On Friendship

Friendship is a strange and beautiful thing.
It comes and goes in waves of necessity; there's no stopping it. You are, for that singular moment - or perhaps many moments - engulfed by the overwhelming nature of it all. And then it slowly recedes, softly, slowly at first, before there's nothing but a whisper, a soft lapping at your toes. But when you least expect (or by now you should see the patterns), it comes over you again. Quickly. Sweeping over your head without warning, leaving you breathless.
And it goes on like this.
A calculated tide.
A beating heart.
A deep breath, a long sigh.
That's what love is.
True friendship is love.

Last week, after an accidental evening at the PS Lounge, Jacob and I walked through the park. I was overflowing with respect, with gratitude, with contentment, with love. Some of my favorite times are my walks with him. We find ourselves in City Park after dark, wandering, staying close to the edge. I never expected to know him. I certainly never expected to be able to call him one of my closest friends. But he is and has been. It was instantaneous. It's as though he's been a part of my life forever. And I would like to have him in my life forever. I value his honesty, his opinions, his thoughtfulness, his vision.

Katie is the same way. I met her my first day of high school. I remember thinking, "One of the cool kids just said hi to me!" I had no idea that I had just met my other. We've been through ups and downs (more ups than downs, obviously), but there is no one that I would rather have near me than her. Last Friday, she came over and it was like all the stress was melting away from me. It's unconditional. It's not difficult. I can tell her anything; confide my deepest secrets, hopes, and dreams. She will still love me. And I will still love her. I still get those butterflies sometimes, the kind you feel when you've got a new crush (do people still get those feelings?). I will never marry someone who doesn't make me feel the same way. She's funny and beautiful and so incredibly smart. I love her.

Heidi and I had dinner last night. After sushi and sake and some sort of delicious pineapple dessert creation, I felt sated. Her presence alone was enough to lift me out of the funk. It's funny to me how intertwined life can become. I was sixteen and working at Dairy Queen. We were sent out to work another store when they went out for the day and I was carpooling with this gorgeous blond college girl (talk about intimidation!). Then it happened: we were in the car and a man cut us off. All of the windows were down, and without even thinking, both of us reacted the same way. We screamed a choice expletive at him and flipped him the double bird. Looking at each other, shocked, we both started laughing. And we've been friends ever since. She told me last night that she will love me, flaws and all, forever. God, doesn't that just feel great?

I was talking to Kevin last night about a situation that has recently developed. Someone who I've been friends with for a long time said something that really offended me. And suddenly, I was done. My tolerance is quite high for these things. You can push me pretty far before I break, but once I'm broken, may someone have mercy on your soul because my anger can be quite a terrifying thing. I stopped trying to mend our friendship and started analyzing it. I realized that it was not a friendship built on mutual trust and love, and was instead built on passive aggressive behavior and my various attempts to deal with that behavior, but my underlying inability to tell her the truth about her behavior and assumptions. As I've concluded, I've realized that I'm not angry. I'm not mad. I'm just frustrated. And all I need for that friendship to begin again is an apology and an admission.

I told him that no matter what happens to a friendship, I need closure. I would much prefer to have a friendship die of natural causes than a friendship that ends in anger. Tension stresses me out. It happens, of course. It's a part of life. But I would like to minimize it as much as possible. I very much dislike having people hate me/dislike me after really knowing me. I find that a lot of it stems from misinformation and untruths. That's really how conflict begins and grows, anyway. I could care less about people who don't know me. If you don't really know me, you can't really love me.

I'm very excited: my roommate in college and I did not end on the best of terms. But time has passed. We've re-friended each other on facebook (monumental, of course) and are planning to meet for a drink when I'm in Chicago. I'm thrilled. I can't wait to pick up and continue. It may never be the friendship that it once was, but it can still be what it needs to be. It can still be good.

On Future Plans

What do I do when things get weird? Well, there are a few responses, but most of them include a serious increase in wild adventures and questionable decisions.

