Category Archives: love

On Romance Novels

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I swear I’ll get back to work after this….but….
I love historical romance novels. 
When I write one, Evan Stone (below) shall grace the cover. I’m sure he’ll say yes when I ask him….

Romance Novels, Hairless Chests, And 


by 

(published 10/3/2011 on NPR)
Sarah Wendell undoubtedly knows exactly what you’re thinking when you hear the title of her new book,Everything I Know About Love I Learned From Romance Novels.
She’s been working at the web site Smart Bitches, Trashy Books for years now, and she’s heard everything you care to say about what kind of a woman would actually learn everything she knows about love from romance novels. You’re thinking: This is how people develop unrealistic expectations and cannot form healthy relationships, and what’s the deal with the bosoms and bodices and pecs and roses and OH RIGHT, LADY, I GUESS EVERYONE IS SUPPOSED TO BE FABIO.
(It’s always Fabio in comments of this kind. Fabio is to romance novels as eating bugs is to reality shows.)
She knows. She’s over it. I’ve been reading Sarah for a long time — and, in the interests of full disclosure, we chatter back and forth on Twitter now and then about Downton Abbey and what books I should read next — and I can tell you, you have nothing snide to say that she hasn’t already been told. Probably many times. But she remains, as I said she was back in late 2009, one of the best explorers I know of the interesting aspects of things typically deemed lowbrow and unimportant, and this book is a great example.

 

Collecting comments from her readers and from authors, as well as drawing on her own experience as a reader and a blogger, she sets out to explore the relationship between what romance readers get from novels and what they experience in their own lives. She talks about the kinds of men you meet on the page, the kinds of conflicts that arise between couples, and the qualities that separate healthy relationships from unhealthy ones.
What Sarah ultimately identifies is not a one-way transfer in which books teach women (because it is mostly women) about romance. It’s more of a feedback loop. That’s the trick to the book’s title. If it were entirely, totally accurate, it would beEverything I Know About What I Already Think About Love, I Learned From Romance Novels. While her thesis is not that a romance novel indoctrinates readers into believing in certain kinds of relationships — that would be creepy — there’s a strong argument here that the genre helps readers identify and articulate needs and feelings they already have, as they notice what kinds of books and heroes they gravitate toward.
This is one of the interesting points about genre entertainment in general: when there are elements of formula, identifying which versions of that formula appeal to you is surprisingly enlightening. Which iteration of a hero, for instance, do you choose, and what does it mean when you do? Everything from personality to chest hair tends to be specified in great detail; you can pretty much take your pick.
I’ll give you an example. (You knew I would.) I’m a romance reader myself, but I almost never read historical romances, which are probably more numerous than any other kind. I don’t read the ones with the voluminous skirts and Lord Whomever and Lady Anne Blah Blah Blah whose father is the Duke or whatever happens in those books. (I don’t know. I think they mostly drink sherry?)
Instead, I am almost entirely devoted to contemporaries, which are books set in the approximate here and now, in approximately the culture and world I live in. I had never given a whole lot of thought to why that is, until I read this book and realized that for me, freestyle back-and-forth banter is so fundamental to any remotely affecting flirtation that the courtly love stuff — people who cannot speak of their feelings because IT IS TABOO — is too restricting. I am what I am, and nothing charms me like a good zinger. I don’t like status and manners interfering with everybody yammering a mile a minute. (See above: I am what I am.)
Other people are the opposite: they’re charmed by the restriction, and they find the unspoken things to be the most romantic. Corsets, in that way of seeing the world, are sexy precisely because they’re an obstacle. I prefer for the obstacle to be stubbornness and never shutting up. Potato, po-tah-to. But the fact that I feel this way is something I arguably learned and noticed from reading and then reflecting on these books. (None of which contain Fabio, I’ll just have you know.)
There are plenty of variations on the theme. Some people find possessive, aggressive partners (within reason) to be alluring, and some find them terrifying. Some people like a lot of overt reassurances that they’re loved, and other people like things to go unspoken. When you really, really love a book that does, in fact, have a lot in common with other books like it, it’s a kind of spelunking into your own tastes, not only in reading, but in reality. Not because you actually expect anything to go as it does in a book, but because individual elements jump out and make one book up your alley while another isn’t. Why … well, why does your brain see the book and say, “This one”? It’s not necessarily the book you learn from as much as it is the fact that you picked it.
The sex chapter, incidentally, works basically the same way. It’s less about “I read this in a book, so this is how you do this particular thing,” and it’s more about … well, let’s make it about handholding, just to keep things on the up and up. The analogy would be that the book would allow readers an insight like, “When I read about having my right hand held, that’s not sexy, but when I read about having my left hand held, that’s very sexy, so maybe I’ll ask the next guy to hold my left hand instead of my right hand.” There you go; you’ve learned something. Not about handholding, but about you.
Lest you conclude the book is entirely analytical, I will assure you that it contains Sarah’s trademark snappy, funny writing, as well as her tireless defense of the readers she’s met. One example:
Ironically, many people who disdain the romance genre and look down on the women who read it presume that reading about courtship, emotional fulfillment, and rather fantastic orgasms leads to an unrealistic expectation of real life. If we romance readers are filling our own heads with romantic fantasies, real men and real life won’t and cannot possibly measure up to our fairy-tale expectations, right? Wrong. Wrongity wrong wrong wrong. That accusation implies that we don’t know the difference between fantasy and real life, and frankly, it’s sexist as well. You don’t see adult gamers being accused of an inability to discern when one is a human driving a real car and when one is a yellow dinosaur driving a Mario Kart, but romance readers hear about their unrealistic expectations of men almost constantly.
It’s always refreshing when anybody cares about anything enough to put a title on a book that is guaranteed to draw the same angry snorts she’s been hearing for the last … oh, five or ten years. I am inspired to write a book called I Am Made Of Television, Slapstick And Jackie Collins Books. I owe no less.

