolutely no idea, and my Step Dad is the only person that knows.
We only bought the tickets a couple weeks ago, and about 3 minutes before we did I called up my Step Dad and was like, "Oh hai. Is it okay if we come stay with you for a week and surprise my mom?" He was sort of okay with it.
He's been lying left and right like a pro, and he even managed to "send" the box of gifts my mom was sending us and stashed it in the back of his truck.
I feel like a total asshole at the moment because I told my mom that I "ordered some stuff off some internet shop and they said it should be there by Christmas Eve, but I dunno". She also asked me if I sent her any Christmas crackers like I did last year, and I had to lie and say that I totally forgot. (Even though I have like 25 of them in my suitcase.)
My ego is so large I almost want to tell her that we actually are planning The Best Surprise Ever and NO I'm not just a loser daughter who moved 5,000ish miles away and would forget to SEND CHRISTMAS CRACKERS. But alas, that is what she must think until Monday.
We fly to SF, and then to Sacramento which makes me incredibly excited that I will not have to drive the 2+ hours in horendous traffic...but I was terribly less excited about this when I Googled the Death Plane we'll be flying in from SF to Sac...
Yes. Those would be PROPELLERS. It's an EMB 120, it seats 30 people, and has *yet* to be involved in a fatal accident. I sat in horror researching and Googling this plane furiously, and all I could find is that sometimes it has a problem with "freezing", but the "chances of freezing" map I looked at said the Central Valley isn't a "high risk freezing" area. So. Hopefully we won't die. But believe you me, it will be the most terrifying 45 minutes of my life.
Anyway. We're getting a rental car at the Sacramento airport, and we'll high tail it to where my parents live, and surprise my mom and sister at about 6:00 at night on Christmas Eve. My goal is to make them cry for a good hour, so I have a feeling this will work.
I'm so excited I pee a little every time I think about it. In fact, writing this, I completely peed my pants.
We'll be taking loads of photos and videos, but most of the photos will be of my chihuahua licking my face....just so we're clear.
Happy Holidays, y'all! I'll check in with you soon!!!
xx
"I have learned not to worry about love, but to honor its coming with all my heart."
I think I have spent my entire life worrying about love.
Wondering when it will find me, if it would find me, and if I were even worthy of it.
I spent a better part of my teens wanting boys to love me, even though they weren't capable of it. (Or were busy loving somebody else...) When I finally did find some one I thought loved me, I was sure that was it. I would never have to have my heart broken again.
However, my heart did break again. Over and over. It broke when I found out this boy didn't really love me. But it broke even further when I found out I did not love myself. The pain of not loving yourself is and will always be greater than any man breaking your heart - as chances are, you broke it long before he did.
I sat for months in two different rooms. I went from shop to shop in my car. I went to work. I watched the sunrise and sunset from the windows of that coffee shop. I watched the moonrise outside the same coffee shop, through the smoke from my cigarette, and the cigarettes from a group of people I pretended were my friends.
While I did all this, I worried about love. I worried about why it felt like my family didn't love me. I worried about why I didn't love me. I even worried that my dog didn't love me. ("WHY? WHY don't you like the sweater I bought you? It was TWENTY DOLLARS. Chihuahuas love sweaters! What is WRONG with YOU?")
Slowly but surely, I stopped worrying about everyone else so much, and I just thought about myself.
I watched Sex and the City in my pajamas. I went to the same bookstore night after night. My sister played me Jack Johnson in her car while we snuck out and went to In 'n Out burger because we didn't like the dinner our step dad made that night.
I cried listening to Fiona Apple. I screamed Since You Been Gone at the top of my lungs while flying down the freeway.
I figured out I could write.
Maybe, just maybe, I would be loved for the first time.
We spent our winter on opposite ends of the world, tucked in whatever empty, frozen corners we could find, talking until the wee hours of the morning.
We spent our spring, in love, and on opposite ends of the world. Both continuing to learn to love again, and learning how to love ourselves.
By the time we were finally under one roof, under one blanket, I knew love.
But knowing love doesn't mean I stopped worrying about it. I worried about the lost love of toxic friends, the love I never had from toxic parents, and still fought to fully love myself.
Somewhere along the way, all this worrying caused me to build up my own little shield. A shield that helped me fight the outside world. All the people who wanted a piece without wanting to give anything in return. I fought and I fought and then one day, I realized I was starting to fight the people who were on my team.
I got so concerned with protecting my heart that I forgot that I didn't need to protect it from you.
I was busy declaring to the world that if you don't love me enough you will never get in, that there were moments where I didn't let you in. I was hard, when I only needed to be soft. I was defensive, when there was no attack. I was tough when I could have been gentle.