I always think of Mike whenever these things happen. He'd tell me one of two things (they both come from our favorite movies):
      -When life gives you lemons, say "Fuck the Lemons!" and bail.
      -or... Rule #72: No excuses, play like a champion.

I have a feeling this is one of those Rule #72 moments.

So, in keeping with those traditions of panic and drastic life-altering adventures, I made plane reservations. Be glad that I can't afford tickets to Kenya; my roommate from South Africa, Margaret, is turning 50 this year and spending it doing work with women there. She invited me along! Perhaps I'll start pinching pennies and try to make the trip out there before she leaves her year-long post.

I'm going to Chicago in February to spend a weekend with my old friends. Swisher will have just had ACL surgery, so he'll be needing some care. (Not that I'm going to be proficient in providing any sort of care. I'm more of an errand-runner.) I haven't seen Anne's face since I was out there in July. And I would love to be able to snuggle with Maddie and Patrick. (Patrick remains my all-time-number-one-wingman for the incident of the Irish and the whiskey. I will love him until I die.)

The best one, though?
March. New York City. The Katies.
Katie has an interview out there and wanted someone to go along. So I am lucky enough to be her traveling companion. I am beyond thrilled. I am so grateful for this opportunity. I can't even begin to tell you how bright this spot is in my otherwise complicated life-situation. We are going to spend four days being wonderful and wild all over New York. I dug around in my purse for my thank-you notes to send to her father, who graciously picked up my plane tickets, but found them to be covered in blush and the envelopes unusable. So I still sent him one - minus the blush - (in my excitement, I just want to say "Thank-You!" right away!) but included a note apologizing for the janky nature of the packaging (regular envelopes, not the cute ones). He'll understand.

There are still adventures to be had. Life isn't over yet. It never is. One thing that I do love about my workplace is the support. We're mostly women, and since I'm the baby, I get the coddling that I sometimes really need. Today, I needed it. My lady boss, who I respect like nobody else, told me that I was going to be fine and that life is just one set of ups and downs after another. I realize that you can hear that said twenty times, but for some reason, I'm always ready to listen to her advice. So I'm letting it stick. This is just a down. There will be other ups.

On my Hair. A photo essay, sort of.

My hair has been a constant source of dismay for me.

I believe it started somewhere around birth. I was quite bald. Even as a toddler, people would say, "My, what a cute boy you have!" (Sort of like the Red Riding Hood - Big Bad Wolf exchange: "My, what big teeth you have." "All the better to eat you with, my dear." Except not exactly like that.) And finally, after a few years of this gender confusion, I grew hair, cementing my place as a female member of society. 

Did my parents ever worry about alopecia? Maybe not, as I'm sure they don't subscribe to my worst-case-scenario-projecting-is-the-only-way-to-look-at-life philosophy. (For the record, I don't worry about alopecia. Not yet, at least. And by the time I start to worry, there will be science-miracle cures that I can buy on TV for easy payments of $19.99. Done! Alopecia problem solved! Thanks future hair plugs/miracle creams/sweet interchangeable wigs.) 

(trade this dress for a tux, and you've got an adorable future George Clooney)

After hair comes bangs. 

My mom knew I was going to cut my hair soon. I'd been cutting grass, the dog's hair, paper. So one day, I came flouncing down the stairs with crooked bangs. They were completely diagonal. I'd cut them with safety scissors and then left the hair behind a chair upstairs, as though no one would ever find it. There was no fixing it, so they just had to grow out. 

Any mother's worst fear is the years and years it's going to take to grow our a small child's bangs. It took years. It was a source of stress. When I was in first grade, my mom told me that I wasn't allowed to have bangs again until I was 18. 

So I didn't.


When I was little, my mom would try to put my hair in a ponytail. I was never happy. There were always bump when she'd try to pull it up. I'd reach back and feel it and tell her that there was a bump and so I'd make her redo it. To this day, I still redo my hair when I'm worried that there's a bump. She'd get exasperated. "There's no bump!" (Just to be 100% clear, there were bumps. I am not wrong.)
A few months ago, she was walking past a mother doing her daughter's hair. She said that she was tempted to walk up to the daughter and whisper, "There's a bump!"