On Monday

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Spinster, by Sylvia Plath


Now this particular girl
During a ceremonious April walk
With her latest suitor
Found herself, of a sudden, intolerably struck
By the birds’ irregular babel
And the leaves’ litter.
By this tumult afflicted, she
Observed her lover’s gestures unbalance the air,
His gait stray uneven
Through a rank wilderness of fern and flower.
She judged petals in disarray,
The whole season, sloven.
How she longed for winter then!–
Scrupulously austere in its order
Of white and black
Ice and rock, each sentiment within border,
And heart’s frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.
But here–a burgeoning
Unruly enough to pitch her five queenly wits
Into vulgar motley–
A treason not to be borne. Let idiots
Reel giddy in bedlam spring:
She withdrew neatly.
And round her house she set
Such a barricade of barb and check
Against mutinous weather
As no mere insurgent man could hope to break
With curse, fist, threat
Or love, either.












Flights to and from Chicago have been cancelled. 
The future of that adventure is no longer certain.
I finally did what I’ve known I needed to do for a long time. 
And with a heavy heart, it’s been ended.
Of course there are loose ends, the tired scraps that guilt leaves behind. 
Now there will be great stretches of silence. Of misplaced habits. Of euphoria. 
Eventually there will be memories. A city destroyed. 


But on the plus side, I have $200 in plane fares to anywhere Southwest flies. I want to get away. 

This time for Africa

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It’s been a year since the epic adventure that was Cape Town began…

I’ve not got the words at the moment, so here’s the music video for the song that I most closely associate with our time there.

When I got there, that very first night, my German roommate Svenja and my host mom Priscilla (Mama P, affectionately) played this song and we danced to it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pRpeEdMmmQ0

Sublimation. Or the Gray Area I Call Home.

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When you’re younger, the answer is always easy.

Second grade math problems are just like all others: there is only one answer.
You’re either right.
Or you’re wrong.
You learn the opposites. Hot. Cold. High. Low. But you never really learn about the states in between.
Adulthood is a great languishing.
Of course, there are highs and lows and hots and colds. But mostly, there’s a lot of nothingness. It’s the kind of nothingness that stems from the fact that you thought it would be all hots or colds. Or highs or lows. It’s not always a bad nothingness, not at all. It just is. There’s certainly room for debate, for argument, for decision making (steak or chicken? reply today or tomorrow?), for progressive thought. All of these are followed by fits and starts of manic activity (sometimes solely contained within the still hopeful mind).
The melancholic side of the nothingness brings about the inevitable introspection, which leads to planning, which leads….back. And sometimes, a little change is enacted and you’ve suddenly reverted from melancholic nothingness to that blissful nothingness, where everything is calm and smooth and beautiful.
For a time.
Alas, we’ve arrived back in the gray area.
There are no answers.
There exists no right, no wrong. We’re all waging war against opinions.
After pining and creating this odd little relationship (that isn’t one, he’ll be quick to add), everything has fallen into place.
Or out of place, perfectly.
Whichever is a more apt statement.
He came this weekend.
He met Mom and Dad and Mike and G and AJ.
I met his friends.
He stayed at my house five nights (all except for Friday) – which was something I definitely did not expect and something that wildly pleased me.
He told me he wasn’t going to be with any other girls.
I smiled.
We began to think ahead (a bit), based on the thought that he may end up back in Denver as soon as January. Would I be his girlfriend then?
The cracks appeared, began to show and spread.
With my detective hat on, I began putting clues together.
It’s a minor incident, but it may very well be the deal breaker that ends it all.
It’s seriously little better than an episode of the children’s show Blue’s Clues.
Clue #1 was a chance glance, a peek. Too bad I’m an incredibly quick reader.
Intrigued but not irate, I put it aside.
Clues #2 and #3 were more tangible. A story of a meeting, an incorrect name. There it was again, my brain flagged it. And three pushed me over the edge.
What’s wrong? he asked me as I sat slumped, nauseous from the ill-advised blood donation without any food. I guess he gets points for discerning anger through nausea.
We talked. He told me she was a girl he knew in college.
I’m no moron.
Our night continued with his promise of some modern form of long-distance fidelity.
After he left, I spoke to one of my co-workers, a woman I have mad respect for, who told me, “Honey, let me tell you something. They never grow up. Trust me.” Great.
I spoke to one of my dear friends in Chicago. “You need someone who impresses you. Who gets you. Who respects every single inch of you.” I asked her why it is that I have such terrible taste in men. She laughed. “Daddy issues. You can totally blame it all on him. I certainly do.” We commiserated over the fact that there are so few intelligent, mature, responsible, fun, adventurous, adorable, assertive-yet-not-an-asshole men.
I called him on it last night. I told him that it wasn’t the other woman (but it is, and we all know that) but it was the lie (that’s a serious violation for me. I don’t lie, cheat, or steal, and I expect the people I associate with to do the same). The words “trust” “respect” and “honesty” dominated my appeal. I remained calm, collected and clear (odd, right?). I laid out the situation. I laid out why I was angry. I listened to his responses, called him on his bullshit, and told him I didn’t know how I wanted him to fix it. I told him I was too angry with him to cry. I pushed him. I’m glad I did.