And I worried about love when it was all around me.
There are people in my life who will never love me like I need them to. And that's okay.
I want to learn not to worry about love. I want to learn that just because one man did not love me the right way, it doesn't mean that you will stop loving me the right way.
I will stop worrying about love. I will honor it's coming. I will honor you, and all of the love that's on it's way.
Hello everyone! So many things have been going on, I've just now had the time to sit down and pour over all of our photos from Hawaii. We woke up last Sunday at 4am, and we didn't get back to London until about 12 on Monday afternoon.
We were up for about 31 hours. We went to Starbucks in Honolulu, Los Angeles, Surbiton, and Kingston all in one day. Can anyone else say that? NO I DON'T THINK SO. WE WIN.
Now that my extreme jet lag has subsided a bit (I fell asleep in a pub and on a train this week) I can now write about the glory that was Hawaii. And by "glory" I mean "the fun bits we had in between fighting with my family".
I love my family to tiny smitherines, but anyone who has gone on a family "vacation", you know what I mean. (And you also understand the sobbing on a beach and screaming NEVER AGAIN!!! I HATE YOU!! Right? Anyone?)
Highlights from Hawaii:
- Heathrow Airport: We're hardcore jet setters and had enough air miles to upgrade from Economy to FIRST FUCKING CLASS on our next flight from SF to Honolulu flight. We sob tears of arrogant joy
- Somewhere over Greenland: I have the aisle seat at the
anus of the plane. (That's how far back I am.) There's a nifty spot
right next to my seat where the airplane door is. People like to
congregate there when I'm trying to sleep. They open the window on the
door, flood the entire plane with light and screech in possibly the
most irritating accent I've ever heard about the "TINY ISLANDS" down
below. For an hour. Then, some man decides to stand right next to my
seat and stretch his legs. He ferociously
marches in place yelling
about the dangers of DEEP VEIN THROMBOSIS. I prop my "Fuck off" sleeping
mask on my forehead and plan their deaths. (And drink wine.)
-
San Fransciso International Airport: Our flight from London was late. We had 25 minutes to get our luggage, go through customs, go through security, and basically run across the entire fucking SF airport. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly a runner. On the verge of my untimely death, we make it with 10 minutes to spare. I contemplate doing a Endzone dance on the front counter, but realize I'm too tired. Mr.Front Desk tells us they gave away our first class tickets because he didn't think we would make it in time. "My! You're fast runners! Gosh. We're sorry about that." I spontaneously combust.
-
Kualoa Ranch, Oahu: Look desperately around for Lost
filming locations so I can find Jack. Find Kualoa Ranch, they tell me
they have a tour with Lost filming locations. I crap my pants. So, we
go on the tour. Basically, we spent $20 to see a log used in Jurassic Park, a WWII bunker that "Matthew Fox opened once", a hill where
Hurley played golf, and a giant footprint from Godzilla. This all took
place in a hundred year old school bus that bounced around so hard I
was afraid my boobs were going to fall off. (The left one did. We glued it back on, though.)
- Shark's Cove, North Shore: Snorkelled with FISH! Considering fish sort of freak me out, I was a wee bit nervous.However, the fish were actually quite welcoming. One offered me tea. I saw numerous of fish shitting in the water, and from then on noticed the copious amount of fish shit in water. I try really hard to not let this bother me yet suddenly start gagging every time I get water in my mouth. See an eel with mean looking face. Cut myself on coral and become seriously concerned that sharks will be able to smell me.
-
The Sheraton, Waikiki: We have an ocean front room on the 24th floor. I have a pina colada and watch sea turtles pop up their little, wrinkly heads for air. We then lay out and work on our pasty, English tans. A guy from the Sheraton stands over me with a mister and asks if I'd like an "ice cold spritz of water?" We, again, shed tears or arrogant joy. "Where the fuck are we?"
- Luau, The Royal Hawaiian, Waikiki: Develop crush on hot
(female) hula dancer. Get leid. Get involved in shouting match between my
mother and greasy Jersey Girl at the luau's buffet. Some immature words were exchanged, my mom then told her she didn't have any manners, to which she replied:
Jersey Girl: "Yeah? Well if I have a problem with someone I JUST KICK THEIR ASS. (She's 5'2, perhaps 270lbs.)
Mom: OH yeah. I'm really afraid that you're going to kick my ass AT A LUAU. (5'8, has a lot of pent up rage.)
JG: Oh. YOU SHOULD BE. (Adds sixth drumstick to her plate.)
Mom: "Don't worry. I'M NOT."
Me: "Shut up." (That'll show her. Biotch.)
JG: "No, YOU SHUT UP."