I went through my ugly duckling phase (era, actually - it was like a decade from awkward hell) with no discernible hair style. I really didn't do anything to it - I don't even think I had approached a hair dryer at this point. It just lived in a ponytail at the base of my neck. Every day. All day.

There was one day where we tried curlers. Like a 50s housewife, I slept in rollers. When I woke up and took them out (Mom was at work, so Dad may have had a hand in the meltdown that happened immediately after I realized I looked like young Frankenstein), I freaked. 

(me, at age 8)

One of my worst memories of 6th grade is the day that I forgot to wash the conditioner out of my hair. All day, I was greasy and gross and miserable. I now triple rinse, without fail. In South Africa, long after the water had gone cold, I'd be under the shower head, rinsing. Triple checking that no traces of conditioner remained. 

It gets worse. 

Remember high school? (This is still part of the era of awkward.)

The only rule was that I couldn't dye my hair black. So of course, I dyed it black the first chance I got. Mom has a sixth sense about these things (either that or I'm a terrible liar), and I hadn't even finished drying it post-coloring when she was on the phone. "What color is your hair?!" she said, in her terrifying phone/teacher voice. (I should add that my mom isn't really that scary - and I'm grateful that she let me do so much experimentation during those years. I may not have looked great, but I was figuring myself out. I respect her willingness to let me try that, just like when she would let me wear her high heels and my play dresses to church when I was little.) 

   

(This is what I'm talking about when I stress the importance of inner beauty.)

Those were interesting years. I cut my bangs myself. They were always horrifying. Short, uneven. Not really bangs. Not really side bangs. For evidence of this bad bang cutting, see my sophomore year school picture - it's still on display at Mom's house. Compounded with my ever-changing hair color, I was not my best self. It's a good thing that there are still people on this planet (my friends) who value inner beauty. 

College. I chopped off all of my hair. I looked like a goon. (That's not entirely true. It was actually sort of cute.) I spent the next three years in various stages of hair length, usually around my chin. Sometimes adorable, sometimes not at all. 

(I have horrible posture, but hey, it makes me look like I have boobs, so that's not all bad.)

Cut to Africa. Mama P wanted me to have fringe. So I sat on one of her kitchen chairs and her daughter took shears to my hair. Full fringe. I kept that until this spring, when I grew them back out. 

So of course, December rolls around and what do I want to do again? (I haven't gotten any tattoos or piercings in years, so I get the urge to do something drastic every six months or so.) Bangs. My super ego was telling me no, but my stubborn self was saying yes. 

Jacob wants me to go crazy short on the sides and back, and keep the front long. I was trying to find images for this, so I googled "hipster haircuts." Bingo. 

(I actually think this would be fun. But what if it didn't work? Then I'd be SOL in a big way.)

But I was waffling. I didn't know. I looked back through pictures, realized I couldn't find a single one with bangs that I liked, and then thought, let's do it again! (That is nothing if not sound logic right there.)

(That's a lie - I like this picture. Long Street, 2010.)

So I'm back to half-bangs. But I swear, I am growing all of it out and just having hair that's one length. 2012 is the year of less hair cut, more learning how to style the hair I have. Curling irons? I can master them. Learning to love my curly hair? I can learn that too. I have taken baby steps - I own good hair products. I am open to re-embracing hair spray. 

(Imagine if I wasn't doing the mickey ave - I'd look adorable.)

Moral of this story? Stop messing with your hair. Learn how to style it. Stay away from the scissors. Curling irons are your friend. Your natural hair color is that way for a reason. Listen to your mother, at least when she tells you to stop trying to rock bangs. She might be right. 

Other moral? Pick friends who will still love you when you look ridiculous. Or just make sure you pick ridiculous friends. 