Frustrated and tired, I told him I had to sleep. Of course I didn’t. I stared at the dim screen of my laptop while it played reruns of 30 Rock.
Today, I woke up numb and even more exhausted, if that’s at all possible.
Dragging through the morning, doing my very first support bit – eek! I’m going to have to start handling technical issues with our product, and as exciting as it is, it’s really scary, too! – and then it came. The buzzing of my phone. I didn’t look. Three more buzzes lead me to believe something catastrophic may have happened or that I’d just received a novella.
It was in fact that latter.
A novella of contrition. Of admission. Of (his) understanding (of the situation). A little bit of my anger melted away when he admitted that he’s been taking me for granted, and that last night made him realize how much he stands to lose if I bail. (duh, I’m Katie Barry)
I’m still hurt, still annoyed, still frustrated. But it’s salvageable, I think. We spoke again at lunch today, a soft, quiet conversation. But positive. Communication is not a bad thing. But my bullshit meter is on high alert (threat level orange).
And while I am well aware that this may be one of my more fantastic mistakes, I also think it’s a fantastic adventure. Sorry, Mom, I know you’ve tried tactfully to hide your disapproval, but it’s going to be awhile before this is over.
Welcome to life in the Gray Area (I’m imagining that it must be something like the Twilight Zone, although I’m not entirely certain).

The Weekend Wrap Up: Nightmares and Expectations

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The twins that I babysit for always use “sleeps” as a way to countdown to things, like the next time you’ll see someone.

Two sleeps until S comes! I’ve been out of sorts (and in my head) about this whole ordeal for the past few days, and it will be nice to reset all of that.
Ready for last night’s real live nightmare?
I was at G and G’s house – but it was all dark, just like you’d imagine a dungeon. And M, Dad, and I were all sitting stiffly at the table. I had my hands clenched in my lap.
We were talking to G and G and there were Christmas decorations everywhere.
Then, she told us the reason she’d invited us. She spread her arm out, bent at the elbow, sweeping toward the living room.
Our heads turned in unison.
There, in the living room, were the scattered remains of their Christmas celebration. Papers, boxes, plates of food, all glinting under the eerily twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. She’d invited us over to clean it up.
I woke up breathing heavily, convincing myself it wasn’t real.
It’s not real.
It’s oddly telling, though.
I wish my brain could stop chewing on it, though, and just swallow it so I don’t have to taste my own bitterness every day.
*breathes deeply, thinks inner peace*
On a positive note, I went to IKEA this weekend! Emily and I woke up early on Sunday and headed out there before they opened (good call – no lines, parking, etc.). We went into the cafe to have $1.99 breakfast and .50c coffee, then somehow ended up going through IKEA backwards. But it was lovely. I got a new duvet – white with gray flowers on it – and new gray sheets. I also picked up wineglasses so I won’t have to serve guests in my everyday drinking glasses anymore.
It was fun and busy.
I really enjoy all of their odds and ends and kitchen things more than I enjoy anything else.
$5 for 6 wineglasses will get me every time.
I was at Mom’s house yesterday doing my 1800 loads of laundry for the week, and we were chatting. It’s nice to have someone so wizened to bounce ideas off of. I came away from our conversation reminding myself that I’m 23. I think I forget that sometimes. It’s not so much that I’d like to be older, it’s that I measure myself against people who have five or ten years on me and wonder why I don’t match up. So for today, I am trying to embrace 23, however one embraces something intangible like that.
I also came away from our conversation very curious about what other G has to say about S.
But let’s save that for after his visit – I can only imagine how this going to go. He’s meeting Dad and J on Wednesday, and I haven’t told him that yet. And then he’s meeting Mom on Thursday. Ah, well, surprise surprise!

God, give me the strength…

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And so it begins anew.

This is a continuation of previous post, which can be found here. (I got a bit heavy-handed with my use of [Redacted] in that post, and for that I apologize, but also smile a little – I think it’s odd that I attempted to apply such civility to that post. It adds a small element of youth, of naivete, of hope, I guess.)
Again, I share the sentiments that I am entirely confused.
I guess the refrain is this: I cannot understand what I’ve done wrong.
The email came from G on Thursday, and can basically be summed up as saying, “Let’s meet in Washington Park on Sunday night to celebrate the 57th wedding anniversary.”
I was keen.
Friday night, I get a text from Aunt X saying that they’re in town. How about Saturday? I respond that I’m unable to do Saturday as I’ll be babysitting (Barney live, anyone?).

