After reading this article on Buzzfeed this morning, I couldn't help but giggle. Not only is it totally true on so many levels, but it made me feel slightly less nutty that my sisters and I aren't the only ones out there. The best part is that I am lucky to have two best friends to do the dance from Robin Hood: Men in Tights at 3am on Christmas day when we've had too much wine while playing Sweet Valley High. Many people that get close to me are intrigued by my odd stories about my mom, my hideous dog that I grew up with and my Grampy that has a colorful way of describing weather patterns. Pile all that on with the mind blowing fact that there are two more of me floating around in the US. Gasp! We're all J's, even our nicknames - James and Jose. The three of us are completely different in so many ways; physically, our interests, taste in music/men/food, ambition, but have the most important thing in common: our high standards, Midwestern family values and a ridiculous laugh that could only come from our mother.
The best part about the Buzzfeed post was that all of the reasons are 100% spot-on (as always, way to go Buzzfeed), but that they're the same whether I'm thinking of my sisters when I was 4 years old playing with my Briar Horses or right now, as a 24 year old on my iPad, thinking about what type of whiskey I'll be consuming during the Burlesque show at Untitled tonight. I love and welcome change, but my relationship with both sisters is something that I don't think could be any more perfect.
It's rare to find someone that truly knows every dark secret about you, has lived with your high maintenance and borderline OCD ticks, and still loves you unconditionally. I think of the bitchy things I've said to the middle sister or the times that I said I would do something for my older sister and couldn't be happier that they're stuck with me and have to forgive me eventually. Too many hard lessons that I've had to learn has been at the expense of one of my siblings or they were going down the same road with me and we all pushed each other on.
I take full advantage of being baby of the family and if anyone takes the time to get to know me, it's clear that I'm the youngest child. Because I'm the youngest by eight years from James and four and a half from Jose, I have had the pleasure of compiling life advice at the expense of their mistakes:
- Always take your papers to school when mom tells you to. If not, she will show up to your middle school in her faded red, holey sweatpants, ratty slippers and bedhead to turn in your paper to the teach in front of your whole class. (Jose)
- Be as involved in as many extracirricular activities as you can ; academics, track/cross country, dorky zoo school, volunteer work and spilling Dairy Queen ice cream on your shirt and pretending it's a job. The more you're wrapped up in, the less mom harasses you. (James)
- A genuine, sincere apology goes a long way with mom. (Jose)
- Don't piss off mom so you don't have to offer perfectly thought-out apologies on the regular. (James)
- Being smart is cool, sexy and leads to meeting true friends. (James)
- But being a party animal, dressing sexy, and never wearing a bra leads to a lot of friends and even hotter guys. (Jose)
-Later realizing that those "cool" friends suck and the guys aren't hot after high school. They're just fat and have crappy jobs. (Jose)
- Pseudo-stalking your high school crush will lead to 10 years of a solid marriage, two amazing children and a lot of happiness. Still waiting for this to happen, by the way, James.
- How to mix the perfect drinks, throw a badass party in mom's basement, highlight my green eyes with the right eyeliner, shave my legs, walk in heels, show just the right amount of the little cleavage I do have, and, most importantly, have fun. Jose taught me every detail of being a girly-girl. I would say that I've surpassed the master in this area.
- You don't always need to be the prettiest, happiest, and most-outgoing. James unknowingly made me realize that the most stunning accessory is confidence and without it, you probably won't be the gorgeous girl laughing in a group of people. You'll be the depressed weirdo that no one wants to be around.
The best part has been that I grew up with the opportunity to see what I love the most about them and morph it into one. I'll never be as intelligent, motherly or athletic as James. She's so crafty and was that way long before Pinterest was a thing. Thanks to her, I took school very seriously and am very proud of my degrees, and will never apologize for being an educated woman. I take a lot of pride in seeing my nephews become little men and applaud her for her patience with them. To top it off, all of my crafts look like they belong on the Island of Misfit Toys. On the flip side, I don't think I will ever have the deep-seeded charisma that Jose has. She has the most amazing way of making any random person feel like they are the only one in the world, it's a gift that doesn't come easily. Even better, though, is that she has an innocent way of only seeing the positive in people. Oh, and she's a self-taught chef. One of those people that can look in a pantry and magically concoct a 5-Star quality meal out of the random shit without thinking twice. I still read the directions on my canned soup just to be sure I don't mess anything up. It's bad.