On Tuesday, fondly

Jumbled thoughts, collected below: 

I am pleased to report that I have successfully returned all six books to the Denver Public Library, one day before their due date. No fines! 

Your song for the day is Regina Spektor's Us. I'm starting to get nostalgic - this week last year was the beginning of the end of South Africa. I remember so badly wanting to get out of the tangled mess that was the end, but I knew even then that an impermeable love for that place had settled in my soul. Every time I hear this song, I think about my commute to and from work. It reminds me of the jangle of the chain as I closed the front gate at Priscilla's; the hustle of Wynberg market; the way the street smelled in the morning; the narrow, slanted sidewalks. I wish I had a jar of South African sand. I would open it right now and dig around, letting the sand slip through my fingers. I would think about wine, and the waves, and looming mountains. I would be home. 

I'm happy. I woke up this morning and I was utterly content, all the way to my bones. I didn't want to get up; I didn't want to leave; I just wanted to roll over and shut out the day. I wanted to nuzzle in, close my eyes, and pretend that the alarm wasn't going to ring obnoxiously in another nine minutes. 

But of course it did, as alarms are wont to do. Even though I'm not nesting happily somewhere, there's a constant current running through me. I can dig this. 

It's too bad we couldn't have just ray-gunned the Jackson 5 so they would have stayed in those childhood moments forever. Much better than their later selves, less creepy. 

On the Weekend

Don't ask. We didn't take any good pictures that night. I tried. But know that these two people are the two most beautiful people I know.  

apparently, I'm too pale for cameras. 

All ages shows make me feel old. 

Friday. Really fun night. The owner of the PS Lounge remembered me and K from last week and bought us drinks while Em and J ate at the Thai place, so that was nice. Then the concert happened. Em and J danced, K and I danced. I was blissfully happy. I love my friends. I love my life.  

Saturday. We ran errands - made a Costco run, ate burritos, washed the car (not mine, of course). I babysat. The little girls are always such a delight. 

Today. Woke up at 5. Made some muffins. Snowboarding with K, K, and E, Friends-giving in the evening. Cranberries turned out alright! 

Can you tell I'm too tired to actually type words? Going to bed early. Going to be a productive human being tomorrow. (maybe)

Day three. We're going to get this by the end of the season, I promise. 

I guess I enjoy standing in front of people and blocking them in pictures. 

Em, K, me, K, day 3, Breckenridge

On the Hangout

I forgot how much I hate driving around in Boulder. It stresses me out. In my mind, all I can see is bicyclists flying over the hood of my car, or stoned college students wandering aimlessly into the crosswalk when I can't see them. I'm seized by fear. (That's a lie. I'm very rarely seized by fear. The last time was the bungee jump in Africa. That was scary.)

I only know how to get to E's house. So I make the familiar drive, chatting with Katie on the way up. (I love her. There is nothing more wonderful than just talking to your best friend.) I make record time - which is good, considering I left nearly half an hour later than I intended to. 

E's golden retriever Archie is the most wonderful dog in the world. He's chewing on a squash when I get there and wants to play fetch with it. "Archie," I say, "I love you a lot but not that much." He finds a tennis ball instead. This is good. 

E and I haven't seen each other since our awkward breakup in City Park this summer. We talk pretty regularly, but I've been ditching out on plans for the last three months. Both of us were surprised to find that our meeting last night was anything but awkward. (He's never done the friends with your ex thing before. I find that to be very familiar territory.) We went and grabbed a couple beers and caught up. It was great. We're a really mismatched pair and it's hilarious. He towers over me. He's grown his beard in and now looks like a really skinny Jesus. I look nothing like a bearded Jesus or a mountain man. 

We talk about life, religion, beer, love, mountain stuff. He's impressed (appalled) by the bruises on my knees from the snowboarding. This summer, he cut his hand while trying to carve a stick to catch carp - although his official story is "fishing accident", so he's been healing from the surgery that followed that. We talk physics (he talks physics, I drink), crazies, Ohio. 