Me. "Uh...no you shut up." (Are you kidding?)
JG: "NO. YOU SHUT UP."
Me: "...You shut up INFINITY." (HAH! I can't believe I just said that!!)
JG: "Yeah? Well WHY DON'T YOU WEAR A LITTLE BRIGHTER LIPSTICK?"
Me: "Oh. GOOD ONE.'
Downtown Waikiki: We go drunk, late night shopping at tourist shops, Billabong, and The Stupid Factory at 10:30 at night! (Anyone from England will know why this is so exciting.) I buy a mousepad, a pair of jammies that say "Shake your Coconuts!", a big shawl, peanut butter M&Ms and Ritz Cheese Crackers. I am happy.
Kailua, Waikiki, Honolulu, North Shore, Haleiwa, Starbucks, the Taco Bell parking lot, our rental car: Fighting with my family!
"Well, what do YOU want to do then?"
"I don't know! I'm just saying I don't want to do that?!"
"Well if you don't know what you want to do then why do you have a problem with what we're doing?!"
"I DIDN'T SAY THAT!'
"GOD WHY ARE YOU SUCH A BITCH?"
"ME? Why are YOU such a bitch?!!"
"OH MY GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!?!"
"SO WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO THEN?"
"I DON'T KNOOOOOOOOOOW!"
Plane ride from Honolulu to Los Angeles: First-Fucking-Class. Let me tell you about First Class. There was a phone. We got table cloths and cloth napkins. Iain drank about 4 mimosas - for free! We got A FUCKING OMLETTE for breakfast. And it was GOOD. They serve you beverages in real glasses! And the best part? I could actually fucking sleep.
Plane ride from Los Angeles to Heathrow: Back to Ec-o-fucking-nomy class. We're in the bowels of the plane, again. The bitchy flight attendant calls me "Young Lady" and skipped us when giving out drinks/lunch/pretzels THREE different times. My elbow got hit with the food cart 5 different times. The big ass lady next to Iain had to keep getting up to go to the bathroom, each time bringing a travel sized jar of VASELINE with her. Hemroids? Ashy knees? Dry labia? I DON'T KNOW.
We did have a wonderful trip. We got tanned. Despite the fighting, I got to give my Step Dad shit, take shots of Patrone with my mom, and laugh so hard at my sister I thought I would pee my pants. Moments I wouldn't trade for anything. (Except maybe the chance to fly First Class FOREVER.)
On the Sunday we flew back, my interview in The Observer Woman ran. I'm scanning that shit in as we speak, and I'll have a post on that coming up soon. Oh god, do I have a lot to say about that.
Moving on.
How do you leave your history in a cardboard box -or five- and continue to move forward with your life?
Do you keep the old letters from your ex boyfriend? Do you keep them in your cellar? In the darkest parts under your bed?
The photos of you and the man that you thought would give you babies and grandchildren and a home...the photos of you and him before he broke your heart. Do they stay in the chest at the foot of your bed? Or are you still so angry you can't bring yourself to touch them?
The daughter you abandoned, and left alone when she needed you most. Do you keep the finger painted pictures she made you when she was five? You don't understand why she won't talk to you, but can you love someone who says that your love hurts? Are those pictures still in a random box? Or are they lost, thrown away, or burned?
Do you keep your past husband's wedding suit in the dust, and the darkness of your attic? Do you let it sit above your head, every Christmas, every birthday. Your past memories and pain, and love, and death, and once-futures...do you leave them to rot above you, and below, and all around you. Hidden, tucked away, put under blankets, and taped shut. Out of your eyes, and of your widowed heart, but never out of your mind.
Do you sneak up-stairs and hold the old fabric to your face?
Everybody moves on in their own way. Some preserve the bedrooms of their lost children. To go in, to remember, to honor.
Some run away. They leave the life that fell apart, the life they thought would be forever. The pain, the familiarity, the memories that reappear at every single turn. Every smell, every song, every day...is simply too often and too much. They leave.
Some fall into whatever hole they first land in after being shoved off whatever free ride they were on.They recreate their manic version of what "normal life" is to them no matter where they are. Alone. Married. Divorced. Dating. It's all the same, because they are always the same. Never changing. Round and round. U-turn after U-turn...never forward.
Some leave with their finger in the air, but leave a strategically abandoned trail of items in their wake. Anniversary cards in the sock drawer, a lipstick under a couch cushion, or their caricatured photos from their birthday on the boardwalk left on the wall. "I'm gone, but see if you can ever get rid of me."
Some burn their photos, and the letters. A symbolic gesture of turning the past in to ashes, and the ashes in to dust. They float further and further away, with each passing breeze. The memories we want to hold on to, will live on forever in the l