None of us live in the same state but, even without seeing each other for months or a year, I'll never be closer to anyone but these two. Part of that may be because they have too much dirt on me.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Monday, December 30, 2013
It's not me.... it's you.
Everyone's heard it the words and I'm 100% sure that no one believes them. "It's not you, it's me," screams bullshit to even the most naive recipient. What's the most irritating part of that? The self-righteousness of the whole concept, the disrespect of being blatantly lied to, and the fact that you aren't even worth the time for some original material is all insulting. As if ending a relationship isn't bad enough, let's add some cliches in there for good measure!
I overheard (or was I eavesdropping on random people at Starbucks because I still have yet to meet more than a handful of people worthy of being friends? tomato, tamatoh) a bro-ish looking college student saying this to a gorgeous and unsuspecting sorority girl the other afternoon. I gritted my teeth and raised the volume on my Ellie Goulding in the anticipation of tears or a dramatic gesture of some sort but was pleasantly surprised. She blankly looked in his face and basically thanked him for the honesty (in pure sarcasm, is she my little sister?), wished him good luck in the search for a woman that will tolerate his bad habits (I wish she elaborated, I was very intrigued by this), and said that she would appreciate it if he spared her from the rumor mill, as he's the one with the small penis. I don't know this girl but I was proud of her! I was compelled, but resisted, to buy her a beer, give her a hug, and smack her ass as she walked onto Michigan Avenue and exclaim, "go get 'em!!"
In one hell of a roundabout way, the stupidity of his poor selection of words to break up got me thinking. Oh no. "It's not you, it's me," has never been something I could comprehend. An ex-boyfriend of mine would often say something similar when we were in those arguments that dance along the edge of breaking up. If I was the reason I'm breaking up with someone I cared for I would, a) figure my shit out and find out why I suck and, b) let the fully-functioning adult that I'm dating make the decision if they can put up with my crap. Is it my bitching that you work too much that thus makes you unhappy because you do, in fact, spend too much time at the office? Then it's not you, it's my nagging. Come on. Why can't anyone be blunt, doesn't the person you've dated for x-amount of time (2 years?) deserve some constructive criticism or at least honesty as they swiftly get pushed out of your life? Yes. In a perfect world, every relationship of mine would conclude with an exit interview so I can learn from the infinite mistakes I make, spend some time on my neuroses and always do that one thing in bed that got you every time. This is probably yet another reason I'm single but, hey, I'm a nerd. So what if I like to analyze data and make myself better for it? :)
I'm only 24 so of course some of my views on relationships are immature, perhaps a little strange and most definitely the reason I struggle to find someone with similar values. Unless there are very upsetting circumstances, I don't understand why break ups are usually so toxic. Say you spend two years with this person that you're ending things with, one would assume that those are some of the best years of your life, right? You and whoever probably know each other well enough to know when they're lying through their teeth, no? Then why lie about the break up? Lying is too much work. I'd rather hear, "Lady, your quirks, psychotic family, and weird tribe of gay men are way too much for me to handle. Good luck, smell ya later gorgeous," than something pulled out of air. It's the need for closure, people, and it's important for post-breakup sanity. Just going on a date that you thought was incredible only to never hear from the guy again is a bummer but have you ever been dumped abruptly when you think things are going well? It's rough!
How will I avoid my next and inevitable, "It's not you, it's me," talk? I don't know. What I do know is that the darling 19 year old Starbucks girl reminded me of the feisty side of me that I sometimes lose when I'm hurt by someone I care for and put a lot of work into being around. I like the fireball (not the whiskey, that's trouble!) that doesn't take any shit and she will certainly be around as I try and fail to navigate the Chicago dating scene.