The response comes via email. Here’s my favorite line: (Katie & Mike can’t make it…understandable at it is a Saturday night and they are in their 20’s!)


I am in my 20s. But the implication lying beneath that sentence would have you believe that I was out partying, rather than helping a family with three children attend their first Barney concert. For the record, they loved it. It was a really magical experience for them, and the day went smoothly. I stayed there from 2pm until 8pm. After, I went to Aunt S’s birthday at other G’s house. I arrived in time for lemonade and cake. And then I went home and went to sleep, as I had to babysit another family the next morning.


No partying at all this weekend. Babysitting. (Just so we’re all clear about my priorities.)
I texted Aunt X and asked for a drink/coffee date so that we could have a heart-to-heart. She responded that she’d get back to me, then asked if I could let her know if Dad was going to be coming that night. (It was Saturday) I responded that I hadn’t talked to him.
At this point, I was livid. Fury. I am a passionate person, but I’m slow to anger. Once I’m there, though, is a different story. But don’t think that just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I can’t be rational – I consider myself very logical, rational, even cold, at times.

I will not relinquish a point simply because I feel pressured to do so. I don’t lie. And I’m not fake, so pretending nothing’s wrong isn’t my style, either.
And so Dad, Jeanie, Mike and I had a lovely evening in City Park last night, listening to jazz and playing frisbee. It was non-argumentative. It was light. I gushed about S and blathered on about my exciting news and future plans.
This morning, I woke up happy. Calm. Family is what you make of it, good or bad. And creating your own family is something that’s the most fun to do.
I got a text from Aunt X saying that we were meeting for a picnic at the pool at 6pm tonight. I groaned inwardly. I don’t get off of work until 6 at the earliest. I’m not trying to use that a crutch, I’ve got time quotas to meet.
So I wait, text my brother, see if he’s going. He is. I text back that Mike is in and that I’ll be there as soon as I’m off of work, what can I bring?
I am not by my phone when I get the call.
I listen to the voice mail. My stomach lurches, the hurt crawls back up into my heart. My ears ring. I turn up my music. I gulp for air.
I call her back. We exchange muted pleasantries, and then I say, “First of all, I want you to know that I’m not looking for a food hand-out. I offered to bring something, and I’d be more than happy to bring whatever you’d like. Just let me know what I can bring.”
And suddenly, she’s off on me. Talking about the medical conditions of her hostess, my G, and this and that and how she’ll take care of dinner and she’ll haul it over to the pool by herself. I cut in, “I am well aware (of the medical conditions),” I say. She tells me not to bring anything. Just to show up. The line cuts off.
My hands are shaking.
I’m more confused than ever.
I consider myself a strong woman, not one to back down from something that’s seriously upsetting me. But I’m finding myself unable to find a logical opening on the other side. It’s as though every step I try to take is a misstep.
I guess I’m not sure if this means that it’s time to stop trying so hard to be a part of a family that seems to be making it very clear that I’m not welcome.
My Aunt X once told me not to go to grad school, and then made some joke about “not everyone can be a housewife.” Well, being a housewife isn’t everyone’s dream. I mean, it must be nice. (Don’t for a second think I’m negating the stresses and workload of the domestic spouse – it’s a very necessary and overwhelming experience. The raising of children is a complicated matter.)
But for someone to question why I babysit and who I babysit for – that’s crossing lines I’m not prepared for. I don’t want a running commentary going on about the rich people I babysit for. That’s hardly the case. Sometimes two parents work – it must seem strange to someone so removed from that – but in that case, childcare becomes a very necessary, and expensive, expense.
And that’s where I come in.
I babysit for two reasons: I love it and I need the cash.