It was good. He wants more non-science friends; I fit that bill. I'm looking forward to a nice friendship. I also still need to take him to the 1Up downtown. 

On the lost wallet...again

E and I are on the chairlift headed up to our new favorite run when I see the boys. They had come down our bunny hill looking for us. I yell. He turns; he's heard his name, but there's no way he'll spot us. So I decide to call them.
While reaching for my phone, I accidentally pull everything out of my pocket. Everything including my wallet, which for the time being is just my cards and cash secured with a hair tie. It plummets down and lands in the snow under the chairlift. Just my luck.
We get off and ride down the hill. K, who rode up and back down in the time it took us to get down, is stopped right where I need to go under the ropes to go start the search. He is kind enough to ski over to the spot and dig around. There is a moment of hesitation where it occurs to me that it might be time to panic, but he comes up triumphant.
"You know," he says to me, "for someone who claims to have never lost a wallet, you're having a rough couple of weeks."
I agree.

On the Weekend

The weekend was wonderful. Sushi, sleep, sandwiches, and snowboarding.

I've decided that we're going to take a picture every day this year. This is Day 2. Day 2 was much better than day 1. A lot less bruising. 

outside

with the boys. 

On the Not-Date Date

Millennials are screwed.
Those of us born after 1982 have no idea what it means to interact with people romantically.
It's half the fault of texting, the rise of the "booty call," and the general departure from the chivalrous into the hook-up culture.
The middle ground we often stand in can be a beautiful thing. You get to try on pseudo-relationships before you leap into them, but a lot of chaos ensues in the meantime.

I don't want to sit here and say it's representative of my generation, because I've dated plenty of people (still am dating) who were born before 1982 and share the same, seemingly Milleninial semi-chivalrous-yet-hesitant-predilections. On the flip side, I've also dated plenty of people born after 1982 who are adorable, charming, and date-driven. Not every date leads to a relationship. Some lead to beautiful friendships. Others lead to crazy passionate affairs. Some just stop. Some just limp along. Some lead to the best stories ever.

Ready for this?
I've experienced a lot of that ensuing chaos, but nothing on par with this:

My dear friend E lives with three wonderful randoms she met on Craigslist. They have a giant, gorgeous house. They threw a Halloween party last weekend. At said Halloween party, I was introduced to this kid. We'll call him K.

Reader's Digest version: I meet boy at party. I kiss boy. We exchange numbers. We get dinner. He offers to pick me up and then pays for dinner. We have drinks. I try to give him a goodnight kiss and it's soooo (yeah, that) awkward.
[there are more gory details including the owner of the bar buying us shots and telling us we looked like we were going to get married, but I'll leave that for another day]

I hear today that he told his friend that it took him awhile to realize he was on a date.
What?!
I mean, that definitely explains all the weirdness.
I spent about an hour burning with shame, humiliation, and the prospect of semi-rejection before I snapped out of it. I'm not putting this one back on me. Seriously? You make out with me and then expect me to think we're having a business-y dinner meeting?

I start polling people I know:

I call Katie to ask her advice. "If it looks like a date and smells like a date..." she says.

I ask J. "It's like if you came over and I had Barry White on and was wearing a sexy bathrobe and there were rose petals all over the floor, but I just wanted to play video games."

E tells me to stop being such an idiot.

I was just watching an episode of How I Met Your Mother about Ted going on a date with Stella, only to realize that all of her friends are there, too. He whispers to one of them that he's embarrassed because he thought it was a date and she whispers it to everyone else. Then they whisper the collective response back at him. Everyone laughs at him.

This is my life. I am Ted Mosby, architect, and apparently, recent master of the non-date.


I'm semi-related news:

I guess it's somehow fitting that I'm wearing this shirt today:

The sexual life of adult women is a “dark continent” for psychology.

SIGMUND FREUD, The Question of Lay Analysis

This time for Africa

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.

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).

God, give me the strength...

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?