I overheard (or was I eavesdropping on random people at Starbucks because I still have yet to meet more than a handful of people worthy of being friends? tomato, tamatoh) a bro-ish looking college student saying this to a gorgeous and unsuspecting sorority girl the other afternoon. I gritted my teeth and raised the volume on my Ellie Goulding in the anticipation of tears or a dramatic gesture of some sort but was pleasantly surprised. She blankly looked in his face and basically thanked him for the honesty (in pure sarcasm, is she my little sister?), wished him good luck in the search for a woman that will tolerate his bad habits (I wish she elaborated, I was very intrigued by this), and said that she would appreciate it if he spared her from the rumor mill, as he's the one with the small penis. I don't know this girl but I was proud of her! I was compelled, but resisted, to buy her a beer, give her a hug, and smack her ass as she walked onto Michigan Avenue and exclaim, "go get 'em!!"
In one hell of a roundabout way, the stupidity of his poor selection of words to break up got me thinking. Oh no. "It's not you, it's me," has never been something I could comprehend. An ex-boyfriend of mine would often say something similar when we were in those arguments that dance along the edge of breaking up. If I was the reason I'm breaking up with someone I cared for I would, a) figure my shit out and find out why I suck and, b) let the fully-functioning adult that I'm dating make the decision if they can put up with my crap. Is it my bitching that you work too much that thus makes you unhappy because you do, in fact, spend too much time at the office? Then it's not you, it's my nagging. Come on. Why can't anyone be blunt, doesn't the person you've dated for x-amount of time (2 years?) deserve some constructive criticism or at least honesty as they swiftly get pushed out of your life? Yes. In a perfect world, every relationship of mine would conclude with an exit interview so I can learn from the infinite mistakes I make, spend some time on my neuroses and always do that one thing in bed that got you every time. This is probably yet another reason I'm single but, hey, I'm a nerd. So what if I like to analyze data and make myself better for it? :)
I'm only 24 so of course some of my views on relationships are immature, perhaps a little strange and most definitely the reason I struggle to find someone with similar values. Unless there are very upsetting circumstances, I don't understand why break ups are usually so toxic. Say you spend two years with this person that you're ending things with, one would assume that those are some of the best years of your life, right? You and whoever probably know each other well enough to know when they're lying through their teeth, no? Then why lie about the break up? Lying is too much work. I'd rather hear, "Lady, your quirks, psychotic family, and weird tribe of gay men are way too much for me to handle. Good luck, smell ya later gorgeous," than something pulled out of air. It's the need for closure, people, and it's important for post-breakup sanity. Just going on a date that you thought was incredible only to never hear from the guy again is a bummer but have you ever been dumped abruptly when you think things are going well? It's rough!
How will I avoid my next and inevitable, "It's not you, it's me," talk? I don't know. What I do know is that the darling 19 year old Starbucks girl reminded me of the feisty side of me that I sometimes lose when I'm hurt by someone I care for and put a lot of work into being around. I like the fireball (not the whiskey, that's trouble!) that doesn't take any shit and she will certainly be around as I try and fail to navigate the Chicago dating scene.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Beauty in the Breakdown
Last month, I referenced my mini mental breakdown on the Brownline. This was probably slightly over-dramatic, but it happens to the best of us. My Brownline Breakdown was the combination of two months of overwhelming emotions all hitting me at once; stress, excitement and sadness prior to moving and the anticipation, limited finances and change in routine once arriving in Chicago. I hope that it's safe to say that many people in my position would have a spontaneous, inconvenient and awkward freak out if found in a similar situation. Conversations with many that have actually experienced this life changing move has confirmed that thought.
Anyway, as I was yelling at the disgusting man that threw his gas station food into my shopping bag from a designer on Michigan Avenue, I felt the crazies coming my way. May I point out that this was the final straw in one of the most frustrating days I had experienced in quite a while. This was the cherry on top of a day spent looking at apartments that don't meet the detailed qualifications that I had emailed the woman assisting me. Tiles falling off of the kitchen ceiling and a huge crack in the window - seriously - in the first building I looked at made me realize that this was going to be a very painful process. After half-screaming, half-crying at the foolish woman that chose to ignore my requests because she apparently knows me better than I do, I opted not to see the next six crackhouses she was planning to take me to.