I love children. I am not making enough at my day job to sustain myself, and in order to not have terrified tears streaming down my face at the end of every month, I work extra hours to make ends meet. It’s not a new thing, the idea of two jobs has existed forever.
I’m great with children – all of my families love me, have loved me, and continue to love me. I’m engaged, polite, I uphold their disciplinary standards and their values. I’ve sat for Christians, Jews, atheists…and my manner has not wavered. Respect, I believe they call it. I’m not sure if they are teaching that in churches these days or not. (And yes, that comment was derogatory and disrespectful. I’m not turning my other damn cheek – I am no doormat. I wasn’t raised to not stand up for what I believe in and I’m sure as hell not going to back down now, especially because I am the one who has been attacked.)
I find it interesting that the financial element keeps rearing its ugly head. I’ve been told no less than three times this weekend that I’ve got a financial obligation toward my Gs. I wish I could explain that I’ve offered to bring over dinner, that I do offer consistently. I provide my G with a magazine subscription, something that I know he really appreciates. That’s a lot of money for me, and it’s something I do out of love. If I had more money, I’d be more than happy to buy groceries, to treat them to things, but the fact is, I don’t. I could start mailing some small amount every month, if they’d like. It wouldn’t be much, but maybe it would help.
But again, I’d like to reassert that I’m not asking for anything monetary or good-related. I don’t need crackers and chips or snacks or food or cash in an envelope. If that’s who they think I am, then they need to step back and reassess.
From more than one of the U or A’s, I’ve heard that someone or someone else doesn’t want to cook, or entertain, or this and that. I’m not asking to be fed (again, I don’t need a food hand-out). I’m just asking for some face time. I’m not asking for a five-course meal, or for treats, or for anything. I’m not asking for money for holidays, or my birthday.
I just want to see my family.
I want to feel like I matter to them as much as they matter to me.
But it’s clear that it doesn’t work that way.
Being rejected by people who should know you, people who you love, is really hard. And it’s tearing at me. At the very least, I’d like some closure on the subject. I’d like to be able to understand fully what I’ve done that is so reprehensible that they can’t be civil toward me. That’s all I’m asking for.
It’s one thirty now. I have four and a half hours until I leave work. Four and a half hours to decide if I should show up or not.
I’m a proud woman. I am proud of who I am, proud of what I do, proud of what I stand for. I live my life in the best way possible. I try to make sure that my actions have few ripples, and other than a few minor skirmishes with friends (no more than anyone else I know), I maintain a very balanced life. It’s full of love and loyalty, and people who genuinely care about me. I genuinely care about them as well.
I call a friend for advice:
“What are you maintaining, other than this idea of a family?…your mom’s side loves you. It’s not like vindictive and gross and vile as your dad’s side is being to you…It sounds like they can’t even pretend to be decent. Why do you keep trying to make amends? It just doesn’t sound right. If you do have this obligation toward your grandparents, then they’d better start treating you right.”
That friend is right.
I try to explain that I guess I want to stay in it for my Gs and cousins, but at the same time, I wonder if their minds have been poisoned against me as well.
This is where I’m sure that the root cause of all of this must be bigger than me. I honestly can’t believe that I could have done something so egregious as to be excommunicated from my own family.
I really hate to stir up trouble in an otherwise happy family.
So perhaps it’s time for me to back down and back away.
Family. What does that word mean to you?

Odds and Ends. Weekend Edition!

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Oh Friday, the promise of a weekend that will fly by too quickly, that sense of release building in your body, the way your mind floats around, outside, like a lost bird.

I imagine that prisoners must start anticipating their release date months in advance, and I can only imagine the immensity of the first footfalls outside the gates.
That is overly dramatic, but that is how I feel on Fridays.
I’d like to have a quick chat with you, dear reader, about sacrifices.
Because right now, I am considering myself god-like. (And by god-like, I mean Jesus-like – it’s all part of the holy trinity, so I’m technically correct. Full of hubris, of course, but correct.)
I am missing the ONE concert I’d like to see at Red Rocks this year to go to Barney’s Birthday Bash live at the Pepsi Center with three small children. I love them dearly, but I’m so creeped out by things in costumes. Like mascots. And giant purple dinosaurs and their primary colored friends.
So creeped out.
Don’t know I’m going to explain why I’m covering my eyes with my hands and peering through my fingers.
Ah, Slightly Stoopid and Shwayze – I’ve been dying to see you. I guess that want will have to slowly simmer inside me until next year.
I already have the “I love you, you love me, we’re a happy family,” song stuck in my head.
In future news:
I’m excited. S will be here in a week and a half (ish)! And he’s meeting Mom. I think he’s more scared to meet Mike. I told him that I’ll do way more damage to him than Mike ever will. And I’m not wrong.
I’ve not been this twitterpated since, well, the college boyfriend. I mean, that ended poorly, but it was fun while it lasted, which was a good long while. Someone was asking me about my past relationships, and it was weird to think that I spent most of college in monogamous relationships – there was D and H, both of whom lasted between a year and a year in half. For someone with my attention span, that’s remarkable.
But this kid is driving me nuts. Usually in a good way. Ugh. I secretly don’t like this vulnerability, although it’s kind of nice. There I go, reinforcing gender stereotypes. Don’t worry too much, I’m not going to go all soft on you.
Not yet.
I hope you’re eagerly anticipating the Barney recap. I know I am.

Relationships

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This article in the New York Times is well worth your time.