Why was I on the Brownline instead of the usual Redline, you ask? Let me explain. Most of my friends know that I have a love/hate relationship with technology that mostly consists of hate. I have an appreciation for it and especially those that work in the area. However, I don't like learning to use a new phone, having to download new apps or anything else. I have about five apps on my personal iPhone that weren't already installed. Also, I hate checking the apps that I do have. Sometimes days will go by before I check Facebook or Instagram, or even my voicemail. I've had the same iPhone for over two years simply because I don't want to adjust to a new phone. I am pathetic. So, I was on the Brownline because my network provider (cough, AT&T cough), is trying to kill me. Too dramatic? I don't care. I am new in the city, more so when this occurred, and kept getting lost. It was so frustrating because it would be in areas that I was semifamilar with but Siri, that stupid bitch, would tell me to "head west on Franklin Avenue," and make me doubt myself. After about five "are you sure, Siri?" moments, I found myself in unfamiliar territory. I was exhausted from carrying around the giant shopping bags, wearing cute heels because I thought it was just going to be a quick trip to have lunch with my sister and get my clothes for work, and I'd be back home. According to my Jawbone UP, I had already walked about 8 miles at this point. I ran into a CTA train stop and got on the first train heading somewhat north.
It was on this train that all of my insecurities that I had no idea what the hell I was doing, the fear of starting the new job for which I was carrying around a terribly heavy bag of beautiful clothing, and the overwhelming notion that apartment hunting was going to be a lose-lose situation, all hit me the minute the pork-rinds wrapper touched my black trench coat. I straightened up my posture, cleared the tears that were clouding my eyes and raised my voice at the dipshit that was wiping his hands on the outside of my shopping bag. "What in the fuck do you think you are doing? Get your shit out of my bag and get the hell away from me," I stared him down as I yelled. He literally jumped with surprise and started to stammer. As he slowly began to walk away, I pointed out that he tried to, "fuck with the wrong white bitch today," and he and his partner in crime nodded in agreement.I got two high fives when I got off the train two stops later.
I'm always going to have the crazies come over me at strange and unexpected moments and will probably find unusual outlets for my current stressor(s). What I have learned, is that usually there's a reason for my breakdown and a strange beauty in it. That afternoon I started out as a wandering deer-in-headlights girl that felt lost and alone in the city, to the Chicagoan that can stand up for herself, put on her big girl panties get things done. I felt far more confident, told Siri to shut it, and knew that I could figure things out one way or another. Was cussing out a disgusting man on the train or scream-crying to an apartment broker the most appropriate way to find this out? Meh, probably not. Maybe one day I will better control my frustrations but for now, it is a learning experience for all three of us.
Anyway, as I was yelling at the disgusting man that threw his gas station food into my shopping bag from a designer on Michigan Avenue, I felt the crazies coming my way. May I point out that this was the final straw in one of the most frustrating days I had experienced in quite a while. This was the cherry on top of a day spent looking at apartments that don't meet the detailed qualifications that I had emailed the woman assisting me. Tiles falling off of the kitchen ceiling and a huge crack in the window - seriously - in the first building I looked at made me realize that this was going to be a very painful process. After half-screaming, half-crying at the foolish woman that chose to ignore my requests because she apparently knows me better than I do, I opted not to see the next six crackhouses she was planning to take me to.
Why was I on the Brownline instead of the usual Redline, you ask? Let me explain. Most of my friends know that I have a love/hate relationship with technology that mostly consists of hate. I have an appreciation for it and especially those that work in the area. However, I don't like learning to use a new phone, having to download new apps or anything else. I have about five apps on my personal iPhone that weren't already installed. Also, I hate checking the apps that I do have. Sometimes days will go by before I check Facebook or Instagram, or even my voicemail. I've had the same iPhone for over two years simply because I don't want to adjust to a new phone. I am pathetic. So, I was on the Brownline because my network provider (cough, AT&T cough), is trying to kill me. Too dramatic? I don't care. I am new in the city, more so when this occurred, and kept getting lost. It was so frustrating because it would be in areas that I was semifamilar with but Siri, that stupid bitch, would tell me to "head west on Franklin Avenue," and make me doubt myself. After about five "are you sure, Siri?" moments, I found myself in unfamiliar territory. I was exhausted from carrying around the giant shopping bags, wearing cute heels because I thought it was just going to be a quick trip to have lunch with my sister and get my clothes for work, and I'd be back home. According to my Jawbone UP, I had already walked about 8 miles at this point. I ran into a CTA train stop and got on the first train heading somewhat north.
It was on this train that all of my insecurities that I had no idea what the hell I was doing, the fear of starting the new job for which I was carrying around a terribly heavy bag of beautiful clothing, and the overwhelming notion that apartment hunting was going to be a lose-lose situation, all hit me the minute the pork-rinds wrapper touched my black trench coat. I straightened up my posture, cleared the tears that were clouding my eyes and raised my voice at the dipshit that was wiping his hands on the outside of my shopping bag. "What in the fuck do you think you are doing? Get your shit out of my bag and get the hell away from me," I stared him down as I yelled. He literally jumped with surprise and started to stammer. As he slowly began to walk away, I pointed out that he tried to, "fuck with the wrong white bitch today," and he and his partner in crime nodded in agreement.I got two high fives when I got off the train two stops later.
I'm always going to have the crazies come over me at strange and unexpected moments and will probably find unusual outlets for my current stressor(s). What I have learned, is that usually there's a reason for my breakdown and a strange beauty in it. That afternoon I started out as a wandering deer-in-headlights girl that felt lost and alone in the city, to the Chicagoan that can stand up for herself, put on her big girl panties get things done. I felt far more confident, told Siri to shut it, and knew that I could figure things out one way or another. Was cussing out a disgusting man on the train or scream-crying to an apartment broker the most appropriate way to find this out? Meh, probably not. Maybe one day I will better control my frustrations but for now, it is a learning experience for all three of us.
My Crazy Peggy
It's been about a month since my last update. In case you were unaware (which isn't possible if you've read any other post here), I just moved to Chicago, started my new job and am getting settled in my own apartment. A little busy.
I've mentioned my mom in almost every post since I've started this blog. A majority of my posts include two very accurate comments about her: she is totally nuts and even more amazing. I wouldn't be who I am if it weren't for how she's raised me, everything she's given up for me and all of the support she has offered. Honestly, a post about my mom could very quickly turn into an entire book or 8 part series. In order to avoid that, I guess this is basically an overview of the most important to me: momma T.
My mom is the craziest woman I know. Depending on which sides of her you've seen, you could interpret this in many ways. She's crazy because her drunk alter-ego, Peggy, loves to dance in the crosswalk downtown to Gangnam Style. Also, she's crazy because she's the mother of three even goofier girls. Mainly, she's crazy because she's selfless. Another crazy thing about her, is that she's not nearly as crazy as she should be. Let me start from the top.
I have far too many examples of Peggy's finest moments, but the origin is the best place to start. Peggy evolved during football season 2012. My BFF and I were tailgating with my mom and her friend, Limber Kimber. As she's taking her third or fourth Jell-O shot in the newspaper parking lot, my best friend says, "Peggy is so funny. She's loving the shots!" Wait, what now? Turns out, for the past few weekends that we've spent binge-drinking at tailgates, he (incorrectly) thought my mom's name was Peggy. We died laughing as we headed toward our favorite spot that's typically reserved for US Soccer and black outs. Peggy determined that she would go forward with that name as her official "bar name." After this decision, she kicked off her new heeled boots, threw her purse on the ground and giggled that her "puss and boots" were on the floor as she skipped over to the door guy. God help us all.
Perhaps it's because I don't have children of my own, but I feel like my mom must be insane because she raised three girls. No other reason, just that I can't imagine parenting anything, let alone the daunting task of three beautiful, intelligent women. My Tamagotchi pets would always die because I forgot to feed them or pick up their nano-poop. She continues to parent us as the eldest has become a mother, the middle continued to make dumbass decisions into her late twenties, and I still find myself in crisis after crisis. Those that believe parenting stops when the kids move out are the most foolish people I know and should reconsider the decision to reproduce. She still offers daughter #1 parenting advice (have a margarita before putting L to bed when he's sick), though sometimes the validity is questionable. Peggy talks to #2 after each stressful day at work to say that things are heading in the right direction and remind her that she's come so far. And, just today, bailed me out with some cash because Ventra hijacked my bank account again and I don't have anything in my cupboards except tea and a jar of almond butter that I recently used as a hammer. This doesn't include consoling me IN HER SLEEP on Sunday night when I finally realized I'm all alone in the city. After 32 years of parenting, my mom continues to be number one for each of us girls. Did I mention that she did a lot of this on her own? Saint.