Dan Savage is an advice columnist whose columns deal primarily with sub-cultural relationship problems. I don’t always agree with him, but his advice is generally pretty solid and backed up by a wide knowledge base.
This particular article questions the point of a relationship: stability rather than monogamy, perhaps? Everyone does it differently, but I think it’s important to realize that people have different needs. 
I’ve been spending a lot of time lately thinking about what makes a relationship and what kind of relationship I’d want. (I can see you rolling your eyes right now. It’s fine. I rolled mine when I started writing this and rolled them again upon re-reading.)
I’ve been more or less single since my last serious relationship came to its natural conclusion in January 2010. So a year and a half. I’ve had plenty of dates, and semi-boyfriends, in the months since, but no one has ever materialized as potential-long-term-partner material. 
I’d desperately wanted freedom. I found that, and have loved it immensely. I love being able to fall asleep knowing that I don’t have to move my computer, or the stack of books I share a bed with. 
And yet lately, I’ve been starting to really question the idea of “partner.” Through that questioning, I’ve begun to crave it. But perhaps with age comes selectivity, because people aren’t managing to hold my attention as they should, or as I’d like them to.
The biggest test for me is errands. I find it romantic. I want someone who I will enjoy going to Costco with, someone who makes buying a blender exciting, or at the very least, less mundane. 
Of course, there are the few that manage to keep reappearing in my life. From a December party, at a friend of my then-boyfriend’s apartment until now, we’ve maintained this strange and delicate relationship. It began with harsh words, thrown out off-handedly, then my answering, equally harsh lecture, then Mexican food, then this or that and a few other things. Flash forward to this January, actual consumption of Mexican food and then the strange events of that evening and Englewood. Then to April. I flew off to Chicago with few expectations, no presumptions, and came away tear-stained and puffy, joyous and fulfilled, hauling a backpack full of clean clothes. It was wonderful and terrifying because the glimpse of what I could have had screamed of normalcy. Here I am, off again, to walk on the edge of expectations and to figure out if my future lies therein. Is that the normalcy I’ve been seeking?
But what am I getting myself into? What is this? What will it be? We can’t answer these questions because we’re not sure if that’s even where we want to go. “We”? Is there a we? Could there be one someday? What if it fails? The phone conversations are growing in length, in depth. What do I want? What does he want? I fall asleep with tired smiles on my face. I feel like he shares that (unless he doesn’t, so that’d be awkward). It’s weird to be on the same page, to have somehow gotten lost and landed there, separately. 
Jesus, this is ridiculous. 
But I like it. 
So I guess it’s going to be alright. Or at least an adventure.

Ten days.

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Ferocity.

Something I’m learning from Carlos.

Act preemptively and base everything on your gut.

Your past guides you more than you think but shouldn’t affect anyone’s future perceptions of you.

I’m hurt; I’m annoyed; I’m angry.

No one should make me feel like I’m less than a human being, whether it’s intentional or not.

I am Katie Barry and I do what I want.

Wikileaks: Or, How My Nuclear/Extended Family Fell Apart

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It’s been awhile since you’ve been party to an angry rant directed at someone you’re familiar with, so get ready:

Preface: I understand that the airing of “dirty laundry” in the internet is frowned upon. I thought about that for a long time before I did this. It’s all based on the lack of transparency. I don’t want anyone to question where I’m coming from or think that I’m neglecting my duties.

I don’t have a solution to the problem below. I’m just thinking thoughts. I do my thinking when I’m typing. I like to record bouts of emotional turmoil for reflection and later, growth.

I love everyone in this post. I’ve taken out names. I want the same things they want. A husband, a family, a full life.

I have a very full life. I am very loved. Don’t question that for a minute.

So what if I like “alternative” culture? We can’t all live in polo shirts in plaid (it makes my thighs look fat). Black is much more slimming. And the vampire look is all the rage these days. (Ew)

Of course, this is very personal. But it involves me, too. And yes, it’s incredibly self-centered. It’s how I feel. This is my space. I can write about whatever I want, and that’s what I’ve chosen to do.

I’m pissed, so this might lack the eloquence I’d usually try to use to cloak the emotions I’m feeling.

I don’t sleep well; I have dreams about this situation all the time; I’m generally annoyed.

For once, I’m at a loss for words. I’ve let an email reply sit out there on the interwebs for more than two months because I literally cannot think of a suitable reply to that reply. I’m stumped by the inability to respond without losing my dignity by accepting a weak excuse, or without burning a bridge, or grovelling. And if there’s one thing I don’t do, it’s grovel.

It’s been a long time coming.

It started long ago. It’s part of who Dad is. Weird.

I get that, and I understand that sometimes it’s hard to be around him. But my argument against that is thus: You’re his family. You can stand to be around him for four hours at a time, like four times a year. It’s much harder to be his daughter than to be his brother, or his sister, or his mother.

Your counter-argument: But, our children!

I counter like this: He’s not a sexual predator. He’s not on drugs. He’s not a drunk. Yes, he’s a completely degenerate bum, but he’s not (at heart) a bad man. Your kids will have to learn how to interact with people who aren’t as affluent or as socially graceful as you someday, they might as well start now.

I’ve been talking to Mom about this for awhile now, trying to puzzle out why we’re so often excluded from Barry family events.

And then Christmas happened.

The text message came in just before 7pm Christmas Eve. “We now have other plans tomorrow. Hope to see you soon.”

Burn. Well played, Uncle [redacted]. The smoothest dis-invite I’ve ever had, without any admission of the actual invite ever existing. (Actually, the only one. I don’t think I’ve ever been dis-invited from anything.)