Obviously she's selfless as a mommy of three, but it extends so far beyond that. Her motherly calling bleeds into every area of her life and strongly embraces anyone close to our family. After 35 years at the same employer, she is known to all as "Aunt B." She bakes cookies for birthdays, brings treats on holidays, plans at least one party a year, reaches out to coworkers that are going through hardship and remembers everyone's special moments. So many of the men that she works with have sought me out to tell me what an incredible woman she is. Many of these colleagues of hers have become invested in our family, coming to dance recitals, graduation parties, weddings, and any event that Peggy determines worthy of a gathering.
In high school, a group of friends came to my house to celebrate a wrestling team win and have cookies my mom made followed by some shots of Barton's (barf). A boy that I wasn't particularly fond of had gotten into a fight. His lip was bleeding, his eye was bruised, and his hand was sliced to the bone from glass- clearly in need of some immediate medical attention. One of the other boys explained to my mom that the injured guy's parent was abusive. It was this reason that he was refusing to go to the hospital. My mom drove him to the ER, worked her magic, and covered everything so his parent wouldn't find out. She did all of this without hesitation. I had forgotten about this night until about a year ago, when he told me how much it meant to him that she did that. Again, I have countless friends who could easily tell you how my mom has made them feel loved; giving up her day off to take care of them after surgery, gotten out of bed at four in the morning to drive them home because they took too many shots of Rumpleminz, baking and delivering lasagna for a friend that just gave birth, picking them up from the airport because I'm at work, or just a quick phone call to say hi. It's one thing to have a great mom, but even better to share her. Mostly for bragging rights though.
Finally, she's totally not crazy. How does that happen? I can truly count the number of times I've seen her in tears and tell you in extreme detail how it went down because it is so rare to see her in an emotional state. I'll never forget the times that she has yelled at me, partly because she scares the shit out of me but also because it's only happened a few times(sister #2 probably can't say that, she was more naughty!). This lady has had a ton on her plate, oh, and she tries to have a life of her own. Many people in her situation would be locked in a looney-bin or at least involved in some seriously-needed social services. I would know, I worked with that population for years.
Maybe people think I'm a social outcast, freakishly introverted, or suffering from some developmental delays when I immediately blurt that my mom is my best friend. But, as I previously mentioned, we've been through some serious shit together. My mom is the only one that has been literally next to me in each step of my life: walking across the stage when receiving my diplomas; going through the tedious processes of selecting my first car, my puppy, my college, my prom dress, etc.; excitement of new relationships and depression of wrecked ones; years of my autoimmune issues and the very odd side effects I've experienced; and, most recently, visiting my new home in Chicago. I was only ten, but I knew that the minute I lost my other parent, that mom would be twice the parent and the only person that will ever love me unconditionally. She just needs to learn to grill some filet mignon and we'll know that she's a robot.
I've mentioned my mom in almost every post since I've started this blog. A majority of my posts include two very accurate comments about her: she is totally nuts and even more amazing. I wouldn't be who I am if it weren't for how she's raised me, everything she's given up for me and all of the support she has offered. Honestly, a post about my mom could very quickly turn into an entire book or 8 part series. In order to avoid that, I guess this is basically an overview of the most important to me: momma T.
My mom is the craziest woman I know. Depending on which sides of her you've seen, you could interpret this in many ways. She's crazy because her drunk alter-ego, Peggy, loves to dance in the crosswalk downtown to Gangnam Style. Also, she's crazy because she's the mother of three even goofier girls. Mainly, she's crazy because she's selfless. Another crazy thing about her, is that she's not nearly as crazy as she should be. Let me start from the top.
I have far too many examples of Peggy's finest moments, but the origin is the best place to start. Peggy evolved during football season 2012. My BFF and I were tailgating with my mom and her friend, Limber Kimber. As she's taking her third or fourth Jell-O shot in the newspaper parking lot, my best friend says, "Peggy is so funny. She's loving the shots!" Wait, what now? Turns out, for the past few weekends that we've spent binge-drinking at tailgates, he (incorrectly) thought my mom's name was Peggy. We died laughing as we headed toward our favorite spot that's typically reserved for US Soccer and black outs. Peggy determined that she would go forward with that name as her official "bar name." After this decision, she kicked off her new heeled boots, threw her purse on the ground and giggled that her "puss and boots" were on the floor as she skipped over to the door guy. God help us all.