Here’s the email I sent:

Hello,
I hope you’re all having a good start to the year.
Now that all the holiday rush has died down, I just wanted to drop you
a note to let you know how incredibly disappointed I was in the way
that Christmas was handled this year, and in the way that many
family/holiday events are often handled.
In the future, if you choose to renege on invitations at 6 o’clock the
night before a major holiday, please just don’t bother inviting me at
all.
I can’t speak for [redacted], so I won’t, but I am incredibly hurt. It’s not
that I minded crying a little bit, but even worse was having to listen
to [redacted] cry on the other end of the phone the day after Christmas.
While I hope that I am correct in assuming that you didn’t want to
have any contact with [redacted], I also hope you understand that [redacted] and I
are both independent adults who are capable of social interaction
without him. We haven’t lived with him on any consistent basis since
we were 16 and have displayed none of his odd social proclivities.
If that’s not the case, and there’s something wrong with the two of us
or with me personally, I’d prefer to address it now rather than be
continually excluded from Barry family events.
Sincerely,
Katie

However, it turns out that I was incorrect. I spent hour agonizing over the text of that email. I consulted. I edited. I won’t post the entire response, because I consider myself to be not that much of an asshole, but here are specific excerpts that relate to my post today. And I don’t consider them privileged.

My text the night before was to make sure nothing was
“assumed” even though we hadn’t discussed anything firm and to get [redacted]’s
number. The only way this was triggered was that [redacted] had begun to leave
several messages indicating he wanted to come over.
Another point that disappoints us is that you make no mention of the
numerous holiday events over the years in which you were included.
Often times those events were adjusted to fit your schedule with your
Mom’s side of the family. We were happy to do this, but to be told that
we’ve “continuously excluded” you confuses us.
You mention [redacted] in your note. Right or wrong, holidays and family
events have certainly been impacted due to [redacted]’s behavior. For all of
his great qualities, it’s no secret that his behavior can often times
add stress, drama, etc. I really hate pointing this out since he is
your Dad, but I want to be fair to you and as an “adult.” I don’t think
you’d find this surprising. Unfortunately, his impact has played a role
in not spending more time with you and [redacted] over the years. For so long
it was always a “package deal.” I’m truly sorry that you’ve been
“caught in the middle” in so many instances. Thanks for pointing out
(right or wrong) that it’s no longer the case.


I cried when I read this email.
But then I got mad. That’s why I haven’t been able to respond. I have nothing to say. I do, but I can’t say it. I don’t know. And now it’s just too late to say anything.

RENEGE! (I’m not going to respond to that bit. I’m biting my tongue.)
I don’t talk to Dad. I see him maybe once every couple of months. I’m not a pipeline of Barry family information that goes directly to him. I’m not inviting him to events. 
I was a child when they rearranged all of their schedules. I’m not the one who made up that horrible divorce custody schedule; I’m just the one who got dragged along for the ride.
You do realize I hate Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July, etc? The only consolation is that divorce brought double the Thanksgiving dinners and two distinct styles of cranberries. I’m pro-divorce as far as Thanksgiving goes, and very thankful for them.
And I’m also thankful for all the rough rearranging that was done, but I apologize for it. If I had known it was such a problem, I guess I could have….wait a minute, done nothing. I was twelve. I don’t want to hear about it.
Now, of course, complain. If we were demanding change now, you shouldn’t have to acquiese. Don’t rearrange anything for us. We’re autonomous adults (“adults” is a term of debate for another day, but we’re self-sufficient, theoretically productive members of society, which in today’s world, qualifies us as adult). We are capable of handling ourselves in public, in private, wherever. We are capable of managing a schedule. I recently synced my Outlook calendar with my phone calendar and began actually logging dates in there. I’m legit. (Small step for me, large eye-roll for the rest of you.)
I don’t manage Dad! It’s not my fault he calls you!
I would also like to address the part where (you don’t get to read that part) Uncle [redacted] says that he’d like me to list family events that I’ve been excluded from.
Let’s start now.
The day after Christmas I’m housesitting. I get a call from [redacted]. She’s nonchalant. We talk. She asks me how yesterday went, we’re both tip-toeing around what we know is about to come up. She tells me that it was nice, they opened presents, they did this and that and the kids played with this and that. Pretty soon, we’re both crying. I have to hang up because this is bullshit.

[Redacted] and I are both pretty chill people. We don’t expect big dinners. I’ll host! I’ll cook (badly). [Redacted] will cook (better). We’ll put on the dinner, we’ll have a cold cut and cheese platter. I don’t want to see you for your food, I want to see you for you. I love pajamas. I own a bunch, for all occasions, even Christmas.