Perhaps it's because I don't have children of my own, but I feel like my mom must be insane because she raised three girls. No other reason, just that I can't imagine parenting anything, let alone the daunting task of three beautiful, intelligent women. My Tamagotchi pets would always die because I forgot to feed them or pick up their nano-poop. She continues to parent us as the eldest has become a mother, the middle continued to make dumbass decisions into her late twenties, and I still find myself in crisis after crisis. Those that believe parenting stops when the kids move out are the most foolish people I know and should reconsider the decision to reproduce. She still offers daughter #1 parenting advice (have a margarita before putting L to bed when he's sick), though sometimes the validity is questionable. Peggy talks to #2 after each stressful day at work to say that things are heading in the right direction and remind her that she's come so far. And, just today, bailed me out with some cash because Ventra hijacked my bank account again and I don't have anything in my cupboards except tea and a jar of almond butter that I recently used as a hammer. This doesn't include consoling me IN HER SLEEP on Sunday night when I finally realized I'm all alone in the city. After 32 years of parenting, my mom continues to be number one for each of us girls. Did I mention that she did a lot of this on her own? Saint.
Obviously she's selfless as a mommy of three, but it extends so far beyond that. Her motherly calling bleeds into every area of her life and strongly embraces anyone close to our family. After 35 years at the same employer, she is known to all as "Aunt B." She bakes cookies for birthdays, brings treats on holidays, plans at least one party a year, reaches out to coworkers that are going through hardship and remembers everyone's special moments. So many of the men that she works with have sought me out to tell me what an incredible woman she is. Many of these colleagues of hers have become invested in our family, coming to dance recitals, graduation parties, weddings, and any event that Peggy determines worthy of a gathering.
In high school, a group of friends came to my house to celebrate a wrestling team win and have cookies my mom made followed by some shots of Barton's (barf). A boy that I wasn't particularly fond of had gotten into a fight. His lip was bleeding, his eye was bruised, and his hand was sliced to the bone from glass- clearly in need of some immediate medical attention. One of the other boys explained to my mom that the injured guy's parent was abusive. It was this reason that he was refusing to go to the hospital. My mom drove him to the ER, worked her magic, and covered everything so his parent wouldn't find out. She did all of this without hesitation. I had forgotten about this night until about a year ago, when he told me how much it meant to him that she did that. Again, I have countless friends who could easily tell you how my mom has made them feel loved; giving up her day off to take care of them after surgery, gotten out of bed at four in the morning to drive them home because they took too many shots of Rumpleminz, baking and delivering lasagna for a friend that just gave birth, picking them up from the airport because I'm at work, or just a quick phone call to say hi. It's one thing to have a great mom, but even better to share her. Mostly for bragging rights though.
Finally, she's totally not crazy. How does that happen? I can truly count the number of times I've seen her in tears and tell you in extreme detail how it went down because it is so rare to see her in an emotional state. I'll never forget the times that she has yelled at me, partly because she scares the shit out of me but also because it's only happened a few times(sister #2 probably can't say that, she was more naughty!). This lady has had a ton on her plate, oh, and she tries to have a life of her own. Many people in her situation would be locked in a looney-bin or at least involved in some seriously-needed social services. I would know, I worked with that population for years.
Maybe people think I'm a social outcast, freakishly introverted, or suffering from some developmental delays when I immediately blurt that my mom is my best friend. But, as I previously mentioned, we've been through some serious shit together. My mom is the only one that has been literally next to me in each step of my life: walking across the stage when receiving my diplomas; going through the tedious processes of selecting my first car, my puppy, my college, my prom dress, etc.; excitement of new relationships and depression of wrecked ones; years of my autoimmune issues and the very odd side effects I've experienced; and, most recently, visiting my new home in Chicago. I was only ten, but I knew that the minute I lost my other parent, that mom would be twice the parent and the only person that will ever love me unconditionally. She just needs to learn to grill some filet mignon and we'll know that she's a robot.
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