I cry. That’s when I know everything is really broken.
It’s a Tuesday. I have dinner plans with Mom. I get a call from Aunt [redacted] saying that they’re in town and want to have dinner. I call Mom and cancel.
At dinner, [redacted: cousin] asks me if I’m going to California. I ask, why? She tells me they’re all going to see [redacted: other cousin] graduate from high school. Oh, I say, I’m sorry, I have to work. Inside, I’m thinking, huh, definitely wasn’t invited to that.
Throughout the meal, Aunt [redacted] is constantly saying how nice it is that we’re so flexible, and blathering on about how it’s so nice that we can just be spontaneous. It’s all for Dad’s benefit, because he’s complaining and pressing them for details.
I get that.
Then I find out that they’ve been in town since Friday. Then I find out that we both went to the parade downtown on Saturday. I would have liked to have seen them. I was sober.
I bring that up because I believe that my father’s side of the family has not received the most accurate information about me since I stopped living with my father. He’s got a set of assumptions about my behavior that are entirely incorrect.
Yes, I drink. Yes, I go out.
Yes, I’m 22, and I have a full-time job and I babysit on the side. I have responsibilities and I’m not neglecting any of them. I have a cat-son and a dilapidated car that I love. I get regular oil changes. I vote. I can pretend to be Catholic when necessary. I’m spiritual. I believe in a g-d. I’ve never been arrested. I’m going to stop. This is getting weird.
(I don’t know, what makes a person a good role model?)
Those are two recent examples, but I can dig further if necessary. I’d prefer not to, though.
I would like to have a good relationship with my younger cousins, but it’s very difficult. I was really excited about this summer, when I had the opportunity to drive through the state where some of them live (most awkward attempt to talk around that ever) and stay with them. I had hoped that I was able to leave a positive impression and set a good example for my cousins. I talked with my Aunt and Uncle and was grateful for their hospitality and their generosity.
The base of the problem here is that I wouldn’t be so upset if I didn’t genuinely care. These people are my family, and just because I’m now mostly estranged from my father (for my own personal sanity), I don’t understand why I’ve been shut out as well.
When I was a teenager, and just starting to have problems with my dad, I spent nearly every weekend at [redacted]’s house. She really saved me, and those are some really nice memories. We would go get our toes done, or we’d cook dinner, or we’d run errands together. I cherish those times and am eternally grateful to have had somewhere else to go when things weren’t great. She never said anything about it, but I respect her for understanding that I needed somewhere to go.
When we didn’t have any furniture or good sheets, she took me out and we bought flannel sheets, a comforter, and a rug for Christmas one year. I still have all of that (except the comforter). I still remember how excited I was to decorate my rom.

That same year, in what I now know was an attempt to pull my struggling self-esteem up, she and Aunt [redacted] took me to buy makeup. Oh my g-d, I still have dreams about that stuff. I was so genuinely happy. And I am still genuinely grateful. I love my Mom but she’s not great at super girly stuff that like, and I really looked up to Aunt [redacted] because to me, she was epitome of what a woman should be. She was funny, smart, happy. I wanted all of that, too.
But now I realize that I’m not exactly like them. I have literally been racking my brain for months (years, really) to try and figure out what it is about me that doesn’t jive.
I honestly don’t know.
I think it’s that sometimes I forget to send out thank you notes. I really do write them. Every time I move, I find a bunch of thank you notes that have been addressed, sealed, the whole works, just not sent. I’m sorry about that.
Or maybe it’s that I don’t send enough gifts. I want to blame Dad on this one, but here I am trying to assert my independence, so obviously that’s not going to work. I’ll try harder.
Or maybe it’s that I’m not Catholic. But I went to Catholic grade schools, a Catholic high school, a Catholic university. I graduated. I did what they wanted. I’m not a heathen, I’m just not a Christian. But I don’t tell their kids that. I answer their questions honestly but sometimes I do lie just to protect their upbringings. I know Catholicism in and out. I’m good.
Once, when I was like fifteen, Uncle [redacted] and Aunt [redacted] found a lighter at their house. At that time, I had just become a black-cotton-clad child and was expressing my inner rage, so naturally, they thought it was mine. I denied it, because it wasn’t. I later found out it belonged to [redacted] but he was too scared to say anything. Maybe that was where it all started to go wrong. I’m sorry. I didn’t lie.
I don’t lie. I don’t cheat. I don’t steal.
(That’s my life philosophy. It’s not that hard to do, really. I feel like aiming for those goals is good. From there, you can expand yourself into the best person you can be.)
Anyway, those are my theories. I’m sorry my father is a nut. It’s not all his fault. It’s the [redacted] syndrome. It affects him socially. Granted, even after the mitigating circumstances, he’s still a lot to handle, but a lot of that is also generated when the people who are supposed to love him unconditionally get irritated. (I’m guilty of being the ultimate hypocrite here, I realize that. But seriously, if there’s a group, four hours doesn’t seem so bad, does it? I manage dinners, coffees, whatever. It’s not going to kill you.)
I’m not invited to Easter, go figure.
Let’s just all be estranged and call it good.
I will at least say that my mom’s side of the family is always willing to rearrange things for us as necessary. And sometimes they even go out of their way to see us. It’s nice. I know that if I call Aunt [redacted] for something, a favor, or a plan, or an activity, she’ll respond. In a timely manner. Who’d have thought?
I guess it comes down to this: you can’t choose your family (even when you’re adopted), but you can choose to interact for the better or the worst. Some people love me for who I am, even if I’m not following their idea of the perfect life path. Some don’t, I guess. It hurts. I’m not good at conflict; I’m not good at trying to figure out why I don’t belong. But I guess this is a chance for me to get better at it.
Ugh, Easter. People wonder why I get so agitated around the holiday season. Wouldn’t you?